Looking around, he considered his options.
CJ’s was too far away, and anyway Thomas very seldom went there. Its frequent problems with health department inspectors was only part of the reason. He had learned when he was an undergrad that there were very few restaurant kitchens you wanted to look into too closely, if at all. The real reason he avoided CJ’s was that he never really enjoyed their famous loose meat sandwiches. “You just never developed a taste for horse,” had been one friend’s explanation.
The Division Street Diner was also too far away. The cooks at the Division Street Diner all had doctorates in some obscure field, usually their father’s south forty, and if they didn’t agree with your interpretation of Vladolov’s Third Theory of Interdependent Apathy they were apt to over cook your eggs. The wait staff, on the other hand, were usually practitioners of lifestyles as yet undiscovered by either Oprah or Dr Phil, or even the Bravo Network or HBO.
That left Gander’s.
Now, ever since Socrates dusted off a few steps along one side of the forum, and began giving lectures on the knowledge of geometry in the servant classes every school vaguely worth its tuition has had at least one place like Gander’s somewhere along the borders of its campus. It might be famous for its hamburgers or its pizza or its breakfasts or its liver, blue cheese and cantaloupe sandwiches (the rye bread is what really brings out the flavor), but it is a certified Campus Institution. Every visitor to the school is taken there to experience a true bit of [insert university name here] life, and to enjoy the wonders of whatever it is they make. Gander’s claim to fame is its ice cream.
At one time the ice cream was made in the basement, but rising labor costs and some pesky laws concerning how food was handled had put an end to that a couple of generations ago. Of course everyone still raves about how wonderful their ice cream is, and how nothing else compares to it; but if it has a creamier texture and richer taste it is because you paid at least ten times more for it than you would have at the supermarket.
The waitresses’ uniforms had thin, lime green stripes, and had been designed when women’s stockings still came in actual pairs. The ages of the waitresses ranged from forty-something to Neolithic, and as Thomas eased himself onto a stool he wondered if this was the same waitress that had served Truman when he had made his famous stop at the campus. There was a picture above the malt mixers of “Give ‘em hell, Harry” sitting at the counter grinning like he just got a refund on his daughter’s piano lessons as he dug into a dish of ice cream. Thomas decided this was not the same waitress because, even though her back was to the camera, the woman in the picture was obviously far too young to be the same woman facing him now.
Thomas ordered a cup of tea, and watched for signs the rain was letting up. Just as the waitress brought his tea Thomas saw Geoffrey Spenser duck under Gander’s awning. He quickly turned his back to the window, but had not quite been quick enough. Spenser waved and then came in shaking his umbrella.
“There you are, Milton, old man!” Spenser had a way of saying things that gave them several connotations which were almost always incorrect. For example, “old man” might have been an attempt to sound vaguely British, or he might have been using it as a euphemism for “old fart.” The true interpretation was, of course, the one that gave him the political advantage at the moment. He was also famous for never quite listening to anything said to him, and giving answers unrelated to anything you might have asked. Naturally, he taught communication.
“Yes, here I am. I’m not too sure about other places, but I’m pretty sure I am here.”
“What?” Spenser was never quite sure if Thomas was being humorous, deeply profound or just obtuse. “Um, yeah. Anyway, I tried to call you earlier, but it just went straight to voicemail. So, when you get my message tomorrow you can just ignore it.”
CJ’s was too far away, and anyway Thomas very seldom went there. Its frequent problems with health department inspectors was only part of the reason. He had learned when he was an undergrad that there were very few restaurant kitchens you wanted to look into too closely, if at all. The real reason he avoided CJ’s was that he never really enjoyed their famous loose meat sandwiches. “You just never developed a taste for horse,” had been one friend’s explanation.
The Division Street Diner was also too far away. The cooks at the Division Street Diner all had doctorates in some obscure field, usually their father’s south forty, and if they didn’t agree with your interpretation of Vladolov’s Third Theory of Interdependent Apathy they were apt to over cook your eggs. The wait staff, on the other hand, were usually practitioners of lifestyles as yet undiscovered by either Oprah or Dr Phil, or even the Bravo Network or HBO.
That left Gander’s.
Now, ever since Socrates dusted off a few steps along one side of the forum, and began giving lectures on the knowledge of geometry in the servant classes every school vaguely worth its tuition has had at least one place like Gander’s somewhere along the borders of its campus. It might be famous for its hamburgers or its pizza or its breakfasts or its liver, blue cheese and cantaloupe sandwiches (the rye bread is what really brings out the flavor), but it is a certified Campus Institution. Every visitor to the school is taken there to experience a true bit of [insert university name here] life, and to enjoy the wonders of whatever it is they make. Gander’s claim to fame is its ice cream.
At one time the ice cream was made in the basement, but rising labor costs and some pesky laws concerning how food was handled had put an end to that a couple of generations ago. Of course everyone still raves about how wonderful their ice cream is, and how nothing else compares to it; but if it has a creamier texture and richer taste it is because you paid at least ten times more for it than you would have at the supermarket.
The waitresses’ uniforms had thin, lime green stripes, and had been designed when women’s stockings still came in actual pairs. The ages of the waitresses ranged from forty-something to Neolithic, and as Thomas eased himself onto a stool he wondered if this was the same waitress that had served Truman when he had made his famous stop at the campus. There was a picture above the malt mixers of “Give ‘em hell, Harry” sitting at the counter grinning like he just got a refund on his daughter’s piano lessons as he dug into a dish of ice cream. Thomas decided this was not the same waitress because, even though her back was to the camera, the woman in the picture was obviously far too young to be the same woman facing him now.
Thomas ordered a cup of tea, and watched for signs the rain was letting up. Just as the waitress brought his tea Thomas saw Geoffrey Spenser duck under Gander’s awning. He quickly turned his back to the window, but had not quite been quick enough. Spenser waved and then came in shaking his umbrella.
“There you are, Milton, old man!” Spenser had a way of saying things that gave them several connotations which were almost always incorrect. For example, “old man” might have been an attempt to sound vaguely British, or he might have been using it as a euphemism for “old fart.” The true interpretation was, of course, the one that gave him the political advantage at the moment. He was also famous for never quite listening to anything said to him, and giving answers unrelated to anything you might have asked. Naturally, he taught communication.
“Yes, here I am. I’m not too sure about other places, but I’m pretty sure I am here.”
“What?” Spenser was never quite sure if Thomas was being humorous, deeply profound or just obtuse. “Um, yeah. Anyway, I tried to call you earlier, but it just went straight to voicemail. So, when you get my message tomorrow you can just ignore it.”
Thomas was just about to say that he would certainly ignore any message he got from Spenser when Spenser plunged on.
“Tried to leave Twila—do you know Twila in the Art Department? Tried to leave her a message the other day, but couldn’t. Her mailbox was completely full. Can you believe it? Completely full. Had to send an email, and…”
“Yes, I know Twila. I had lunch with her just the other day.” Thomas neglected to add that Twila spent an afternoon every few weeks making sure her voicemail box was full by playing music into it. She had also had her son create a program that automatically deleted all email from addresses that were not on a very short list. If you wanted to speak to Twila your best bet was to go to her office. “What was it you wanted, Geoffrey?”
“Oh, coffee would be fine.”
“Not quite what I meant. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“When?”
“When you left me the voicemail message this afternoon.”
“Oh, you got it? Great! So tell me, what do you think?”
I think you’re a flaming twit was the unspoken portion of Thomas's answer. “I didn’t get your message. You just told me you left me a message. Now I am asking you what you wanted to know when you left the message this afternoon that I haven’t listened to yet.”
Again it took Spenser a few seconds to work that out. “Um, yeah. Well, you see, I have an idea for a new class, but I’m not sure it would be in my department’s domain, so to speak.” He looked expectantly at Thomas like a small puppy looking at a person who might be holding something good to eat. The image was spoiled, however, when the waitress startled him by setting a cup of coffee in front of him.
Against his better judgment, Thomas pressed on. “And this new class is?”
“I got the idea the other day when I was clearing out some of Ed’s old books and things. Do you ever wonder where kids get all that shit? I mean there’s probably a kid over in China or Uganda or something that’s just got a stick and couple of small rocks and he’s having a hell of a good time. My kid’s got enough crap to stock a fair sized toy store, and he’s whining about being bored.”
Twenty-some years of departmental meetings had given Thomas the necessary skills to deal with situations like this. “And this new class is?”
“What new class?”
“Geoffrey, today is not the day for this. I am under some particularly shitty weather today. I just twisted my ankle while getting shoved off the sidewalk by some semi-perfect stranger, and I spent the morning in a meeting whose main topic was whether or not a grade of “Incomplete” might be damaging to a students self-worth.” Spenser looked at Thomas with an expression of total incomprehension. “So why don’t you come to my office next week, and we’ll talk about your proposal?”
“Um, sure. Sorry about your ankle. Twisted my elbow once—hurt like hell for a week. How’s Tuesday sound?”
“Tuesday would be perfect. I’m in San Diego on Tuesday.”
“Yes, I know Twila. I had lunch with her just the other day.” Thomas neglected to add that Twila spent an afternoon every few weeks making sure her voicemail box was full by playing music into it. She had also had her son create a program that automatically deleted all email from addresses that were not on a very short list. If you wanted to speak to Twila your best bet was to go to her office. “What was it you wanted, Geoffrey?”
“Oh, coffee would be fine.”
“Not quite what I meant. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“When?”
“When you left me the voicemail message this afternoon.”
“Oh, you got it? Great! So tell me, what do you think?”
I think you’re a flaming twit was the unspoken portion of Thomas's answer. “I didn’t get your message. You just told me you left me a message. Now I am asking you what you wanted to know when you left the message this afternoon that I haven’t listened to yet.”
Again it took Spenser a few seconds to work that out. “Um, yeah. Well, you see, I have an idea for a new class, but I’m not sure it would be in my department’s domain, so to speak.” He looked expectantly at Thomas like a small puppy looking at a person who might be holding something good to eat. The image was spoiled, however, when the waitress startled him by setting a cup of coffee in front of him.
Against his better judgment, Thomas pressed on. “And this new class is?”
“I got the idea the other day when I was clearing out some of Ed’s old books and things. Do you ever wonder where kids get all that shit? I mean there’s probably a kid over in China or Uganda or something that’s just got a stick and couple of small rocks and he’s having a hell of a good time. My kid’s got enough crap to stock a fair sized toy store, and he’s whining about being bored.”
Twenty-some years of departmental meetings had given Thomas the necessary skills to deal with situations like this. “And this new class is?”
“What new class?”
“Geoffrey, today is not the day for this. I am under some particularly shitty weather today. I just twisted my ankle while getting shoved off the sidewalk by some semi-perfect stranger, and I spent the morning in a meeting whose main topic was whether or not a grade of “Incomplete” might be damaging to a students self-worth.” Spenser looked at Thomas with an expression of total incomprehension. “So why don’t you come to my office next week, and we’ll talk about your proposal?”
“Um, sure. Sorry about your ankle. Twisted my elbow once—hurt like hell for a week. How’s Tuesday sound?”
“Tuesday would be perfect. I’m in San Diego on Tuesday.”
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