Straight Man

office door open and shut. Only the light from the other side of the frosted glass keeps the darkness from being complete. I can barely see the outline of the hole in the ceiling I’ve climbed up through, and it occurs to me that if I tried to lower myself through it, blind, I might very well end up in the hospital, as Lily predicted. But never mind. I have no intention of returning to my office just yet. Many inspired plans are hatched in darkness. And once dignity is surrendered, there are plenty of options.
    “Let’s vote and go home, for Chrissake,” Billy Quigley is saying, directly below me.
    “You weren’t even here for the discussion,” Finny, who’s chairing the meeting in the absence of the chair, points out.
    “I’ve been listening to you people for thirty years,” Billy reminds his colleagues. “Don’t tell
me
I haven’t been here for the discussion.”
    “That doesn’t mean you can stroll in an hour late, reeking of whiskey, and call the question,” Finny says, not unreasonably.
    “Better whiskey than hypocrisy,” Billy says before putting his head down on the table and falling asleep.
    “We do seem to be all talked out.” I recognize this voice as belonging to Jacob Rose. His attendance surprises me until I remember that either the dean or the dean’s representative must be present during proceedings initiated against a department chair. Jacob is also, technically, still a member of the English department.
    My perch is far from ideal. I’m right above the long conference table, having been drawn to this spot by a thin crease of light. I don’t dare move around for fear of making noise that will result in my discovery. Still, I can’t see much. Billy Quigley’s balding head is directly below. Paul Rourke, doodling geometric designs on a notepad, is across from him. Gracie is somewhere nearby. I can smell her perfume wafting up. I try jimmying the ceiling tile with the point of a pen to give me another half inch or so, but I have to give up when fine particles of the pressed tile begin to float down like pollen onto Billy Quigley’s scalp.
    “We appear to have a motion before us to call the question.” Finny sighs. “Do we have a second?”
    “I second,” Jacob Rose says.
    “You’re ex officio,” Finny, ever the parliamentarian, points out. “The rules permit you neither to move nor to second.”
    The motion dies for lack of a second.
    “Further discussion?”
    Silence. This is my department, all right. A motion to call the question dies for lack of a second, and the discussion dies right along with it. We do understand irony though. I detect nervous tittering below.
    “Look,” Jacob says. “By all means. Talk as long as you want, but when you finish there are still two issues. If you want to recall Hank as chair, do it. But you will then have to elect a chair.”
    “You’re certain our search is dead?” Gracie wants to know.
    “Yes,” Jacob says. “I know you all were counting on going outside. But the funding didn’t come through. What can I tell you? You knew that was a possibility.”
    “Do you know how many hours the personnel committee has worked to arrive at a final list?” Gracie wants to know of the man she’s planning to marry.
    “No,” Jacob admits, “but I know all of you. This is a department that can’t agree to call a question, regardless of the question. So my guess is, many hours. The fact remains. If you recall the chair, you’ll have to elect another. Do you want one election or two? Do you really want another interim chair for the last two weeks of the spring term? Then yet another election in August for the fall? My advice is that you resolve this procedural issue first. Don’t recall your chair before you decide how and when you’re going to elect another.”
    “How long have you known all this?” Paul Rourke stops doodling long enough to ask.
    “About the outside search?” Jacob says. “Since late Friday morning. I heard just before I had to leave town. I got back this morning, and now I’ve informed you.”
    “How long has Hank known?” Rourke again.
    “Since he’s not here, I have to assume he doesn’t know even now.”
    “You and he haven’t discussed this?”
    “I’ve been out of town. I told you.”
    Rourke smiles, bored. “Since you didn’t answer my question, I’ll ask it again. Have you and Hank discussed the fact that our search was canceled?”
    “No,” Jacob says, and if I didn’t know better,