Envy(46)

“What’s up, RB?”

Everyone had a nickname, and the accepted house greeting was, “What’s up?” To which no one ever replied. That’s just what they said.

Roark’s nickname—to everyone except Todd—was Shakespeare. His fraternity brothers knew he liked to write, and William Shakespeare was the one writer that most of them could possibly call to mind if a gun were held to their heads. He had never tried to explain that Shakespeare wrote plays in blank verse, while he wrote stories in prose. Some concepts were just too complex to grasp, especially for individuals like the fraternity brother who, upon being asked by his English lit teacher to identify the bard by his portrait, had responded, “How the f*ck you expect me to know all the presidents?”

Roark was flattered by the nickname, but this morning it seemed particularly presumptuous. Checking his wristwatch, he saw that he had fifteen minutes to reach Hadley’s office. More than enough time. Nevertheless, he drained his coffee, stuffed his manuscript back into its worn folder, put the folder into his backpack, and left the dining hall.

Not until he got outside did he realize the drastic change in the weather that had occurred overnight. The wind chill put the temperature down around the freezing point, not cold enough to freeze the pond in the center of campus, but enough to make him wish he had grabbed a heavier coat before setting out.

The Language Arts Building, like most on campus, was basically Georgian in design. Older and statelier than the newer halls, it had a wide portico with six white columns. The aged red brick on the north wall was completely covered in Boston ivy that had turned from green to orange in a matter of days.

As soon as Roark was in sight of the building, he picked up his pace, more for warmth than for fear of being late. Despite his conservative upbringing, which had included church on Sundays, he was ambiguous about the existence, nature, and disposition of a Supreme Being. He wasn’t certain that an entity with the omniscience attributed to God would give a flip about Roark Slade’s daily trials. But today wasn’t the day to reject any possible advantage, so he offered up an obscure little prayer as he crossed the portico and entered the building.

He was assailed by the burning-dust smell of old furnaces. Apparently they’d been cranked up to full capacity this morning, because the building was uncomfortably warm. He shrugged off his backpack and jacket as he jogged up the stairs to the second floor.

He was greeted by several students with whom he shared his major. One, a rail-thin hippy with pink-tinted John Lennon glasses and stringy hair, loped up to him. “Yo, Slade.”

Only girls called him Roark. Except for Todd, he wasn’t sure there was a male on campus who even knew his first name.

“Coffee later? We’re getting together a study group for finals. Ten o’clock in the Union.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be free. I’m on my way to see Hadley.”

“You mean like now?”

“As we speak.”

“Fuck, man, that sucks. Good luck.”

“Thanks. Later.”

“Later.”

Roark continued down the hallway. The jelly doughnut hadn’t been such a good idea. It felt like a bowling ball in his stomach. The coffee had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he admonished himself for not having a breath mint. When he arrived at office number 207 he paused to draw a deep breath. The door was standing slightly ajar. He wiped his damp palm on the leg of his jeans and knocked softly.

“Come in.”

Professor Hadley was seated behind his desk. His feet, laced into a pair of brown suede Hush Puppies, were propped on the open top drawer. A stack of reading matter was in his lap, which was only one of myriad surfaces in the room that was stacked with reading matter. An inestimable number of trees had sacrificed their lives to provide the paper that filled Hadley’s office. Per square inch, it was probably the largest consumer of paper globally.

“Good morning, Professor.”

“Mr. Slade.”

Was it just his imagination, or did Hadley’s greeting sound peremptory?

The advisor’s manner could never be described as friendly. Unlike some instructors, he didn’t get chummy with his students. In fact, it was customary for him to treat them with barely concealed contempt. Even a respectable grade on a writing assignment didn’t inoculate one against his scorn.

His teaching style was to make a student feel like an ignoramus. Only after the student had been knocked off the pedestal of his self-esteem, and the pedestal itself reduced to rubble, did Hadley drive home his point and teach him something. He seemed to believe that abject humility sharpened one’s ability to learn.

As he stepped into the cramped office, Roark reassured himself that the curtness was a habit with Hadley and that he shouldn’t take it personally.

“No, don’t close the door,” Hadley told him.

“Oh. Sorry.” Roark reached back to catch the door, which he had been about to close.

“You should be.”

“Sir?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing, Mr. Slade?”

“My hearing? No, sir.”

“Then you heard me correctly when I said that you should be sorry. You are now…” He glanced at something beyond Roark’s left shoulder. “Fifty-six and one-half minutes late.”

Roark turned. On the wall behind him was a clock. White face. Stark black numerals. A dash marking each of the sixty minutes. The short hand was already on the nine. The minute hand was three dashes away from the twelve.