across those of the young man with the goatee who’d dropped by during office hours to let me know that I was a fraud. They each had a grip on one of James’s armpits, as if he might at any point collapse, and they were whispering all the usual platitudes of encouragement and reassurance. Although he looked a little queasy he seemed to be walking steadily enough, and I wondered if he weren’t just enjoying the ride.
“The doors made so much noise!” he cried. He watched in evident amazement as his feet in their black brogues followed each other across the carpet. “Whoa!”
As the two men steered their charge toward the men’s room, Crabtree happened to look my way. He raised his eyebrows and winked at me. Although it was only nine o’clock he had already gone once around the pharmacological wheel to which he’d strapped himself for the evening, stolen a tuba, and offended a transvestite; and now his companions were beginning, with delight and aplomb, to barf. It was definitely a Crabtree kind of night.
“This is so embarrassing! You guys had to carry me out!”
“Is he all right?” I said, as they maneuvered James past us.
“He’s fine,” said Crabtree, rolling his eyes. “He’s narrating .”
“We’re going to the men’s room,” said James. “Only we might not make it in time.”
“Poor James,” I said, watching as they turned into the hallway.
“I don’t know what you guys have been giving him,” said Miss Sloviak. “But I don’t think he needs any more of it.”
Sara shook her head. “Terry Crabtree and James Leer,” she said, punching me on the shoulder, hard. “Leave it to you to make that mistake. Wait here.”
She went after them, and I stood awkwardly beside Miss Sloviak for half a minute, watching her take irritable puffs on a black Nat Sherman and blow them out in long blue jets.
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“Are you?”
“It’s just pretty much your standard WordFest behavior.”
“No wonder I’ve never heard of it before.”
A minor squall of applause gathered and blew through the auditorium. Then the doors burst open again, and five hundred people poured into the lobby. They were all talking about Q. and his rascally double, the latter of whom had apparently ended the lecture with an unflattering remark about the cumulative literary achievement of Pittsburgh, comparing it with Luxembourg’s and Chad’s. I waved to a couple of my offended colleagues and nodded carefully to Franconia Epps, a well-to-do Fox Chapel woman of a certain age who had been attending WordFest for the last six years in the hope of finding a publisher for a novel called Black Flowers , which every year she raveled and unraveled, Penelopelike, according to the contradictory whims and indications of a dozen half-interested editors, but which in each incarnation managed to retain its surprising although not, unfortunately, redeeming number of scenes involving well-to-do Fox Chapel women of a certain age and a variety of leather appliances, artificial male genitalia, and tractable polo ponies with names like Goliath and Big Jacques. A gang of literary young men surrounded Miss Sloviak and me, all talking at once, batting one another with rolled programs, taking out their cigarettes. A few of them were students of mine, and they were about to draw us into their conversation—they had their eyes on Miss Sloviak—when suddenly, as if touched with an electric prod, they drew apart and opened a path for Sara Gaskell.
“Hello, Chancellor.”
“Hello, Dr. Gaskell.”
“Gentlemen,” she said, nodding coolly, and then leveling toward me the same administrative and vaguely condescending green eyes. She had slipped off her wobbly high heels, and the silver beaded purse was nowhere to be seen.
“He was sick, but I think he’ll be fine,” she said, looking both generally and specifically disgusted. “No thanks to you and your idiot friend.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Go on,
“The doors made so much noise!” he cried. He watched in evident amazement as his feet in their black brogues followed each other across the carpet. “Whoa!”
As the two men steered their charge toward the men’s room, Crabtree happened to look my way. He raised his eyebrows and winked at me. Although it was only nine o’clock he had already gone once around the pharmacological wheel to which he’d strapped himself for the evening, stolen a tuba, and offended a transvestite; and now his companions were beginning, with delight and aplomb, to barf. It was definitely a Crabtree kind of night.
“This is so embarrassing! You guys had to carry me out!”
“Is he all right?” I said, as they maneuvered James past us.
“He’s fine,” said Crabtree, rolling his eyes. “He’s narrating .”
“We’re going to the men’s room,” said James. “Only we might not make it in time.”
“Poor James,” I said, watching as they turned into the hallway.
“I don’t know what you guys have been giving him,” said Miss Sloviak. “But I don’t think he needs any more of it.”
Sara shook her head. “Terry Crabtree and James Leer,” she said, punching me on the shoulder, hard. “Leave it to you to make that mistake. Wait here.”
She went after them, and I stood awkwardly beside Miss Sloviak for half a minute, watching her take irritable puffs on a black Nat Sherman and blow them out in long blue jets.
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“Are you?”
“It’s just pretty much your standard WordFest behavior.”
“No wonder I’ve never heard of it before.”
A minor squall of applause gathered and blew through the auditorium. Then the doors burst open again, and five hundred people poured into the lobby. They were all talking about Q. and his rascally double, the latter of whom had apparently ended the lecture with an unflattering remark about the cumulative literary achievement of Pittsburgh, comparing it with Luxembourg’s and Chad’s. I waved to a couple of my offended colleagues and nodded carefully to Franconia Epps, a well-to-do Fox Chapel woman of a certain age who had been attending WordFest for the last six years in the hope of finding a publisher for a novel called Black Flowers , which every year she raveled and unraveled, Penelopelike, according to the contradictory whims and indications of a dozen half-interested editors, but which in each incarnation managed to retain its surprising although not, unfortunately, redeeming number of scenes involving well-to-do Fox Chapel women of a certain age and a variety of leather appliances, artificial male genitalia, and tractable polo ponies with names like Goliath and Big Jacques. A gang of literary young men surrounded Miss Sloviak and me, all talking at once, batting one another with rolled programs, taking out their cigarettes. A few of them were students of mine, and they were about to draw us into their conversation—they had their eyes on Miss Sloviak—when suddenly, as if touched with an electric prod, they drew apart and opened a path for Sara Gaskell.
“Hello, Chancellor.”
“Hello, Dr. Gaskell.”
“Gentlemen,” she said, nodding coolly, and then leveling toward me the same administrative and vaguely condescending green eyes. She had slipped off her wobbly high heels, and the silver beaded purse was nowhere to be seen.
“He was sick, but I think he’ll be fine,” she said, looking both generally and specifically disgusted. “No thanks to you and your idiot friend.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Go on,
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