The Huron's Bend

Part 4

* * *

I only remembered this when I trudged out of the entrance of the ponderous electrical engineering and computer science building: my music school library work-study job was to start in fifteen minutes. Since the number of applicants outstripped openings by a wide margin, work-study was hard to come by. Luckily, I'd had the good sense to file an application a year before my fellowship ran out and was notified days before the qual. However, in the post-qual miasma it had totally skipped my mind, and now I had minutes to get ready. Smith Hall, the graduate dormitory I called home, perching on a small hill overlooking the brownstone Earl V. Moore School of Music, was no farther than half a football field away from the school's parking lot. Cutting across the music school grounds to get to my dorm, I debated if I should give up on my academic career now and forever. After failing twice, taking another swipe at the qual seemed a quixotic quest. Maybe Mrs. Lang was right after all. It wasn't meant to be. A note on the positive side: I had a master's from a prestigious university. I'd have little trouble finding a six-figure job and living a comfortable lifestyle that I deserved after years of deprivation. What to do? Where to go? The opposing thoughts fought and jostled inside my head as I skirted the junipers lining the edge of a small lake, affectionately called the Piano Pond by music majors because of its outline. Too preoccupied with my problems, I did not notice that I'd strayed too close and stepped into the ground cover. The sprigs crunched underfoot, and the sound was quickly followed by spate of cackles and a violent tug at one of my trouser legs. I looked down and saw a beige-speckled mallard gripping my rolled-up cuff with its beak while furiously twisting its head side to side. Nearby, a group of five to six ducklings squeaked in unison, flexing their tiny wings, shuffling about on their tiny webbed feet, looking ready to jump into the fray with their mother. The ruckus made me relive the scene in the middle of summer when I'd accidentally trespassed on their nesting grounds. Back then, it was Daddy duck that shooed me away with aggressive waddling. But that was then, and Mommy apparently would not forgive repeat offenders. To extricate myself, I tried to nudge Mommy, gently, with my other foot. This did not work out well. She let go of the cuff and, with a swift jab, dug her beak into my ankle. Instantly I felt her serrated nail break through the sock and tear at the skin underneath as sharp pain shot through my foot. I dropped to one knee and let out a scream. It must have sounded terrifying because it drove the ducks back to the junipers and drew curious stares from a couple sunning on the lawn. Enough! I ain't taking no more crap from people and animals alike for the rest the day! I hoisted myself up, brushing away the bird droppings that had left gooey stains on my kneecap, and trotted in the direction of Smith Hall. Life goes on, promises to keep was the thought that crossed my mind, though even in my dilapidated state I realized the futility of working in the library to earn tuition money if I were to quit school anyway.

A quick change into the only shirt not queueing in the laundry basket for the fortnightly wash. A mad dash out of Smith and downhill to Earl Moore. I arrived ten minutes late to the annoyance of the librarian Mrs. Malone, who had interviewed me for the job and, to my gratitude, picked me over several music majors. It was obvious from the start that I couldn't tell an eighth note from a quarter tone—I didn't pretend to—but the library's newfangled Procurement, Cataloging and Circulation Automation System bumped me into the winner's circle over technophobic musician applicants. But Mrs. Malone, like most middle-aged women with bureaucratic responsibilities in the university, was no bleeding heart. She ruled with an iron fist, softened only by a smidgen of self-assured charm. At the moment she was giving me the once over from head to toe, maybe searching for a reason not to chastise a new grunt that had the temerity to be tardy on the first day.

After a long, silent inspection, she concluded with a gratuitous observation: "You're late."

"I'm sorry. I had a little accident on the way home."