“You’re too self-deprecating, while we’re at it,” says Anshu.
Sure, why not, let’s keep going.
“You’d rather I was pompous and self-congratulatory? Anshu, jeez, you’re undoing everything my mother taught me.”
He flips his hand at me. “What did you just say to Loomis in the hallway? The vice-chair of the damn tenure committee compliments you on your article getting cited by the Supreme Court and what did you say?”
“I don’t know, what did I say?”
“You said, ‘Must have been a slow day at the Court.’”
Oh, yeah, that’s right, I did.
“I mean, how about thank you?” he says. “The highest court in the land just cited one of your articles. Can’t you bask in the glow just a little? But no, you can’t take the compliment. You have to tear yourself down. And Reid doesn’t have a blog,” he adds.
I open my hands. “What’s wrong with my blog?”
“You make jokes,” he says. “You crack wise.”
“And I talk about judicial decisions and whether they’re right or wrong.”
“You wrote a limerick about the chief justice of the United States.”
“Yeah, but it was funny.”
“I know, but you’re so . . . so casual and irreverent.”
“You mean I’m not stuffy? I don’t use footnotes or Latin words? You know how I feel about footnotes and—”
“Yes, I know how you feel about footnotes.” He reaches out with his hands, as if beseeching me. “But law professors use footnotes! Law professors use Latin!”
I’m not doing it. I’m not changing how I dress and I’m not sucking up to the faculty at poker games and cocktail parties and I’m not using Latin words and I sure as shit am not using footnotes.
Okay, it’s not quite Roosevelt charging up San Juan Hill, but I’m taking a stand.
“Get the spot first,” he says. “Once you’re a tenured full professor, challenge every convention of academia. But this whole laid-back thing . . .”
I’m not laid-back. I’m anything but laid-back. I’m stubborn. There’s a difference.
“Here’s some Latin for you,” I say. “Ego facturus est via mea.”
Anshu sighs. “Now I suppose you’re going to tell me what that means.”
“It means I’m going to do it my way.”
“Of course, you are.” He flips a hand. “Of course, you are.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Professor, I need a haircut.”
“That was on my list, too. Your hair’s too long. You look—”
“Like one of the students, I know.”
And then my phone rings.
? ? ?
Not five minutes later, I’m entering the office of one of the associate deans, Martin Comstock, who also happens to be the chair of the tenure committee. Silver-haired and dapper, going all-in on the stereotype with the bright red bow tie.
Actually, he wears bow ties so people will ask him about it, and he can reluctantly reveal that he clerked for U.S. Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens, who wore bow ties, and then served as an aide to U.S. Senator Paul Simon, who also wore them. Oh, this? Well, I suppose it’s kind of an homage, if you must know . . .
Our dean is retiring next year, and everyone says Comstock will take the reins. Not everybody’s happy about that. I might be one of those people. He’s a politician, not an academic. A blueblood, not a scholar. He’s everything I hate about academia.
Other than that, I’m sure he’s a great guy.
“Ah, Simon, good,” he says, when I knock on his opened door.
“Hi, Dean.” He likes being called by his title. He pretends he doesn’t, but he does.
He manages a quick, disapproving appraisal of my outfit. For the record, my button-down shirt is tucked in, and my jeans are clean and not torn. I look just fine.
“Thanks for stopping by,” he says. “I’ll get to the point.”
His office, all leather and walnut, is a monument to his greatness, with all his diplomas and awards, photographs with presidents and high-court judges. He sits in a high-back leather chair behind a magnificent desk.
“Simon, you applied for full professor,” he says, his hands forming a temple in his lap.
“I did, yes.”
“Yes, good stuff, good for you,” he says. “You’ve done fine work, I’ll say it to anyone.”
It’s time for the but . . .