"Buckley & Co." -- The Gricean Novel, by J. M. Geary

********J. M. GEARY**********

<<<< B U C K L E Y & Co. >>>>>>

***** or, ******

----- The Aftermath of Kabul -----


IN WHICH SENSE is made of nonsense,
Buckley gets his long conversation,
JL finds employment in Kabul as
an exotic dancer, and Phatic
establishes a fundamentalist fertility
cult in Philadelphia.

Dusty was nobody's fool though he longed to be, but that's a different story. Dusty knew the ways of the world, knew that beneath every generous gesture lay a desire to get laid.

Dusty looked JL over with the eye of a one-eyed man and said in his dank, rusty voice, 'I suppose you're a bronc fighter from the looks of your clothes.

'He figgers me wrong, JL thought, but what the hell, the evening was still young and he was a passably pretty man.

'You figgers me right,' JL said, 'you got any wild ones to tame?'

'Yeah, I've got one, a bad one to buck, for throwing good riders he's had lots of luck,' Dusty said.

He didn't know why he said that. He didn't know what it meant. It sounded stupid, and he regretted it immediately. Dusty might be nobody's fool, but he was everyone's idiot. And he knew it. It wasn't his fault, it was his upbringing. He had grown up in an abandoned Kentucky coal-mine and had had little chance for socialising. He wanted to be friendly but was never sure what to say if it wasn't scripted beforehand.

But there was something about JL that made him step out of his Howard Hughesian shyness and salute his own need for human contact. At least that's what he told himself. He had to tell himself something because JL had not said the password that he was supposed to.

JL was supposed to say, 'Geese fly in V's because that's in Vogue.' But he hadn't. Either JL wasn't the contact that he was looking for, or they had changed the password. That's possible. More and more often, it seemed they were 'forgetting' to tell him things. A dangerous thing to do in this business. But HQ shrugged off his complaints as if he were an habitual whiner. Or maybe he had heard JL wrong -- not very likely though, hearing was his strong suit. He often heard voices that no one else could hear. Or maybe that was the right password, and Dusty was in the wrong story. He hated these ambiguous situations. He longed for the certitudes of his childhood. It was for certain that his old man was a violent, vicious, misanthropic, Blake-obsessed, self-styled genius, scribbling his great masterpiece_ Appalachia: The Iron Basket of Orc_ in Shaft #13 and that you'd better not let him see you. It was for certain that his mother was a gun-toting alcoholic who often took pot-shots at the kids, but was usually too drunk to hit any of them. He knew what was what back then, and what what was was meanness. He thinks he got that sentence right. Meanness means staying alive, he knew that sentence was right. Ah, the certitudes of childhood! Why he had ever come to the surface, he'll never know. At the time it seem the thing to do. How excited he was when he discovered the exit to the mine. He had no idea there was such a world. What beauty! For a month or two he was ecstatic, but then the lessons started to be learned. Smiles, he learned, can conceal agenda quite other than friendliness. How was he to have known? He'd never seen anyone smile before. Cruel jokes were played a-plenty on him. And it hurt. It wasn't long before he was yearning for the certainty of his father's wallops or the fun they had playing tricks on mother until she would get mad enough to start shooting -- what wild fun that was! But he never returned to the mine. Oh, he tried a couple times, but he could never find the entrance. He was stuck up here with everybody else, sad and lonely and scared of being laughed at. He found employment hunting alligators in the sewers of New York until they recruited him. He's never been exactly sure who 'they' are. They had misinterpreted his resume concerning his experiences in what he had called 'the underground'. They were impressed. Wanted to know more about the Iron Basket of Orc.

'OK, then,' JL said, 'let's go.'

So they threw JL's luggage, a lot of luggage, into the back of Dusty's WWII GI Jeep and headed off into the night.

The wind whipped JL's Farrah Fawcett hair-do like a hurricane and he threw back his head and laughed the lusty laugh of a lusty man. And then he fell asleep as was his wont.

Meanwhile, Buckley turned his wheelchair to face the fire. Its crackling reminded him not so much of his own thoughts, but of fingers being broken under the wheel of his wheelchair. Not just generic fingers, but the fingers of Henry James Henry, his nemesis. He laughed a sinister laugh listening to the crackling of the fire. Buckley's real name wasn't Buckley at all but was another name.

Meanwhile, JL awoke to find Dusty carrying him up the stairs to the Pontotoc Hotel on Pontotoc Avenue in Memphis, just three blocks south of Beale Street.

JL knew that Beale Street was the birthplace of the Blues, but he didn't know at that moment that he was in Memphis. And even if he had known that he was in Memphis, he had never been to Memphis before, so it's very unlikely that he would have known that he was just three blocks south of Beale Street in any event. So the fact that he was just three blocks south of Beale Street was totally irrelevant to JL's situation. And even if he had known that he was just three blocks south of Beale Street he wouldn't have cared, not in that situation. He was in love with this rusty, dusty fellow carrying him up the stairs to glory.

Meanwhile, Phatic watched from the wisteria. Made notes. Meanwhile, Buckley, which was not his real name but an anagram for Buxom Uninhibited Co-eds Keep Lecherous Educators Young, a professional association of male college professors dedicated to the improvement of student-teacher relationships, consulted his watch. It was a digital watch with fourteen tiny buttons to program the watch two hundred and twenty-three different ways, but Buckley could never remember how to change the time and it was still on Eastern Standard Time since he had bought the watch in Philadelphia while attending a conference on 'Towards A Feminist Theory Of Theory' with one of his graduate '(ass)istants' and here he was now in Portland, Oregon on Pacific Daylight Saving Time and the watch was seventeen minutes slow to boot.

It took him five minutes to calculate the time as 5:30. The watch said 'a.m.,' but he doubted that unless the sun had started rising in the west. 5:30.

That didn't give him much time. He had been called before The Committee Of Right Thinking by his nemesis Henry James Henry who had been appointed Chair of the Department of Philosophy at Reed College upon the retirement of the professor with two first names. Heads, it was rumoured, were going to roll. What was keeping Phatic, he wondered. So much depended on the success of his mission.

Just then - the next morning, that is - Phatic walked through the door (not literally) of Room 205 of the 'Foundations Of Western Civilization' Motor Hotel, formerly The Pontotoc Hotel, where JL was awake but still luxuriating under the funny smelling bed spreads and waiting for Dusty to return with the Continental Breakfast which JL, unfamiliar with the American term "Continental Breakfast", had misconstrued, and was anticipating something wonderfully naughty. 'It smells funny in here,' Phatic said.

JL understood 'funny' as a culturally defined term - as are all terms, of course, except those that are universally true and accepted without question.

'Do you think?,' JL responded. He knew the implicature was that indeed this fellow does think so, and that he thinks JL deserves better smelling accommodations.

He was immediately interested in this fine stranger in the dark pin-striped, double breasted suit with slicked down hair.

'Indeed, I do think so,' Phatic said, which JL, going by the rules of Conversational Co-operation, or something like that, interpreted as meaning 'I love you, let me take you away from this terrible place.'

'Let's go then,' JL said.

Phatic smiled ever so slightly and traced his neatly trimmed moustache with his right index finger. He nodded ever so properly, like a proper Edwardian butler, JL's favorite kind.

'As you wish,' he said.

'As you wish,' JL said the words to his self. 'As you wish.' How romantic! What a gentleman this gentleman was! Then it came to JL -- he was the spitting image of Adolphe Menjou!! Yes, except of course, Aldolphe Menjou would never ever spit. Bad expression to use. Adolphe Menjou!

Hadn't JL always had a thing for Adolphe Menjou! JL lay his head down, smiled to think of this incredible stranger who had walked into his life and he fell asleep, as was his wont.

Meanwhile, Dusty, returning from the "7-11" with two Styrofoam cups of acrid coffee and a pack of stale donettes, looked in vain for The Pontotoc Hotel. But where he thought it was was The Foundations Of Western Civilization Motor Hotel. He drove around downtown for over an hour before giving up hope. Broken-hearted, he went to the Green Beetle Bar at Main and Pontotoc to do some serious damage to his consciousness. He was greeted there by My-Nu-Hue, a former secret agent of N. Vietnam who had defected after the war. Dusty was glad to see him. Glad, too, that he still didn't speak of a word of English. Dusty unloaded his bruised and battered heart to the smiling, nodding former enemy agent.

Meanwhile, Buckley had a visitor. Prof. Henry James Henry had dropped by to give Buckley the chance to resign before facing The Committee Of Right Thinking. 'You realise of course, Bucko, that once The Committee is called to order, there's no stopping the process. Not until your head is on my platter.' 'Sir, you are no gentleman', Buckley shot back.

'That may or may not be true,' Henry James Henry said, 'but hardly pertinent to your situation. You know and I know and the American people know that you are a blithering idiot. You were hired to teach Grice and you don't have the foggiest notion what Grice thought.'

'That may or may not be true,' Buckley shot back, 'but hardly pertinent to my situation. I have tenure!'

'Tenure does not protect you against moral turpitude, as you well know, Buckie.'

'Moral turpitude? Screwing my students? Ha! Call you Committee to order. I know which students your henchmen have been humping. I've got names, dates, recording. No one will convict me of screwing my students.'

Buckley laughed triumphant and bit psychotic, if you ask me. But Henry J. Henry sat with a smirky little smiling on his face until Buckley's cackling came to a stop. He reached into his coat pocket & retrieved a photo and held it out to Buckley.

Buckley fainted.

Meanwhile, JL awoke to find himself sitting on a marble bench in a huge marble room with delicate marble tracery and cornices.

'What a marbleous room,' JL said. 'Indeed,' Phatic said.

'Where are we?'

'In the Marble Palace of Kabul.'

'Kabooool,' JL said, giving it his notion of romantic intonation.

He could hear the sinuous, weird music of these antique people drifting languorously through the ornate windows. 'Afffghanisssstannn. How long I have longed to dance in the streets of Afghanistan,' he said, rising from the bench and Martha Grahamming around the room.

Phatic stood and watched him calmly. JL stopped in front of him, close to him. 'Oh, let's not stand on ceremony,' JL said, 'there's not time enough. What is your name, sir, your name?' 'Phatic,' Phatic said. 'Phatic? Just Phatic?' 'M.,' Phatic, said. 'Friends call me M.'

'M.' JL said and said it several more times with various intonations while dancing around the room. Coming to a stop as before, in front of Phatic and close to him.

'How do you spell it?' JL asked.

'Spell it? You spell it 'M' how do you think?'

JL knew the implicature of that 'think' was 'stoooopid!' His feelings were hurt for a second, then he thought of a better thing.

'It's your initial!! M. Of course! What's does it stand for? Macho Man?'

Phatic frowned and grew angry, the sky turned dark. 'Never you mind what it stands for!' he thundered.

Assertive men made JL blush and that rush of blood was, he believed, what love was. Yes! He was in Love with Mr M Phatic. He fell to his knees and embracing M Phatic's legs cried out, 'Master of my soul! If only your name was Raoul!' -- JL had a thing for men named Raoul.

So there Phatic was, standing in the cavernous lobby of The Marble Palace Of Kabul with JL wrapped around his legs. An enigmatic smile toyed with Phatic's mouth, a smile somewhat akin to the Mona Lisa's -- did they share the same secret? Probably not, Phatic had lots of secrets but none that might be considered a subtle understanding of life's deeper meanings.

JL was wildly in love with this mysterious man and totally dependent on him now that they were deep inside Afghanistan. He felt as if the ground had fallen away from him and he was free falling in a strange and bewildering culture. Phatic, however, felt quite at home here, he worked just down the street and was not at all surprised when a bearded fellow in Arab dress approached them and said, 'Hey, dude, wassup?' 'Just hanging, Jack, just hanging,' Phatic said.

Phatic wasn't surprised, but JL certainly was, in fact, he was astonished. So astonished was he that he let loose of Phatic's legs and stood up.

''Dude'? They say 'dude' in Afghanistan?'

'What Afghanistan?' 'This Afghanistan.' 'This is Las Vegas.'

'Las Vegas!!?' 'Yes, of course. This is the Marble Palace Of Kabul Hotel. I told you that. It's a part of the Kabul Casino.'

'Las Vegas? Nevada? USA?' JL de-exclaimed, or dexclaimed or inexclaimed with increasing diminuendo.

'Yes. I work just down the street at the MGM Grand Illusion Casino. I'm in Security. My character is Adolphe Menjou, he was a dapper, "man-of-the-world" actor in the 19&"

'I know who your character is.' JL said in a voice that sounded exactly like the voice of a woman who has realised for the first time that she is married to a moron, as all women eventually do.

'We're supposed to meet someone here,' Phatic said. 'I hope he comes soon, my lunch hour is nearly over.'

Some extended lunch, that! Meanwhile, Dusty slammed back his tenth Jaeggermeister, finally he was beginning to get a slight buzz on. He was famous in the secret-agent business as having a hollow leg, but My-Nu-Hue knew that Dusty's tolerance for such vast quantities of alcohol was due to his having breathed and swallowed so much coal dust in his early life that the man was now a walking char-coal filter. They say alcohol is a depressant, and maybe they're right, but Dusty knew that today when he had started drinking he was already more depressed than alcohol could ever make him. The Jaeggermeister was like homeopathic medicine -- how apropos they called it 'shots.'

Dusty was depressed because he had lost the only person he had ever loved - JL, of course -- and he didn't even know his name. Dusty had spent the last twenty minutes spilling his heart out to My-Nu-Hue who grinned constantly and nodded as if he understood every word. Dusty concluded his sad story on a philosophic note, 'My life, My, my life, ach! It's still the same old story.' Whereupon My-Nu-Hue crooned as velvety and Midwesterny as Mel Torme ever dreamed of sounding, 'A fight for love and glory. A case of do or die. The world will always welcome lovers as time goes by.' Dusty broke down and wept for two hours straight. Some tough guy.

Meanwhile, Henry J. Henry stood and tossed the photo he had shown pre-fainted Buckley onto post-fainted Buckley's lap. Just then he heard a small almost forgotten voice in himself say,

'Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra?' It was from Cicero's first oration against Cataline. He couldn't imagine why it came to mind just then, but it reminded him of how he had hated 3rd year Latin and Mrs Moxley who gave him only B's [sic], thus knocking him out consideration by Yale, because he insisted on pronouncing 'Cicero' as 'Kickero'. She was Catholic and insisted they pronounce Classical Latin like Late Medieval Church Latin. Whenever Henry J. Henry would say 'Kickero,' the class would howl and hoot and holler and throw paper wads at him and Mrs Moxley wouldn't try to stop them. But Henry J. Henry knew he was right. He stood straight and defiant in the face of their derision. Was this the seed-time of his 'Right-Thinking' Movement?

He had had to settle for Princeton instead of Yale. As he walked off the stage at graduation, he tossed his Princeton diploma in the trash can. There was Yale, everything else was garbage. Morons had destroyed his life. He would destroy all morons, starting with Buckley.

Meanwhile, Phatic sat down and explained to JL that he (Phatic) had been hired by someone (he didn't know whom) to track down and return him (JL) to Kabul for a meeting with someone whom he (Phatic) didn't know. He (Phatic) was told to wait here (in this spot) with JL, and he ((the one whom he (Phatic) didn't know)) would meet them (JL and Phatic) there ((where they (Phatic and JL) were)). Why had Phatic been hired? You (the reader) ask. Because he (Phatic) was not only a security-agent for the MGM Grand Illusion Casino (not to be confused with the MGM Grand Casino -- though no one's certain just what the distinction is) he (Phatic) was also an undercover agent for the FBI, on loan from the NSA. He had joined the NSA fresh out of college because he (Phatic) wanted to kill people. What better ruse than national security, he (Phatic) reckoned. JL thought he (Phatic) shouldn't be telling him (JL) this stuff and covered his (JL's own) ears. This also reminded JL of a thought he had once had, namely, that reading a writer who doesn't trust his readers to make the right pronoun-antecedent connections can be very tiresome indeed.

Meanwhile, Buckley awoke, found the photo Henry J. Henry had shown him causing him to faint and he, of course, fainted again. This could go on for quite a while, the perceptive reader notes. My-Nu-Hue, who was the owner-manager of 'The Green Beetle' Bar which was a front for his international prostitution-ring and string of internet porno sites and Exotic Dancer Talent Agency, operations that netted two million
dollars a day, all of which was laundered through 'The Green Beetle' Bar bank account, not only spoke impeccable English but was an avid capitalist and saw no profit in sentiment. Nevertheless, he took pity on Dusty.

'Buck up, old boy,' he told Dusty. 'This JL fella -- he's fascinated by America, you say?'

'I do say,' Dusty said between snuffles.

'Well, then, I'm sure he's either in Las Vegas or Disneyland -- there's nothing more American than that.'

'You're right. Why didn't I think of that?'

'Because, my old foe, you let your heart distort your prejudices. Love is poison for an agent.'

My-Nu-Hue scribbled a name and number on a napkin. 'Here,' he said, 'look this guy up in Las Vegas. Name's Phatic. I supply him with 'talent' all the time. He knows the scene. But be careful. He's ASA.' Dusty took the napkin with gratitude. He looked to either side, assured of privacy, he whispered: 'I've always suspected,' Dusty said, 'that you were a double agent. CIA, I presume.' My-Nu-Hue smiled the smile of a stereotypical wise old Asian man. 'Who's to say, who's to say?', he said. 'The only thing we know for certain is that we never know for certain for whom we're working. Could just as easily be AOL.'

Meanwhile, Phatic got JL a job as an exotic dancer at The Kabul Casino Lounge.

It was a job JL was looking forward to excitedly because his costume was an organdy-and-lace dress with the look of Edwardian lingerie, designed by Rei Kawakubo. With it he wore embossed velvet-and-leather ankle boots by Manolo Blahnik and a fifteen-strand Edwardian pearl choker and white-gold-and-pearl drop earrings by Terry Rodgers & Melody. Never had he looked so stunning.

But just as he was about to go on stage and sing a medley of Bing-Crosby tunes, Phatic grabbed his arm:

'Come on,' Phatic said, pulling him roughly along, 'we've only got half an hour to get to the airport.'

'Blast!' JL said.

In the taxi, Phatic explained that the man who was supposed to meet them in Las Vegas was having fainting attacks and couldn't come. They'd have to go to him.

'Blast!' JL said.

But at least he had got to keep the clothes. Meanwhile, The Committee Of Right Thinking was called to order in the Meeting Room in the Reed College library. Several hundred of the faculty were in attendance, lured by the promise of a tenure raffle following the meeting, must be present to win. Henry J. Henry presided:

'Esteemed faculty,' he started, immediately drawing snickers, 'we are called together on this momentous occasion to defend Western Civilization against the barbarians at the gate. Make no mistake, nothing less than the survival of Western Civilization is at stake.'

'Hear, here!' Prof. Tomaso Cordelio, cried out.

'Kill the Kantians!'

'Now, now,' Henry J. Henry cautioned, 'We must refrain from righteous passion and remain focused. This isn't about Kantians. They are fools, it's true, but they are not dangerous. This is about _Griceans_!'

'I thought it was about moral turpitude,' someone in the audience shouted disappointedly.

'That, too,' Henry J. Henry said. 'In due course, that, too.' He knew how to play a room.

'Kill the Kantians and bomb the nations that harbour Continental Philosophy back into the Scholastic Age,' Prof. Tomaso Cordelio shouted waving his fist that held a hand grenade in the air.

Prof. Tomaso Cordelio's frenzy was infectious. The faculty started stomping their feet and chanting, 'We will, we will, rock you'.

Prof. Johnny Laytex rose to his feet as the foot stomping subsided.

'Make no mistake, we have no choice, we must find these slimy Relativists and take them out.'

The faculty, mostly men, liked that strong man talk.

'Take them out, take them out,' they chanted.

It reminded them of football and football reminded them that in their heart of hearts they had always loved Shiva best.

Just then the door to the Meeting Room flew open and JL, still in his stunning outfit, sauntered as elegant as a cat across the room to the table where Buckley sat all alone and looking forlorn.

The faculty whistled and shouted crudities like construction workers which they all wished they were whenever they had to attend these damn committee meetings.

JL was the most seductive woman any of them had ever seen.

When she (he) looked disdainfully at them they all grew quiet and fell to morally turpitudinous thoughts.

'Prof. Buckley,' JL said loud enough to be heard by all.

'I'm JL. I believe you sent for me.'

'Yes,' Buckley managed, 'I did. Thank you for coming.'

Now everyone there knew that JL, the internationally-acclaimed expert in
Grice and Gricean stuff, was a man. And a highly respected man. A man who understood all those little diagrams with Ps and Qs and arrows and braces and brackets!! A man recognised not only as a marvel among linguists, but funny, too, in a witty kind of way. But no one had ever guessed he could be this funny. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, is as funny to men as men in drag -- go figger.

They roared with laughter, they howled and hooted, they threw paper wads up in the air like confetti.

All of which reminded Henry J. Henry of his days in 3rd Year Latin with Mrs Moxley. O the humiliation!

O the terror!

The crowd was switching allegiance, he could sense it, this drag routine was winning them over, what a brilliant ploy: you can be a scholar and have fun, too! he was reaching them, teaching them wrongful thinking.

Even Prof. Tomaso Cordelio had put the pin back in his granade. There was nothing to do but play the trump card.

Henry J. Henry turned on the overhead projector. It took a minute or two for the audience to focus on the screen, to realize that the subject had been changed.

The guffawing turned to chuckling turned to titterring turned to gasping.

Even JL, looking at the screen, blanched, sat, weak-kneed, bowing his head in defeat.

'You turpitudinous terrorist bastard!' Prof. Cologne jumped to his feet and shouted at Buckley.

'I trusted you. I even lent you money!'

'This man must be destroyed.' Prof. George George jumped up to second Prof. Cologne's sentiments.

'He's a risk to all that we hold dear.'

'These man is a clear and present danger to our way of life.'

Prof Morrison Morrison chimed in, 'He must be destroyed.'

'Right-thinking requires that we all think as the right thinks,' Prof Weatherby George DuPre proposed.

'We must ask ourselves: What would Falwell do?'

Henry J. Henry smiled. He knew he had won. The world would soon be his little play-thing. The photocopy of Buckley's credit rating had cast him down into the last circle of capitalism's hell. The man was not to be trusted at low interest rates. O the ignominy!

While the crowded murmured and mumbled like a lynch mob, JL thought he was having a hot flash. Impossible! he said to himself. I'm not even 30 yet. And besides I'm not a woman. I'm just hot.

'I'm hot,' JL said very loudly.

Several other people noticed then that they were too.

'It's too hot, turn on the air conditioning.'

'What is this?' Prof. StonedFlower, said, 'Are you a bunch of pansies? Can't take a little heat? Let me tell you when I was fighing in the desert it was a 110 in the shade and that was Celsius! Or is it centigrade now? Decisions have to be made here, people. We have a job to do. Remember the saying, 'Remember the fire next time.' And remember to save your aluminum foil, and don't eat without effort.'

'What the hell is he talking about?' Buckley asked JL.

'It's all second- and third-level implicatures,' JL said. 'The kinds of conversations we used to have while smoking dope. Either he's a very advanced Gricean or he's very wacked. I hope he's wacked. I like to get my hands on some of that stuff.'

'I don't care what Prof. StonedFlower says, it's too hot in here to think cooly about killing people,' Prof. Intestine said, 'I move that we move this meeting to a cooler day.'

Just then the door to the Meeting Room opened.

It was Miguel Muchachos the maintenance man, he was carrying a step ladder and was none too happy looking.

'Jesus!' he said disgustedly and motioned for Henry J. Henry's to move.

He did and Miguel pushed the table out of the way. He set up the ladder there where Henry J. Henry had been presiding.

'What's going on?' Henry J. Henry demanded to know.

'What's going on? You want to know what's going on? I'll tell you what's going on. Everything that _is_ is going on,' Miguel said gruffly. 'Else it wouldn't be.'

'But why is it so hot in here?' Henry J. Henry asked a little less sure of himself than before.

'Because the fucking air-conditioner ain't fucking working, thay's why.' Miguel said. 'The air-conditioner is what's _not_ going on. Got it?'

'Can you fix it?' Henry J. Henry, taken aback by Miguel's hostility, petitioned.

'Sure I can fix it. I can fix anything,' Miguel machismoed as he ascended the ladder and pushed the ceiling tile aside and half-disappeared into the ceiling space.

'How long will it take?' Henry J. Henry asked gingerly as he stood at the foot of the ladder and looked up prayer-fully.

Miguel said nothing.

'Sir?' Henry J. Henry called as politely as he knew how. Miguel stompped down the ladder a couple of steps, his head just below the ceiling.

'What?' he barked.

'We, uh, we have a meeting going on here. Could you possibly tell me how long this is going to take?'

Miguel looked out over the faculty, a menacing scowl on his face.

'As long as I need it to,' he said and went back up the ladder. Well, Henry J. Henry was flabbergasted. Prof. Coolerhead seconded Prof. Intestine's motion to move the meeting to a cooler day. A vote was taken and by acclamation approved.

Henry J. Henry gavelled the meeting to a close until cooler weather could prevail.

The room emptied quickly.

It was already 73 degrees in the room and some of the more 'established' faculty-members were beginning to sweat.

Two minutes after the room had emptied out, except for Miguel of course, Dusty entered.

'JL. JL,' Dusty cried out like Dustin Hoffman in choir loft in _The Graduate_, a memorable scene even to Dusty's rusty mind.

Miguel, also a fan of _The Graduate_, descended the ladder to see who this Dustin was.

'Am I too late?' Is he lost to me forever?' Dusty pleaded on the verge of tears.

'Do you mean the chick-looking guy in the organdy-and-lace dress with the look of Edwardian lingerie?' Miguel inquired.

'Sounds like him,' Dusty said. 'He just left with Buckley for a long conversation. Try the 'You Don't Say' lounge on Broadway. That's where most of the faculty hangs out.' Miguel said.

'Gee, thanks,' Dusty said and left. Miguel shook his head. 'Crazy bastard,' he said, 'don't he know no better than to go fall in love with JL?' Miguel climbed back up into the ceiling to work on the fan-coil. He could hear Dusty from outside singing at the top of his lungs 'I'm On My Way' from _Porgy & Bess_. Nice voice, he thought, for a white boy.

On this bright city with its wide domains, stone buildings stood. And the hot stream cast forth wide sprays of water, which a wall enclosed in its bright compass, where convenient stood hot baths ready for them at the centre. Hot streams poured forth over the clear grey stone to the round pool & down into the baths.