Straight Man

imagine I’m stingily hoarding food. In truth, all that’s in my pocket, except for my hand, is the fake nose and glasses I got from Mr. Purty. Finny latches onto these and yanks them out. A tug-of-war ensues, and it takes all my strength to wrest them away. Losing the prize he has no use for makes Finny frantically angry, and he begins to trumpet and hiss and flap his enormous wings with renewed vigor. “This is better than what we came here for,” I hear the camera guy say.
    But here’s the crazy part. I’m suddenly angry too, and the thrill I felt a few moments before as Tony was hinting at the perhaps malicious designs of the university administration toward my department has not diminished one jot, and these three elements—my anger, the thrill I can’t explain, a sudden tidal wave of righteousness—dovetail together sweetly, dangerously, and before I have a chance to consider the wisdom of doing so, I have grabbed the trumpeting Finny by his long, graceful neck and raised him aloft. He’s much heavier than I imagined, as if he’s full of sand. The rolling light is still on the camera, which I turn to face. I hear myself speaking with a remarkably steady voice. I have slipped on the fake nose and eyeglasses. First, I identify myself as a department chair at the college who wishes to remain anonymous, then I explain that I do not, even at this late spring date, have a budget for next year that will allow me to hire the adjunct staffI need to cover freshman composition courses next fall. Despite the fact that the university has committed millions to a new building project, it can’t seem to commit to the additional dozen or so comp sections we’ll need, even though these will cost a paltry three grand per section. I state all of this very succinctly, aware as I am of television time constraints. I am eloquent and ironic concerning the values of our educational system. I am only vaguely aware that as I’ve been talking, the crowd has grown and that I’m being encouraged with applause. Also I see in my peripheral vision that a limo has pulled up in the parking lot.
    “So here’s the deal,” I shout. I need to shout if I’m going to be heard over Finny’s strangled trumpeting and the crowd’s applause. “Starting Monday, I kill a duck a day until I get a budget. This is a nonnegotiable demand. I want the money on my desk in unmarked bills by Monday morning, or this guy will be soaking in orange sauce and full of cornbread stuffing by Monday night.”
    For emphasis, I give the now wild-eyed Finny a quick shake, so that he squawks even more horribly and renews his useless attempts at flight.
    Among the men who have gotten out of the limo, I recognize Dickie Pope, the campus executive officer, and Jack Proctor, our state representative, on crutches still, who’s here to take credit for the new building project. These are not men of great imagination, but one can hardly blame them for not being prepared for this particular contingency, the sight of a tweed-jacketed, tenured, middle-aged senior professor and department chair in a fake nose and glasses, brandishing a live, terrified goose.
    The crowd and the camera crew are now cheering me wildly, not the least interested in the scheduled dedication, but I am not without sympathy for the guys in the suits.

CHAPTER
11
    It’s almost time for the eleven o’clock news, and I’m in a downtown Railton bar called The Tracks, a favorite watering hole of the local news media—the TV station and the newspaper, the
Railton Mirror
. It’s an amazingly noisy place. In addition to several televisions and loud music, half a dozen model trains circumnavigate the bar, clacking and whistling along a shelf that’s been specially constructed about eight feet off the floor.
    I have an entourage. We’ve pulled together half a dozen tables so everyone can crowd around, and nobody’s going easy. The booze is arriving in pitchers, two at a time, one beer, one margaritas. I can’t make out who’s ordering them, and nobody seems to be paying either. I’m drinking the margaritas, and so is Tony, whom I have talked into joining the party. I myself have been talked into joining the party by the newswoman, who claims I have made her day, her week, her year. Just when she thought she was going to die of boredom on “The PeopleBeat,” a feature that locates colorful rural people with bizarre hobbies like carving soap figurines. “Travels in Six-Finger-Land,” she