Shotgun Saturday Night

by Bill Crider

  Burns was never sure when Mal was lying, but he was never very comfortable sitting in his office. Well, he couldn’t worry about that now. He walked into his class, checked the roll, and began his list. The students were ready for him, and they began taking down everything he said.

  After class, Burns stopped in the first office on his way back, the office of Clementine Nelson. She was “Clem” to everyone except Elmore, who had the irritating habit of calling everyone by his or her complete Christian name when he deigned to use the Christian name at all.

  Clem was a compact woman of about fifty with short hair that she brushed straight back from her face. She had very clear brown eyes, and she always wore severely tailored skirts and blouses in tones of khaki and brown. She looked to Burns like a retired semipro shortstop.

  Clem was at her desk grading papers. Burns leaned in the door frame. “I really punished them today,” he said.

  Clem looked up. “Another one of your famous lists?”

  “Right. You should have seen them taking it down. You would have thought it was the holy writ.”

  Clem laid down her red pen on the stack of papers. “You remember what it was like ten or fifteen years ago? Always questions. Those kids really kept you on your toes.”

  “I remember,” Burns said. “Now the only question anyone has is ‘How will all this help me get a better job and make over fifty thousand a year?’“

  “What do you tell them?”

  “I used to tell them that anything that made them more human was worth studying for its own sake and that money didn’t mean as much as they thought it did. Some of them even believed me.”

  “But what do you tell them now?”

  “Now I don’t tell them anything. The smart ones will figure it out for themselves.”

  “Ha.” Burns couldn’t interpret the “Ha,” so he didn’t say anything.

  “You have your weekly meeting today?” Clem asked.

  “As usual,” Burns said. “Neither rain, nor hail, nor dark of night . . .”

  “. . . shall keep you from your appointed scolding,” Clem said. “Give Elmore my love.”

  “Naturally,” Burns said. Clem and Elmore had been involved in a difference of opinion in a committee meeting three years before, shortly after Elmore’s appointment as dean. Elmore had addressed the faculty, emphasizing his open-mindedness and his ability to see both sides of a question. “We can agree to disagree,” he said. Three days later, Clem had disagreed. Thirty minutes after that, Elmore had gone to the president and tried to get her fired. The fact that he had not succeeded had only increased his dislike of her.

  Burns pushed away from the door frame, took two steps, stuck his head in the next office, said “Hello, Miss Darling,” and kept going. Miss Darling, as far as Burns knew, seldom spoke to anyone. She was long past the regular retirement age, and Burns thought she was quite dotty. He knew of at least one freshman comp class that she had entered and proceeded to teach a lesson on Shakespeare that was supposed to be taught in her sophomore British literature class. The freshmen sat politely through it all. Burns had mentioned Miss Darling to Elmore in his faculty evaluation memo, but Elmore had done nothing. Elmore, in fact, loved Miss Darling, who never spoke up in faculty meetings, never crossed anyone up in committees, and never questioned any administrative decision, no matter how lunatic it may have seemed to the rest of the faculty. Miss Darling could go on teaching the wrong lesson to the wrong class well into the next century and Elmore would never dream of replacing her.

  Another two steps and Burns had turned the corner to the hall leading to his own office. Waiting inside was Earl Fox, chairman of the History Department, which was housed on the second floor. “Got any matches?” Earl asked.

  “I think so,” Burns said, walking past Fox and around his desk. He opened the drawer into which he’d tossed his list and rummaged around until he found a matchbook advertising Hernando’s Fine Mexican Food. He handed it to Fox.

  “Let’s go down for a smoke,” Fox said.

  Fox and Burns had come to Hartley Gorman College the same year, 1973, a time when English and history teachers were a dime a dozen, a time when there were often hundreds of applicants for every job that opened. They had been hired at HGC simply because many people had never heard of the place, and many others didn’t think they could work under the restrictive conditions of a denominational school. Still others thought they were too good to waste away in a tiny college of no prestige located hundreds of miles from anywhere on the eastern edge of West Texas.

  The rules, however, were not really as restrictive as people sometimes thought. Smoking, for instance, was permitted on campus; but Fox didn’t like to be seen smoking. He and Burns generally smoked in the history lounge, a small, unused office on the second floor.

  As they walked down the stairs, Fox said, “Thank God the football season’s over.”

  “It hasn’t been over long enough,” Burns said. In fact, the HGC Panthers had lost their last game of the season only the previous Saturday, by a score of forty-eight to nothing. They had also lost the ten previous games, most of them by a similar score. Each passing week had seen Elmore’s comments in the weekly luncheon grow more scathing as he addressed the coach, who was also the head of the Physical Education Department.

  No one was in the history lounge when they reached it. No one usually was. The room was small and bleak, with the paint peeling off the walls, and it was lit by a single hundred-watt bulb hanging at the end of a fraying brown fabric-covered cord that dangled from the twelve-foot ceiling. The furnishings consisted entirely of items that Fox had picked up at garage sales: an ancient card table with the blue lamination peeling from its cardboard top, three steel chairs even older than the table, and a ghastly floral couch with a missing cushion, covered with unidentifiable stains.

  Fox loved garage sales, and he usually looked as if he bought all his clothes at them. Today he was wearing a pair of double-knit pants decorated with huge windowpane checks of brown, green, red, and gray, a knit shirt with a penguin on the pocket, and a Dallas Cowboys windbreaker. One of the windbreaker pockets had been partially ripped away, there were ink stains on the shirt, and the fly of the pants would zip only about three-quarters of the way to the top. All of this was in distinct contrast with Fox’s head and face. His clean-cut features and razor-cut hair would not have looked out of place in a preppie handbook.

  Fox closed the door of the lounge as Burns sat down in one of the steel chairs. Then Fox sat in one of the other chairs and pulled out a crumpled pack of L & Ms from the unripped pocket of the windbreaker. He offered the pack to Burns, who took one, more to be companionable than because he wanted to smoke. Burns never smoked except when he was with Fox or Mal Tomlin.

  They lit up with Burns’ matches and smoked in silence for a minute, tapping their ashes into a red and white Diet Coke can that sat in the middle of the card table. They knew that there was little likelihood that they would be disturbed. Dean Elmore had long ago made known in an open faculty meeting his opinions about “the malcontent mutterings of lugubrious lounge lizards,” and shortly thereafter the lounge once used by the general faculty had been converted into a meeting place for the student government.

  “You know, you’re right,” Fox said, taking a deep drag on his L & M. “Elmore will probably let Coach Thomas have it again today. I hate to say it, but I guess that’s better than one of us getting a going-over.”

  Burns tapped ashes into the Coke can. He knew what Fox meant. Elmore had several times made scathing remarks about Fox’s wardrobe and attacked the History Department in general for its “low standards of personal conduct,” which Burns interpreted to mean that Elmore knew that Fox smoked in the history lounge. “E pluribus unum,” Burns said.

  “Don’t give me that crap,” Fox said, dropping his cigarette butt into the can and reaching into his pocket for the pack. “You know as well as I do that there’s no unity around here. Everyone is just looking for s
ome way to stick it to somebody else. Nobody’s interested in anything except saving his own job.” He lit the cigarette that he had shaken out of the pack. “Present company excepted, of course.” He blew out a long plume of smoke.

  “Of course,” Burns said, dropping his own butt into the can. He was well aware that HGC was working under strict budget limitations. In the past few years, there had been a considerable drop in enrollment, mostly due to Elmore, in Burns’ opinion, and there was a concerted effort under way to reduce the size of the faculty. And Elmore had a pretty good idea of whom he wanted to send away.

  Fox pushed back his chair and propped his feet up on the table, a precarious proposition. He seemed quite comfortable, however. Burns noted that he was wearing a pair of Hush Puppies that had probably never been brushed. They were the dirtiest Hush Puppies that Burns had ever seen. The sole of the left shoe had separated from the upper at the toe. “Heard the latest?” Fox asked after achieving a satisfactory balance.

  “Probably not,” Burns said. He was pretty sure that he was always the last to hear any of the campus gossip. Once when a math teacher had been fired, the man had been gone for three months before Burns even heard about the incident.

  “L. J.’s got a job at North Texas State,” Fox said.

  L. J. was L. J. Hitt, a psychology teacher whom Burns knew slightly. “How’d he luck into that?” Burns asked.

  “Don’t know,” Fox said. “All I know is that he’s leaving at midterm.”

  “How many does that make now?”

  “Right at forty,” Fox said.

  “Hard to believe,” Burns said, shaking his head. “Give me another cigarette.”

  Fox handed him the pack and Burns lit up, thinking about the forty or so faculty members who had been fired, quit, resigned, or retired since Elmore’s ascendancy to the deanship.

  “Why don’t we leave?” Fox asked. It wasn’t a rhetorical question.

  “Four reasons,” Burns said through a haze of cigarette smoke. “One: We’re having too much fun. Two: We can’t believe Elmore would really fire us. Three: In our fields, it’s almost impossible to find jobs. And four: We don’t have the guts.”

  “You and your damned lists,” Fox said. “I guess that about covers it, though. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to look around.”

  “I look in the job vacancies section of the Chronicle of Higher Education every two weeks,” Burns said. “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Fox said. “For all the good it does.”

  “I’ll tell you how mine read,” Burns said. “‘Position for specialist in American literature. Non-tenure track. Prestigious publications required. Ph.D. required. Load will consist of five courses in freshman composition. Some off-campus teaching’—that means you get to teach in the local units of the Texas penal system—’required. Salary, seventeen five to eighteen five per year, depending on experience.”

  “I think you’re probably exaggerating,” Fox said. “But not by much.”

  “Not much at all,” Burns said, dropping his second butt in the Coke can. “Let’s go to the luncheon.”

  Chapter 2

  On their way out of Main, they were joined by Mal Tomlin. Mal was the chairman of the Education Department, which occupied the first floor. He was smoking a Merit Menthol 100. Mal smoked anywhere he pleased, and he didn’t care who knew it. He was a compact, muscular man, who looked even more like a former semipro shortstop than Clementine Nelson did. “You fellas want a cigarette?” he asked. He took out his Merit pack and offered it to Fox, who waved it away. Tomlin took great pleasure in offering Fox cigarettes in public, knowing that Fox would never take one. “Wonder who’ll go on the firing line today?” he said, replacing his cigarettes in his shirt pocket.

  “Could be any of us,” Burns said. “As usual.”

  Mal shook his head ruefully. He knew as well as anyone how Elmore could cut someone down. He had been the target only two weeks before, when Elmore had lashed out at the Education Department as being the refuge of fifth-rate students with tenth-rate minds and ambitions that rated so low they couldn’t be measured. “The dregs!” Elmore had yelled. “The very dregs! That’s who signs up for education courses! And they pass! Can any of you believe that? They all pass!”

  Mal had tried to explain that any student entering the teacher-education program had to be carrying a 2.0 average in all his other courses, but it had done no good. Elmore’s plan to improve the education curriculum was simple: Add another year. Make the prospective teachers spend five years in school instead of four. When Mal had said that teachers were already grossly underpaid and that hardly anyone would want to attend school for an extra year in anticipation of earning a teacher’s salary, Elmore had exploded again. “Idiots! If they could get any other job, they wouldn’t want to teach in the first place.”

  Elmore was a warm and understanding man.

  As they passed the Bible Building (Hartley Gorman IX, in Elmore’s terminology), Abner Swan came down the walk and fell in with them. The chairman of the Bible Department, Swan was widely regarded as the biggest ass-kisser in the known universe. Whenever Elmore was to be agreed with, Swan could be counted on for a resounding “Amen!” If anyone dared to question Elmore (a rare occurrence, but it happened) Swan could be counted on to glare at the questioner as if glaring at the pope. Or the Devil.

  “A beautiful day, eh, gentlemen?” Swan boomed.

  As a matter of fact, it was not a beautiful day. The sky was thickly overcast, the temperature was around forty degrees, and there was a brisk north wind that cut right through everyone’s clothes, particularly Fox’s double-knit pants. But that didn’t bother Swan. He was out to curry favor with all and sundry, even God.

  “Yeah, Abner, it’s lovely,” Burns said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Swan said, “a day to be truly thankful for.” He rubbed his hands together like Uriah Heep, though Burns had never considered Swan a model of humility, even of false humility. What Burns liked about Swan was his clothes. Today he was wearing a navy blue knit suit, a pale yellow shirt, a flowing navy and yellow tie, and white patent leather shoes. His hair was cut by a barber who had carefully studied the finest in television evangelist hairstyles.

  Swan cut a fine figure. He was big—three or four inches over six feet—and he loved getting his picture in the local papers. When the Bible Building (or Hartley Gorman IX) had been constructed a few years previously, Swan had, in the words of Mal Tomlin, “worn overalls every day and lurked around the construction site waiting for a photographer to show up.”

  Not that any of this saved Swan from Elmore’s wrath. When Swan had worn his overalls to a Friday luncheon, Elmore had called him a “bumptious boob.” He had ragged him unmercifully when one of the Bible majors, a senior who would have been graduating with honors in a few months, had gotten two girls pregnant, one of them the daughter of a local minister. Through it all, Swan had sat with clenched teeth, his face a deep, dark shade of red. And by the next meeting, his smile would be back in place and his “Amen” would boom out.

  They reached the dining hall, which was itself on the first floor of the Men’s Dormitory (Hartley Gorman V), and went in by the side door. To the right was the faculty dining room, which the faculty was allowed to use only if attending official meetings called by the dean or the president.

  Burns led the way to the back of the room, where a buffet table had been set up, and began filling a plate with rubbery English peas, watery mashed potatoes, wilted salad, and ham that had a slightly greenish tinge around the edges.

  Other department heads were already sitting at the dining table. Dick Hayes, from business; Faye Smith, from math and science; Joe Reasoner, from psych; and Coach Thomas. Just coming in the door were Don Elliott, speech and drama; Fran Stafford, languages; and Mary Winsor, journalism. That would be all except for the dean and president, who always came a bit late.

  Everyone was aware that this lateness was a deliberate power ploy on the part of Elmore, and that Pre
sident Rogers was merely playing along. Both men, Rogers especially, were legends of punctuality on the campus, and Rogers was notorious for having students counted absent if they were so much as two minutes late to assembly. Burns thought that Elmore had probably read a book somewhere and gotten the idea that the Big Boss Man never had to be on time to a meeting of the Underlings. Why Rogers went along with him was just another mystery.

  Sure enough, after everyone was seated and eating, Elmore and President Rogers walked in. The cadaverous Elmore resembled no one so much as John Carradine, as Carradine might have looked with a wavy pompadour liberally coated with daily applications of Grecian Formula. Lay him out in a casket, Burns thought, and he’d make an ideal corpse. His sallow complexion only added to the impression.

  President Rogers, on the other hand, was short, dumpy, ruddy, and cheerful, the perfect foil for Elmore in more ways than one. His pleasures seemed to run chiefly to eating, attending the school’s sporting events, praying at chapel, and letting Elmore have his way. He was always smiling, had a kind word for everyone, and appeared to be the most harmless of men. Though he was also entirely ineffectual, Hartley Gorman College had muddled along fairly successfully under his presidency for six years, until the advent of Elmore, who had stepped into the power vacuum with a vengeance and proceeded to run the school into the ground.

  Why Rogers had let it happen was a question much discussed among the faculty members. No one had an answer. One story had it that Rogers had an incurable disease. Some said that he was senile, though he was only sixty-one. Still others said that a beautiful sophomore had left campus under mysterious circumstances and that Elmore had the goods on someone. Just whom he had the goods on and what the goods were was uncertain.