The Huron's Bend

Part 3

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Mom, Dad, and Sis sat in the front row near the 50-yard line in the boisterous stadium, while I paced around the block M at midfield, fidgeting with my shirt buttons, sleeves—things a waiting ten-year old would do to distract from an imminent confrontation with his principal. But I was not ten again, and the principal was no ordinary grade-school superintendent. This alternate version of my personal antagonist came out of the tunnel leading the marching band. Underneath the outrageously plumed shako was the brown face of Doctor Kumar Brusky, the professor assigned to me by the department as the interim advisor, until such time when I'd either passed the qualification examination and chosen a thesis advisor or decided to quit should the worst come to pass. Working his whistle and an impossibly long mace with a bulbous head on one end and a tassel on the other, the drum-major-cum-advisor led his men down the sideline, around the endzone and back up the other sideline to where my family was seated, all while his band played a thunderous "Chicken Dance." Dr. K goose-stepped to the parapet, bowed, and scraped his right leg, leaned and whispered something in the vicinity of my father, who stiffened noticeably. Without missing a beat, he turned and started heading my way. With a pump of his baton, the brass section of the band parted like the Red Sea before Moses as he proceeded to cut across the hash marks toward me, in the same threatening manner that recalled the principal swinging open the office door and fixing me with his deadly glare. I could see, in slo-mo, the arc of his high kicks, fringing threads of the epaulets tossing about, and braids of aiguillettes dancing to his moves. In a flash, he was up against me so close that I could see the nasal hair protruding far down his upper lips, taking on the appearance of a pint-sized handlebar. I opened my mouth to say a greeting, but he ignored me, tilted his head skyward, and bent his knees, making his torso horizontal to the turf. His head dipped progressively lower until it touched the ground, and then with a quick arching motion, Dr. K jumped upright from the backbend and, spit flying, hollered right in my face. You flunked. There will be no recourse, sucker. He twirled his mace high in the air until it disappeared into the lights. On cue, the cymbals crashed, the drums rolled, and the crowd was on its feet chanting for an encore.

The wicked drum major caught the mace and looked like he was about to do something sinister with it when a nudge on my elbow shocked me out of my reverie. The girl in the next chair was looking at me curiously. "She just called your name. You're up," she said.

I scrambled to my feet and approached the service counter. Mrs. Lang, AKA the Goaltender, had been waiting impatiently, draping a pair of jelly-like pasty arms over the Formica countertop.

"What can I do you for?"

I told her my advisor was expecting me and that he had my test results.

She arched her brows. "You're Professor Brusky's student?"

I flashed my most sincere smile, with dimples, bare teeth and all. "Yes, I got his text message and came as quickly as I could."

She peeked over the top of a pair of bright red granny glasses. "He's not in today."

"Huh?"

"Dr. K is on vacation. He left for the Bahamas two days ago."

"But he sent me a text not more than half an hour ago."

Goaltender's head shaking, accompanied by a crooked sneer, sent my heart fluttering. "Mr. Auyang, aren't you a computer science major? Those texts were generic messages produced by our department server and sent to everyone who took the comprehensive."

"Understood. I was told when I took the test that my advisor would meet with me after the tests had been graded."

She shrugged. From observing her carefully over the past year, I'd recognized two types of Goaltender shoulder jerks: one reserved for faculty when she thought they were asking for the improbable, but as a seasoned professional she felt duty bound to comply; and another for students whom she considered the bottom rung of the academic food chain, somewhere beneath phytoplankton, and whose requests she thus treated with irreverence disguised in gobs of ersatz civility. You don't really deserve it, but my righteous, Midwestern upbringing, which looks upon every man and woman with utmost respect, forces me to deal with your loathsome gripes and pathetic pleads.