hadn’t been for the ducks. Probably to the same place by a different
route. The history of the situation is this: University presidents relish new buildings, so do Boards of Education. Bingley
Hall was just fine—old, but with a patina of learning and struggle rubbed into its corridors and heavy in its air. Still,
the president decided one of his premier colleges needed a new building. Presidents don’t bequeath knowledge or grateful students
to the world, they leave behind bricks and mortar. Whether those bricks and mortar are actually necessary is irrelevant. The
important thing is to get money and build buildings carrying the names either of heavy donors to the university or members
of the administration who served the university loyally, though not necessarily brilliantly.
The Arthur J. Wilcox College of Business and Economics
—you could see the lettering in the dean’s rodentlike eyes as he scooted around Bingley Hall with rolled-up blueprints clutched
in his sweaty paws. Fat chance.
The money could have been used for faculty salaries or student financial aid, but that’s never in the cards. As the president
was fond of saying, privately, of course, “It’s much easier to get money for buildings than it is for faculty salaries.” But,
in spite of hard economic times in the state, the board floated a bond issue and ponied up $18 million for a new building.
That had occurred the previous winter, and final construction plans were now being drawn.
Arthur posted emerging versions of the plans in the coffee room for everyone to slobber over. Michael was standing there looking
at an updated set and noticed the location of the new building had been moved fifty yards from its original site. “They’re
going to put the sonuvabitch right over the duck pond,” he said to no one in particular. The other faculty members present
looked at him in a way that said, “So what?”
Michael went to see Arthur and explained to him the rather neat and profound role the pond played in the traditions of the
campus. It wasn’t much in terms of water area, elliptically shaped and maybe a hundred feet long by fifty feet wide. But it
was home for little geezers with orange legs who looked at Michael when he walked by and went “Quack” when he grinned and
said hello to them.
It was also a place for moonlight walks and tender thoughts, a place where ten thousand engagement rings had been slipped
over shaking fingers through the years, not to mention various other assignations getting a little more carnal late at night.
When Michael looked out his office window, he could see the ducks on their pond a block away, and often he had found solace
in that when dealing with education gone berserk.
But guys like Arthur J. Wilcox have no appreciation for tradition, it’s not tangible enough. Michael talked hard, but it didn’t
register. Arthur just kept saying, “But, Michael, we need a new building.”
“What about the ducks?” Michael was angry. “Where will they go? Are we going to build a new eighteen-million-dollar pond for
them, too?”
Arthur didn’t understand ducks, either. You could see it on his face. That and the plain wish Michael would just go away and
leave him alone with his blueprints.
Michael was pretty sure he wouldn’t have raised as much hell about the duck pond as he did if he hadn’t been half-crazed with
sorting out his feelings in those days, trying to push Jellie far back and out of his mind and failing in that attempt. He
worked his way up through the provost, who didn’t understand ducks any better than Arthur. Stomping past Clarice’s desk on
his way out of the provost’s office, he turned around, then talked with her for a moment.
Next he made an appointment to see the president. Michael laid out his case: Move the building, keep the duck pond. The prez
was smooth. Years of dealing with demented faculty and recalcitrant alumni who stapled
route. The history of the situation is this: University presidents relish new buildings, so do Boards of Education. Bingley
Hall was just fine—old, but with a patina of learning and struggle rubbed into its corridors and heavy in its air. Still,
the president decided one of his premier colleges needed a new building. Presidents don’t bequeath knowledge or grateful students
to the world, they leave behind bricks and mortar. Whether those bricks and mortar are actually necessary is irrelevant. The
important thing is to get money and build buildings carrying the names either of heavy donors to the university or members
of the administration who served the university loyally, though not necessarily brilliantly.
The Arthur J. Wilcox College of Business and Economics
—you could see the lettering in the dean’s rodentlike eyes as he scooted around Bingley Hall with rolled-up blueprints clutched
in his sweaty paws. Fat chance.
The money could have been used for faculty salaries or student financial aid, but that’s never in the cards. As the president
was fond of saying, privately, of course, “It’s much easier to get money for buildings than it is for faculty salaries.” But,
in spite of hard economic times in the state, the board floated a bond issue and ponied up $18 million for a new building.
That had occurred the previous winter, and final construction plans were now being drawn.
Arthur posted emerging versions of the plans in the coffee room for everyone to slobber over. Michael was standing there looking
at an updated set and noticed the location of the new building had been moved fifty yards from its original site. “They’re
going to put the sonuvabitch right over the duck pond,” he said to no one in particular. The other faculty members present
looked at him in a way that said, “So what?”
Michael went to see Arthur and explained to him the rather neat and profound role the pond played in the traditions of the
campus. It wasn’t much in terms of water area, elliptically shaped and maybe a hundred feet long by fifty feet wide. But it
was home for little geezers with orange legs who looked at Michael when he walked by and went “Quack” when he grinned and
said hello to them.
It was also a place for moonlight walks and tender thoughts, a place where ten thousand engagement rings had been slipped
over shaking fingers through the years, not to mention various other assignations getting a little more carnal late at night.
When Michael looked out his office window, he could see the ducks on their pond a block away, and often he had found solace
in that when dealing with education gone berserk.
But guys like Arthur J. Wilcox have no appreciation for tradition, it’s not tangible enough. Michael talked hard, but it didn’t
register. Arthur just kept saying, “But, Michael, we need a new building.”
“What about the ducks?” Michael was angry. “Where will they go? Are we going to build a new eighteen-million-dollar pond for
them, too?”
Arthur didn’t understand ducks, either. You could see it on his face. That and the plain wish Michael would just go away and
leave him alone with his blueprints.
Michael was pretty sure he wouldn’t have raised as much hell about the duck pond as he did if he hadn’t been half-crazed with
sorting out his feelings in those days, trying to push Jellie far back and out of his mind and failing in that attempt. He
worked his way up through the provost, who didn’t understand ducks any better than Arthur. Stomping past Clarice’s desk on
his way out of the provost’s office, he turned around, then talked with her for a moment.
Next he made an appointment to see the president. Michael laid out his case: Move the building, keep the duck pond. The prez
was smooth. Years of dealing with demented faculty and recalcitrant alumni who stapled
Similar Books
