Ivory Tower

Abstract

Ivory Tower Kenneth Calhoun (bio) There is, among staff, a varying degree of resentment towards faculty and their perceived privilege—a resentment that, Charles had noticed, is heightened during the summer, when the empty campus takes on an apocalyptic air of absence. Professors, the staff must assume, are lounging upon the silky white hem of turquoise-colored seas, sipping at rum-infused cocktails, while staff soldier on through heat-warped days, reporting daily to their beige stations and engaging in the mission-critical tasks of readying the campus for the arrival of students they have worked hard to secure, and retain. All this so that the thankless faculty will have their adoring audience in place come fall. Maybe this resentment explained the frosty reception that Rita, the college president's administrative assistant, greeted him with upon his appearance on campus that early July. Charles had turned up on time, so it wasn't that, materializing in the president's outer office on the correct date and hour—a feat that sometimes, admittedly, proved to be a challenge for him. His summertime attire may have triggered the woman, who, in past interactions, had always been friendly, maybe even displaying a hint of favoritism toward the still-new department chair. If such affection existed at all it was perhaps inspired by his un-professorial artist style—vintage leather coats, wallet chain and biker boots—along with his carefully cultivated offbeat temperament, his West Coast chill. Or possibly she recognized him as a reliable ally to the marginalized, friend to people of color on campus—her people. Whatever warmth she may have held for him had been put on ice for the moment, it seemed. Could his Tame Impala T-shirt and faded jeans, his summertime informality, really be behind her unsmiling nod, her begrudging acknowledgment of his presence? "Ready for a road trip?" he asked sportingly, hanging his sunglasses on his V-neck collar. He had, on past occasions, fancied himself the Bond to her Moneypenny. "I'll do the driving," she said, scooping up her warden's mass of keys. She stood, unfurling the floral print of her peach-colored summer dress, and slung a heavy-looking tote onto her shoulder. He caught a flash of her lower thigh through the yawning side-slit. She was in her late fifties but looked ten years younger, closer to his own age, still much older—even at that discount—than his much younger wife, Ali. "I get carsick, otherwise." Charles looked beyond her, into the president's cavernous office. "Jerry [End Page 146] here?" he asked quietly, if not conspiratorially. "Not since mid-June," she said, her volume unchecked, reinforcing Charles's suspicions about the source of Rita's cold front. Jerry was very possibly sipping a Dark 'N' Stormy on a beach somewhere, Charles assumed. His own resentment—that held by faculty towards administrators—surged through. But President Gerald Branch deserved some R&R, he had to concede. It had been a rough year, with minority students calling out the institution for unchecked racism, demanding college-wide forums during which they dressed down everyone from campus police, microaggressive professors, and disinterested school leadership. The president had taken on the brunt of these public thrashings, targeted as the figurehead, the Old School white man in charge—despite his history of progressive politics and Civil Rights era activism. All ancient history, especially to kids who were but infants when the towers came down. Those old liberals were still, under everything, selfish Boomers, blind to their own privilege. Parachute packers and ladder raisers who fucked up the world in pursuit of their own interests. Do down those cocktails, Mr. President, Charles allowed from the Gen X sidelines. Hell, smoke some bowls, maybe try crack. For next year promises to be even more contentious, he suspected, given the shrill tenor of the national conversation. He lingered before a painting that had been installed over the waiting area sofa. An Impressionist landscape by Edvard Weie, a Dutch painter Charles initially knew nothing about but had since made a point of researching, should he be asked his opinion. It was a lovely scene: gestural, brightly colored. A...