S*cks to Be Me (#2) -- The Mail

Hello, Everyone,

So, as you know, I’m in the middle of an ongoing series regarding my happy experiences during the last couple of months of 2008 . . . those care free days when Geo-W. was still in the White House, the economy was melting down to a puddle of radioactive sludge, suicide bombers continued to blow themselves up in Iraq, the Taliban was preparing to take over Afghanistan, and…oh, yes!... mega-rich mega-brokers on Wall Street were complaining bitterly that they couldn’t possibly get along on a mere half million dollars a year.

Ah, good times . . .

But, this series is not about all those big national things. This series deal with my own PERSONAL experiences during those giddy days of wine and roses.

Last we left off, I’d just found out that a psychotic killer cyborg-qua-lobotomist from the future was going to jam an ice pick into my left eye. While giggling. And humming Barry Manilow tunes.

It’s the Manilow that hurts.

*

Well, actually, that wasn’t what I’d found out. I actually learned that I had to have cataract surgery. Which, these days, is an outpatient procedure that’s actually less painful than having your teeth cleaned. Well, maybe with a sandblaster. But, the point is, ‘taint that bad.

Except, of course, as I explained last time I have … issues …with eye surgery and I came home from my exam with a mild case of shock. Very mild. Oh, so mild. Oh, so very, Very VERY mild. You betcha. And the occasional fits of hysterical screaming? Heck. Lots of people get those. Particularly in Boston traffic. So, I fit right in.

Anyway, I got home and figured that heck, golly, gee . . . at least the day couldn’t get worse. Right? Not possible. Of course. So I parked the car and wobbled up the front walk. And if my knees buckled now and then and I almost collided with the rhododendron out front, well, fortunately we have no fault insurance. And besides, the plant should have seen me coming. And where the heck was its turn signal? That’s what I want to know.

Anyway, I got to the door and there . . .there . . .

There…

Was the mail box.

*

It was big. And sinister. And ominous. It was stuffed with . . . things. Bills. And junk mail. And credit card offers. And You-May-Have-Already-Wons. And solicitations from guilt-tripping social causes—“At this very moment Baby Seals and Easter Bunnies are being eviscerated by Dick Cheney and former Enron employees and you’re just sitting there and letting them do it (You Bastard.)”

And . . . one more thing.

A letter.

From a University.


*

Now, in another Xcargo column, I have already described my adventures in graduate school. So, today, I’ll just provide the quickest overview of the whole business for those who, alas, may have missed my deathless prose on same.

Suffice to say that, some years ago, I decided to go back to school and get a Ph.D. in history. Don’t ask me why. I think it had something to do with masochism. Or maybe it was an LSD flashback from all that Acid I dropped in the sixties. Except, oh, wait, I was 11 in 1968. And I never dropped any Acid. And if I had, I’d have picked it up and carefully put it in the trashcan. Like the good Cub Scout I was. Keep America Beautiful.

So…

Anyway, I went back to school. I was in a program at a certain University that shall remain nameless. I won’t tell you which one. No sir. I’m way too moral for that. You bet. Besides, I wanna have a lawyer on call first. Never can tell.

I will tell you that it’s a college about sixty miles from where I live. It’s roughly halfway between the Big Important Schools in the Boston-Cambridge area and the Big Important Schools in the Amherst-Northampton area.

This particular school would like to be a Big Important School too. And in a couple of disciplines, it is or will be one soon. Its departments of Education and Geography are world-class. And it has something called a Center “For Holocaust Studies.” No. Really. There is such a thing. And this school does it well.

But, then, there’s the college’s Department in History. And that Department is …

Ah…

Er…

It definitely is. No doubt about that.


*

Anyway, while I was that this School I had to have a committee of three professors to oversee my dissertation. At first, I thought of them as being wise, insightful, and kind. And, I’m sure, that they really are all those things. Not to mention very, very Scholarly. And Professional. And Insightful. It says so. Right on their box. And by their own admission. Quite loudly stated. And re-stated. Again and again and again. So it has to be true. Doesn’t it?

And besides, if, with the passage of time, I came to call them “Larry, Moe, and Curly,” “Tweedledee, Tweedledumb, Tweedle-dork,” and, of course, “The Hood, the Blob, and the Ugly,” well, then, those were just the affectionate little pet names that a student brings to those of his mentors he truly admires.

*

And, so, as I glanced at my mailbox I discovered…right there, between the Visa bill and the Cable ad (“Sign Up Today and Get Our Gratuitous and Excessive Violence Channel For Free!”) . . . was a letter from My School!

Far out!

You see, I’d been having this wee little problem with my School and my Three Professors. Specifically, I would send them chapters from my dissertation and then . . . weeks would pass. Or months. And I’d not hear so much as a word. My emails would go unanswered. My phone calls would go un-returned. I’d thought about trying carrier pigeons, but I couldn’t fit the coop on the roof. And the neighbors kept complaining about the large mounds of guano on the front porch. Which is surprising. Cause you can sell that stuff. Fifty cents a ton. Great source of nitrogen. Could have been a valuable source of income for the Neighborhood Association. And, besides, it wasn’t nearly as messy as the time I had the Bat Ranch in the Basement.

Anyway, two months before, I’d sent them a completed first draft of my dissertation. But, I hadn’t had any response. I had sent them multiple emails and asked about it. But, I’d only gotten a couple of mysterious notes about maybe they’d get around to reading my material after Thanksgiving. Or just as soon as hell froze over. Which ever came first.

So, I was really kind of excited to see that envelop sitting there. I unlocked the door, hurried inside, opened the letter, and …

…learned that my professors were refusing to work with me any longer.

*

I’ll spare you the exact text of the letter. Suffice to say that there was an informational component and an emotional, unstated component.

The informational component was that two of the professors had decided that I was impossible to work with and they would therefore have nothing to do with me ever again.

The emotional component . . . well, that was much more subtle, more complex, more cryptic. But, I think if the text were subjected to rigorous analysis and learned deconstructive review, it would boil down to: “You’re ugly, and your mother dresses you funny.”

Don’t you just love rational deconstructive analysis?


*

In retrospect, I have to admit that it was really rather clever of them. In effect, they forced me out of the program without ever actually having to confront me about it. After all, they could say, I could always find other professors willing to serve on my committee.

Except, the Department is tiny. There weren’t a lot of people to work with. And besides, even if I found a new committee, it would mean starting all over again. It would be years before I finished the research, much less started writing. And, even then, what chance did I have of getting the dissertation accepted when three of the department’s leading lights (including the Chair) had already told me to go suck an egg?

So . . . not to put too fine a point on it … and applying rigorous analytical techniques . . . I concluded …

I was screwed.

*


Actually, I suppose, they didn’t do that much harm. They denied me the doctorate, but, quite simply, I’m not sure that having it would have bought me much. Yes, not having a Ph.D. means I’ll never teach at a Big University and be “Tenure Track.”

But, let’s face it, that wasn’t going to happen anyway. I’ve done a little research and it turns out that of all the major professions, the Academy is the most “ageist.” That is, if you’re middle aged or older, you don’t get a job. Period.

I’m fifty-one.

Then, too, there are not that many jobs out there to get. When I decided to go back to school, everyone said, “Do it! Because all those Baby Boomers are going to retire soon! There’ll be lots ‘o slots open.”

Except . . . guess what? The Boomers can’t afford to retire. So they’ll be there ‘till they rot. And, besides, even if they do quietly pop off to ye ole’ happy hunting grounds of rigor and scholarship, their former positions are not being refilled. The economy is so f*cked up at the moment, and there are so many adjunct faculty members willing to teach for peanuts, that when some Tenured Tracker goes away, most often his/her fulltime job goes away too.

And, finally, you don’t really need a Ph.D. to teach in some places. Community colleges, departments of continuing education, private high schools . . . these are quite happy with the Master’s. In fact, I’m teaching a couple of college classes right now. No body seems to mind that I’m not Doctor Mike.

*

Still…

Still…

It hurt. A lot.


*

I was pretty good with it for the first couple of hours. “Well, at least that’s over,” I said to myself. No more fighting to get even the slightest hint of a response from the Three Stooges. No more grinding my teeth when they did bother to reply, usually with fairly overt insults.

My wife, Martha, got home. I showed her the letter. I said I was fine with it and everything.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

We went to bed. I told her again about how peaceful I felt. “I’ll probably sleep better than I have in months,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” she added.

I put my head on the pillow. Right, I said. I’ll sleep better than I have in ages. Sure. Absolutely. 100%.

*

Amazing what you can find on TV at three in the morning. Did you know that for a low, low down payment of $26,170 you, too, can get a timeshare at Gator Swamp Spa and Resorts?

Comes with its own bug-zapper in the bedroom. And an elephant gun. For the extra big mosquitoes. During the off season.

*

It was about three days later that I finally went to sleep. At least for a while.

And it was about a month after that—just a little before Christmas—that I stopped waking up each night at around two and staring into the dark. For a couple of hours. Listening to Martha’s breathing, watching the green glow of the clock face, feeling eternity slip past, one moment at a time.


*

Ah well. Didn’t mind the insomnia, really. Gave me lots of time to plan out my new video game. “Godzilla Visits The Academy (And Goes Freaking Ballistic).”

Should finally give “Grand Theft Auto” a run for its money, you know?


*

But, anyway, like I said, in a couple of weeks I was getting better. I wasn’t exactly ALL better, and I was still having these embarrassing moments when I’d be found curled up in the fetal position under my desk, but …better.

And the reason? Because of logic. My precise, steely, geometric LOGIC.

My logic was as follows: I am going to have my eye gouged out and I’ve just been screwed out of four years of my professional life. So . . .

It’s gotta get better. Hasn’t it?

Right. Just has to.

And thinking thus, one Saturday morning shortly thereafter, I woke up in a cheery mood. It was a sunny day. I didn’t have to work. Yes, sir. A lovely day. And things were gonna be fine. Just you wait see. It was going to be all butterflies and warm fuzzy puppy dogs for a least a year.

So, I rolled out of bed with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

And noticed there seemed to be icicles forming on my nostrils.

But that’s for next time.

*

Onward and upward.























Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker