“Mr. Ned Dunstar.” It bore the return address of the dean of student affairs.
Dear Mr. Dunstar,
I regret the necessity of informing you of a troubling matter recently brought to my attention by Mr. Roman Polk, the Manager of Food Service Personnel at Middlemount College, in which capacity Mr. Polk supervises our full-time kitchen staff and those members of the student body for whom Food Services Placements have been awarded in accordance with the conditions of their Middlemount Student Support Scholarships.
Mr. Polk informs me that you have failed to meet seven out of ten of your last Food Service Placement appointments, furthermore that you were absent on sick leave upon nine previous occasions. This is a matter of concern to us all.
We will meet in my office at 7:30 A.M. on the first academic day of the coming term, January 20, for a discussion of Mr. Polk’s charges. You remain a valued member of the Middlemount community, and if for some reason Food Services was an inappropriate placement, another might be found. In the meantime, I wish you success in your examinations.
Sincerely yours,
Clive Macanudo
Dean of Student Affairs
When I emerged from the little cell block housing our mailboxes, who stood in the cold athwart the cement path, resplendent in a long, forest-green loden coat, fresh comb tracks dividing his thick hair? Horst might as well have been wearing a Tyrolean hat with a feather jutting from the band. He glanced at the letter protruding from my coat pocket. “Are you all right?”
“Stop following me, you creep.” I tried to walk around him.
“Please, forget about the other night.” Horst moved in front of me. “I made a silly mistake and misinterpreted our brief conversation of the day before.”
Evidently I had spoken to him in the student bar that Friday and forgotten about it later. That was fine with me. I had succeeded in forgetting most of Friday’s events as they were happening, and I certainly did not want to remember anything I might have said to Horst. “Fine,” I said. “But if you don’t stop following me, I’m still going to cut you.”
“Please, Ned, really!” He stepped back and raised his gloved hands in surrender. “Only, you do not look well. I ask as a friend, are you all right? Is anything wrong?”
“Here we go,” I said. “Count of three, remember? One.”
“Ned, please, you don’t own a knife. In fact, you are about as dangerous as a bunny rabbit.” Smiling, he lowered his hands. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. You could tell your problems to me, after which I will explain how to fix them, after which I will bore you with mine, after which we will drink a beer and decide our problems are not so serious after all.”
“After which we will go back to your room and fix your boring problems by taking off our clothes.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Horst said. “Honestly. I am simply offering to be of help.”
“Then simply get out of my way.” I walked straight toward him, and he got out of my way.
Later that afternoon, I sat frozen at the base of a giant oak and attended to the deep, nearly inaudible sound, as of powerful machinery at work, filtering up through the snowpack. Snatches of high-pitched music resounded either from the air itself or from the movement of the air through the branches. The music-laden air filled with grains of darkness, the grains coalesced, and the darkness blotted out the light.
Wednesday morning, I saw my guitar case propped beside the door. The sight immediately suggested the inspiration of adding to the music of Jones’s Woods. I jumped out of bed.
Having breakfasted on sour milk and Cape Cod potato chips, I edged into the quad, keeping a weather eye out for Horst. He did not show himself. Neither did my chemistry results, although Professor Medley’s conclusions had been posted on the board. While the names of everyone else in my section were followed by letters indicating their grades, after
Dear Mr. Dunstar,
I regret the necessity of informing you of a troubling matter recently brought to my attention by Mr. Roman Polk, the Manager of Food Service Personnel at Middlemount College, in which capacity Mr. Polk supervises our full-time kitchen staff and those members of the student body for whom Food Services Placements have been awarded in accordance with the conditions of their Middlemount Student Support Scholarships.
Mr. Polk informs me that you have failed to meet seven out of ten of your last Food Service Placement appointments, furthermore that you were absent on sick leave upon nine previous occasions. This is a matter of concern to us all.
We will meet in my office at 7:30 A.M. on the first academic day of the coming term, January 20, for a discussion of Mr. Polk’s charges. You remain a valued member of the Middlemount community, and if for some reason Food Services was an inappropriate placement, another might be found. In the meantime, I wish you success in your examinations.
Sincerely yours,
Clive Macanudo
Dean of Student Affairs
When I emerged from the little cell block housing our mailboxes, who stood in the cold athwart the cement path, resplendent in a long, forest-green loden coat, fresh comb tracks dividing his thick hair? Horst might as well have been wearing a Tyrolean hat with a feather jutting from the band. He glanced at the letter protruding from my coat pocket. “Are you all right?”
“Stop following me, you creep.” I tried to walk around him.
“Please, forget about the other night.” Horst moved in front of me. “I made a silly mistake and misinterpreted our brief conversation of the day before.”
Evidently I had spoken to him in the student bar that Friday and forgotten about it later. That was fine with me. I had succeeded in forgetting most of Friday’s events as they were happening, and I certainly did not want to remember anything I might have said to Horst. “Fine,” I said. “But if you don’t stop following me, I’m still going to cut you.”
“Please, Ned, really!” He stepped back and raised his gloved hands in surrender. “Only, you do not look well. I ask as a friend, are you all right? Is anything wrong?”
“Here we go,” I said. “Count of three, remember? One.”
“Ned, please, you don’t own a knife. In fact, you are about as dangerous as a bunny rabbit.” Smiling, he lowered his hands. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. You could tell your problems to me, after which I will explain how to fix them, after which I will bore you with mine, after which we will drink a beer and decide our problems are not so serious after all.”
“After which we will go back to your room and fix your boring problems by taking off our clothes.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Horst said. “Honestly. I am simply offering to be of help.”
“Then simply get out of my way.” I walked straight toward him, and he got out of my way.
Later that afternoon, I sat frozen at the base of a giant oak and attended to the deep, nearly inaudible sound, as of powerful machinery at work, filtering up through the snowpack. Snatches of high-pitched music resounded either from the air itself or from the movement of the air through the branches. The music-laden air filled with grains of darkness, the grains coalesced, and the darkness blotted out the light.
Wednesday morning, I saw my guitar case propped beside the door. The sight immediately suggested the inspiration of adding to the music of Jones’s Woods. I jumped out of bed.
Having breakfasted on sour milk and Cape Cod potato chips, I edged into the quad, keeping a weather eye out for Horst. He did not show himself. Neither did my chemistry results, although Professor Medley’s conclusions had been posted on the board. While the names of everyone else in my section were followed by letters indicating their grades, after
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