by John Timm
“ALL HANDS MTG. 4:00 P.M. THURS. 5/9. ADMIN.CONF. RM. 302.” They used to put these notices in our mailboxes. Now they send an email, then text us a reminder. Guess we’re finally getting in synch with the times around here, right when I’m about to leave.
I’m first in the room, as usual. Not that I’m ever eager for another meeting. I just like to get it over with. I know arriving early doesn’t make it happen any faster, but I’m good at fooling myself into thinking somehow it does. Anyway, it’s my last meeting. In and of itself, that holds a particular sense of . . . I don’t know . . . closure. No, not that either. Hard to find the word . . . finality. Yes, after 27 years, finality. Final indeed in so many ways. And along with this last faculty meeting of many, perhaps also a moment of public recognition? Possibly a kind word from the provost? A plaque? At least a plaque. His colleagues over in Biology gave Metzger and his wife two weeks in Spain. Two weeks anywhere would be magnificent. Or even just one. If they were to say, “A week in the Bahamas,” what would I say in gratitude? What would she say if I came home to Molly and told her, “A week in . . . wherever?” I’d say, “Put the meatloaf in the refrigerator, Moll, we’re going out for steak tonight.” Or simply a round of applause from my colleagues. “A job well done.” “Bravo.” “You’ve made your mark here.” “You will be missed.” That alone would be enough. And I would stand, bow, thank them. A well-chosen word or two. No speech. A good way to end things on a high note. Yes, very good.
Well, right on schedule here’s Will Stafford, edging over to his favorite position, one seat away from the provost’s chair in the shadow of the lectern. He’s pulled that trick for as long as I can remember. Not that it’s done him much good. Never been promoted beyond assistant professor. Nor likely ever will. Certainly no chance at department chair. Should have stayed at Fenton. His alma mater might have been kinder. Already has his nose buried in the agenda. He sees me. I can always tell he feels obligated to acknowledge my presence, as if it’s a gift, then makes a point of digging back into the agenda. Acts like it’s some scholarly document worthy of painstaking analysis—it isn’t, I’m sure, even though I haven’t yet read my own copy, which I will do as soon as I find my seat. Same seat as always. Why not?
Dexter from Physics. Manages the usual smile, though I doubt he recalls who I am, even after all these years. We’ve never had one single syllable of conversation. Moving four chairs to my right across the table. This day is not likely to advance our camaraderie any more than hundreds of others before it.
The door opens again . . . and we have a woman. An unknown woman. Not faculty. At least not our faculty. Well-dressed. A brief case. Designer. No doubt a presenter. Ugh. Makes for a longer meeting. I rise and walk around the table to greet her. She’s offering a ritual smile and starting to give some sort of vague explanation for her presence. Now Stafford thrusts a hand between us, then the rest of him. The smile morphs into slight annoyance, then quickly back to smile mode as our guest feigns an acknowledgement and looks about for a place to set the designer brief case. Stafford offers coffee. The woman says something about caffein and the late hour that I don’t entirely hear, but I get the point, which Stafford apparently does not as he dashes out the door in the direction of the Admin Lounge. I retreat to my place at the table, no names exchanged between the woman and me.
Five minutes to the top of the hour. Now four. I must stop counting. Useless. Dexter motions for me to slide the water pitcher towards him. I maneuver it between the row of glasses until he has it in reach. He grasps it and looks away. No acknowledgement. No surprise.
The agenda gives no hint as to what’s in store today under “New Business.”
A flurry of activity visible outside the door. Groups of four, five, six. Department by department. Modern Languages—no, now it’s World Languages. Better get used to it, not that it will matter much anymore. Communications, Political Science enter en masse. The rest from English gather to one side of me, nods exchanged between us as they file in. And someone to take notes. Mrs. Hume. Here as long as I. Guess now she’ll outlast me.
One minute after the hour. Ah, our beloved provost has arrived. He assembles his papers on the lectern with the usual precision. Smiles, silent acknowledgements. The room quiets as he begins to speak. He welcomes our guest by name and degree, “Dr. Janice Packer,” but offers no hint as to why she’s here. I’m sure others note the omission as well. We move through the agenda rapidly. Same old, same old. On to new business. Good. Our shared curiosity is about to be rewarded.
“We all know the difficulties of higher education in the new millennium. Especially the challenges facing private institutions such as ours. Rising costs, falling enrollments in many areas, infrastructure needs we deal with every day in the form of leaky roofs and toilets that don’t flush. The list is much longer. We can all recite it, I’m sure.” Words meant to elicit a laugh, or at least a smile; there is no reaction around the table. “Just as we have not been spared, nor has our neighbor, Fenton College.”
The mention of our rival institution no doubt further raises the level of curiosity among my colleagues as it does in me. Fenton? So long the opponent, the adversary, even the enemy. Fenton . . . ?
The provost continues, “I’ll save you all any further suspense. Mrs. Hume, kindly invite our other guests to join us.”
Four . . . six . . . eight more parties enter the room and join the provost, some of them uncomfortably overlapping at each side of the podium. A few looks of recognition and greetings mouthed between the table and our new guests. I look about to see all those among us who are complicit, but it’s too late as the provost continues, introducing the president, provost and the deans from Fenton. “And I also need to call upon Dr. Packer, whom you will be seeing a lot in the coming weeks and months in her role as transition coordinator.” Dr. Packer stands. The Fenton delegation parts to allow her to take a position next to the provost, further crowding the podium.
I’ve guessed what she’s about to say, and I’m tempted to get up and leave. As the provost and Dr. Packer engage in dialogue, I dive deeper into thought. But I hear words and contrived phrases like “stronger,” “best for the both of us,” “brighter future,” “putting whatever differences behind us for the greater good.” Dr. Packer thanks everyone for their cooperation in making “a merger of equals” happen. The various members of the delegation express similar blather. As does our president with more than the usual unctuousness.
It’s time for a Q and A: “No, for now we don’t expect to make any changes in faculty or staff.” “Yes, there will be two campuses, but that may not always be the case.” “No, nothing is set in stone at this point.”
And so forth. The clock is edging towards 5:00. We have a rule. A good rule: our faculty meetings never last more than an hour. Three minutes to go. Then two. The questions continue from around the table. I lean forward, look towards the provost, hoping to catch his eye. He sees me, shows a flicker of a smile, then begins to speak. This may be the moment. The one moment . . .
“Let’s leave things there for now. It’s five o’clock. I want to thank everyone in the room, there’s obviously a lot for all to digest. We will keep you posted as things unfold. Oh, before we leave—very quickly— I need to recognize someone.” He pauses. “One person in particular who has done so much here over his many years of service.” Another pause. “Someone who has helped move this process along from the beginning and will continue to do so . . . our own Fenton alum, Willis Stafford. Thanks, Will, thanks so very much.” There is polite applause. The provost glances about with a look of satisfaction as, of course, does Stafford. The provost picks up his papers from the lectern, shuffles them. “You are all dismissed.”
I head towards the parking lot. It is cold for this late in May. I can almost see my breath. I find my car and drive towards the street as I have so many times before. It’s Thursday, and Molly will be making meatloaf for dinner tonight.