Late-K Lunacy

by Ted Bernard

Lucia looked unconvinced and seemed to repress a thought. Stefan agreed with Boss. He understood the demographics. He said he could envision a country in the mid-twenty-first century where whites would be the minority. (After class, Stefan told me that when that demographic shift happened, he would be sixty-something, “if he made it that far.” Why, I wondered, the qualifier.)

  Melissa revealed that her father was a Vietnam vet and that he had lived with terrible memories and nightmares, with chronic depression. Boss lowered his jittery head. He looked up with a sadness that reached across the decades to a time when thousands of body bags arrived on our shores.

  He said, “I grieve for yer dad, Melissa, and for his whole family. Is he still with us?”

  “No,” she starkly replied and said no more. My heart skipped beats.

  In response to Melissa’s and Astrid’s questions about Blackwood, Boss uttered this injunction: “Deploy whatever means are at your disposal to save that beautiful forest. You are not likely to have another chance; I guarantee you that.”

  Em, Katherine, Nick, and Sean, all madly taking notes, stopped to exchange glances, but they remained curiously silent. Like the rest of us, they had been sitting on the edge of their seats, charges of electricity coursing through their veins.

  As for Stefan, outwardly he was somber. He told me that images of dying Vietnamese children had seared the backs of his eyelids. Deeper down, he said he felt inordinate gratitude for Boss’ homespun candor and grave retrospection. Boss had brought the daunting experience of an historic protest generation to us, a feat Stefan alone, even with his history of pacifism, could never have done.

  When it was time for break, Rutherford Bosworth Hays briefly mingled among us, weaving his way toward Stefan, as if walking through a stand of tall oaks. He thanked Stefan for the invitation. They shook hands and Boss made for the door, saying, “I’d best get back into the hills. Too much time in these hallowed halls might rub offen me and who knows what awful things might happen next.”

  We had not resolved the question of agency.

  19

  Truman Tulkinghorn dialed Jasper Morse’s number for the sixth time in three days. It went immediately to the same voice mail message he had been receiving all weekend. He killed the call. No use leaving the same message again and again. The thing was, he had cornered Morse and Morse knew it. The old buzzard was delaying. His only way out was to accede to Tulkinghorn’s demands as soon as possible. Then everyone could get back to their lives. After the state issued its permits for drilling, which, thanks to the faithful Katavanakis, Tulkinghorn knew was imminent, Morse could gobble his oil and gas, the president would have his energy plan, and he himself, would have secured a permanent place in the pantheon of Gilligan scholar-leaders. Except for the student unrest, all the loose ends would be tidied up. Like gnats in a Dakota spring, those whippersnappers had been nipping him at each energy forum. He needed to speak to the provost about shutting them down. Tulkinghorn went off to lunch forgetting his phone. When he returned, Morse had left a voice mail message.

  A few minutes later, when Greta entered Dr. T.’s office, she came upon a scene that proved once again that you can never fully fathom life. Even in the goosey Gilligan world where academic politics reached levels of vitriol and absurdity far out-weighing the stakes, let alone reason. In two decades of running the show in CNRD, Greta believed she had seen everything. But here, crazy beyond reason, she found her ill-humored boss leaning back in his office chair, his stumpy legs stretched across to the desk top and shoeless feet crossed atop the blotter. His eyes were closed and his face, like warm putty, had serenely relaxed downward subsuming both chin and jaw. For just a moment Greta saw not a face but a rippled series of chins. He opened his eyes and to her great surprise beamed the broadest smile she’d ever seen. “Greta,” he exclaimed, using her given name, which usually meant trouble, “this is one helluva a beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?”

  20

  President Redlaw told me that he didn’t really detest meetings with students. In some ways, he said, they offered comic relief from the incessant pressures of his job, the endless streams of meetings and emails and phone calls, the humdrum chores of running the place. In fact, as a former university professor with many hours in the classroom and lab, he claimed that he spent more time thinking about students than the average president. His student-centered mindset had, over the years, even become imbued with a measure of sympathy. After all, life for us after university was destined to be far more daunting than it had been for him and he had to acknowledge, of course, that without us, nobody at Gilligan, including himself, would have the privilege of living this life of the mind. Now, in preparing for the meeting with us pesky neo-environmental resisters, he did not expect happy outcomes. And that thought had more than tarnished his day.

  Even as he checked his notes on recent conversations with Governor Winthrop and his deputy, Marcus Katavanakis, he was haunted by the implacable will of Jasper Morse who had failed to return his calls and seemed also to be avoiding the governor. Redlaw’s proposal — a trade of Northeastern campus drilling rights for those of Blackwood — despite the intervention of the governor’s office, seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. Nor had Provost Flintwinch’s conversation with Truman Tulkinghorn earlier in the day revealed anything new. All this uncertainty skewered the president on the horns of a dilemma: to prevaricate with us or to stick to the truth and risk further demonstrations?

  Emerging from the Carsey Student Union, we quick-stepped up the hill toward Centennial Quad and Stiggins Hall. Dressed in business casual clothing, we looked like an off-campus delegation. Lara led the first group, which included Katherine, Nick, Em, Sean, Jason, and Weston, who, fully in character, wore a blazer and tie. Astrid, José, and I marched with the second group that also included Frank, Julianna, and Zachary. Over a tumultuous lunch, we had formulated a set of questions for the President. We would endeavor to put these forward, one by one, and to listen and be respectful. No one wanted or foresaw a donnybrook. Nick reminded us that we were acting as representatives of our respective groups, not as individuals. Today was for information gathering, and we were determined to let Redlaw know that if drilling in Blackwood is going to happen, campus demonstrations will be amped upward.

  Sean led us to the same room where the press conference had been held. It had been rearranged around a large conference table. We arrayed ourselves at the table and my classmates spoke in hushed tones. I looked around the room, intrigued by its clean federal lines, no rococo trim, just simple wainscoting, deeply-set multi-paned windows, soft eggshell tones, and, most of all, the portraits of all the university’s presidents, beginning with Denis Pádraig Gilligan and Thaddeus Stiggins right through to Mitchell Horvath Redlaw. I leaned toward Lara, nodding toward his portrait, “Have you ever met President Redlaw?

  “Yes. He’s a tall, handsome, gravelly-voiced guy. Beware of his silvery tongue.”

  Just as President Redlaw and Media Relations Director Beth Samuels passed through the outer office of the presidential suite on their way to the meeting, Brittany, a work-study student, flagged them down. “Sir, I have a call for you. It’s the governor’s office.”

  They one-eightied back to his office. He picked up the phone. “Yes, hello Hank. You caught me on my way to face the music. Oh no, but just as daunting: a group of students representing organizations who led the protests on campus last week. Yeah, right!”

  Beth studied Redlaw’s face intently, trying to imagine how this call might impact the meeting. Hank, she knew, was Henry S. Carton, Ohio’s Attorney General. She had prepared the president on the premise that Blackwood would be permitted and that the proposed trade-off was no longer in play. Had something significant changed? She could not read Redlaw’s facial expressions. His responses and the questions he asked did not clarify things. Redlaw concluded the call with several “uhuh's” and “Okay, Hank, please thank the governor for the update. We’ll go from there.” He placed the phone daintily
into the handset. “Well, Beth, it’s worse than we thought.”

  When the president and Beth Samuels entered the room, we all rose as if the lord of the manor had come upon his servants in the kitchen. “Hello everyone, please sit. Sit. I’m just a first-generation Gilligan jock from Euclid, Ohio — a guy who’s not now nor ever has been a member of any royal family. My dad was a plumber.” His self-deprecating chuckles were genuine enough to break the ice, long one of his most successful ploys. “For those who haven’t met her, this is our Director of Media Relations, Sabetha Samuels. Like me she also did hoops, not here but at Georgetown, right Beth?”

  Beth nodded. “Yes, I’m a DC girl. Born and raised there. After Georgetown, I went to the University of Michigan for my graduate degrees.” She flashed a cheery smile around the table. “Well, hello everyone and thanks for taking some time from what I’m sure are busy days during midterms. I don’t think I’ve met any of you, oh, except for that young man right over there.” “You’re Sean, right?”

  “That’s right. I can’t believe you remember me.”

  “It’s my job,” she explained, her smile exposing one spectacular set of teeth. “So, starting with Sean,” she continued, “could you each say just a bit about yourselves so that the president can get a sense of what brought you to this moment — your year here, your hometown, your major. If you are grad students, maybe you could also tell us where you got your first degree.”

  As we introduced ourselves, the president had a follow up question for each of us. The charm offensive continued unabated all the way to Em. The president’s eyes brightened when he discovered a Senegalese citizen in the room. He told her, “I met your president last year in Dakar. I was part of the U.S. Delegation accompanying our president. I got exactly one minute to tell him my name and my university,” he admitted, laughing at the memory. “I really enjoyed my few days in your hometown. So, it is just wonderful to know that we have some Senegalese students here.”

  “Thank you,” replied Em. “But I’m afraid there are not ‘some Senegalese’, just one: me, Em!”

  Following Em, the mood shifted. Beth laid out ground rules and said the president would have to leave in about an hour. She said that she and the president wanted to hear as many voices as possible and hoped they would be able to respond to all their questions.

  “Thanks Beth,” the president said. His voice had dropped an octave. I sensed from the man’s demeanor that the news would not be good. “First, I want to say that I know that some of you participated in the rally last week. I applaud your level of engagement, that it was passionate and well-focused. I am also thankful that the demonstration was peaceful. Second, I assume that you have read the university’s energy plan, so that we won’t have to take time to go through it.” He paused.

  We nodded. My eyes were once again drawn to one of the portraits directly across from me, that of Ebenezer Quilp, president from 1870 to 1875: a plump diminutive figure with grotesque bushy sideburns, no doubt a tight ass in his day. I wondered what Ebenezer would think of this meeting. The radiators in the room clanked. The stale ambiance of antiquity seemed to muzzle clear thought. I tried to shake it off. I turned my attention back to the president, sotto voce, speaking words perhaps not meant to leave the room.

  “I’ve just had a call from the governor’s office. It was the reason we were a few minutes late. I’m afraid I have news that will not be pleasing to you. Without embellishment, I will just say that Morse Valley Energy has informed us that, unless we purchase their rights, they will proceed to drill for oil and gas as soon as the Ohio Division of Mineral Resources Management permits them to do so. The amount they demand is extraordinary and far beyond our means. The governor’s office confirmed that there is no way, politically, legally or financially, that the state could subsidize such a purchase. They further disclosed that the permits for horizontal drilling for shale oil and gas, shallow wells for withdrawing water, and deep injection wells will all be issued.”

  All but Zachary, Astrid, Nick, and perhaps Katherine, had come to this meeting anticipating better news. Most of us believed the rally would, at the very least, have stalled Morse and forced him back into the courts where the university would try to defend their right to the stewardship of Blackwood. The stark reality of political, legal, and financial constraints foisted upon the university stupefied our collective consciousness. Nobody seemed able to call up words of incredulity, anger, and outrage. The room fell silent.

  Finally, Lara found her voice. “Mr. President, I’m the one with perhaps the most experience and vested interest in Blackwood Forest. I do have my warbler data and I will, I promise, complete my PhD. But I sit here absolutely floored by this news. I have read that the university has previously been unsuccessful in taking legal action or in convincing Mr. Morse that the ecologic and symbolic significance of this forest and the university’s role as its legal steward far outweigh the minerals beneath it. Apart from the ecological immorality of fracking and the withdrawal of water and disposal of wastes so close to Blackwater, there is climate change and the university’s pledge to transform itself into a carbon neutral campus. This decision goes counter to that pledge. How can this be happening? What kind of a man is this Mr. Morse, an alumnus of this university, that he is willing to abandon reason and responsibility? What kind of message is Gilligan University of Ohio sending by failing to stop this madness?” Lara let out a long breath and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m sorry sir. I weep for the warblers and all life in that forest.”

  The president searched Lara’s misty eyes and responded in a touching somber way. “Lara, your points and questions come straight from your heart and they move me deeply. I wish the marketplace valued beauty and ecological integrity and, in fact, ecological services, as keenly as it does oil and natural gas. In a more perfect world, maybe it would. But now, in this imperfect world, we live and die for the fossil fuels that have made our civilization and comfortable lives possible. And that’s why the calculus of Morse Valley Energy is to liquidate their legal assets beneath our forest. We are partly to blame. All of us. We create the demand that is the force behind such a decision. I am as frustrated and heartsick as you are but we have not been able to find ways to delay or alter these impending decisions. As you know, I am dead serious about achieving our carbon goals by the 2030s. In the meantime, it appears we’ll have to take some hits.”

  “How much did Morse Valley Energy demand for the rights?” asked Weston.

  “Well, it was two hundred million dollars,” the president replied.

  Weston whistled. “Our endowment is more than twice that, right?”

  “It is. I believe it’s valued at about 585 million now.”

  “What about bargaining with some of those chips?”

  “In theory, it might seem a way to go,” said the president. “But in reality, most of the endowment is tied up in long term investments, life insurance policies, commitments to specific needs like scholarships and academic programs, faculty awards and research, and the like. The liquid part of it is probably in the low tens of millions … maybe twenty to thirty.”

  “Would the Gilligan Board of Trustees favor leveraging some of those funds toward the long term purchase of those rights?”

  “I rather doubt it. If we did not plan to exploit the oil and gas, they would not see it as an investment.”

  Weston said, “Hmm, that’s tragic. Nobody here thinking long term.”

  “I would disagree, Weston” the president countered in a kindly way. “Our endowment has a thirty-to-fifty year investment window. Again, it is a matter of the market place seriously undervaluing other natural assets.”

  “Changing the subject, I wonder whether a judge would issue an injunction?” Nick asked.

  “To answer, let me first sketch out some background. As you may know, in the 1990s, using a provision of a particular law relating to mining called ‘lands unsuitable for mining’, the university went to the courts to establish a
perimeter around Blackwood Forest beyond which no coal mining would be allowed, in essence, to prevent mining around and beneath the forest. Ohio’s Department of Natural Resources agreed with us and sanctified the buffer zone. Morse Valley Energy, which even then owned almost all the land around Blackwood Forest, challenged the ruling and failed.

  “However, they subsequently mined to the very edge of the buffer zone and in succeeding years, with different parties in the governor’s office and legislature, different leadership in ODNR, different judges in the courts, Morse Valley Energy began to chip away at the ‘lands unsuitable’ decision. First, they succeeded in having the buffer zone reduced, and then, in 2007, they gained the court’s permission to explore for oil and gas beneath the forest. We challenged that ruling but, by 2010, we had run out of appeals in Ohio courts. An attempt to argue the case before the United States Supreme Court failed in 2012. That brings us to the present moment. So, the answer to your question, Nick, sorry to say, is no.”

  Nick looked back at the president. “American federalism baffles me.”

  “Me too,” Redlaw agreed. “In this case, some of the federal statutes are administered by the state, leaving ample space for chicanery.”

  Nick locked into the president’s eyes. “I agree with Lara. This is madness”.

  The president’s response was level and cold. “In some senses, yes, it is. But the anarchic alternative is far worse.”

  “Nobody here is speaking of anarchy,” Nick, his hackles on edge, shot back.

  Zach raised his hand.

  “Yes, Zachary,” the president said.

  “So, okay, the legal pathways are blocked. End of story? No, I respectfully submit, sir.”

  Nick cracked a brief smile. His mini-lecture on showing respect had somehow rubbed off.

  Zach continued. “I would like to argue that to be totally stumped by legal obstacles strikes me as the height of flabby bourgeois complacency, an alibi for relinquishing power. In all due respect, President Redlaw,” Zach layered it on, “I would suggest that there’s no more urgent task than to call in the cavalry. By that I mean build a broad-based campaign among alumni, students, faculty, the environmental community in Ohio and nationally, even our political representatives, though I’m doubtful that Ohio politicians have the will to take on this issue. Make this a national campaign that exposes Morse Valley Energy in the worst of lights, and it becomes a PR winner for us, rebranding Gilligan as the greenest university in Ohio. If this fails, then I believe we can expect the worst.”