Chapter 1
The letter, adorned with an official-looking seal, arrived unexpectedly in my mailbox one crisp autumn morning. Its origins traced back to a lawyer’s office nestled amidst the picturesque landscapes of North Durham, Vermont. Now, I must confess that during those days, I had developed a certain apprehension towards any correspondence bearing the signature of a legal practitioner. This wariness had become an ingrained response, an unavoidable consequence of witnessing the tumultuous divorce proceedings endured by my dear friend Dorothy (but let us not dwell on that now). Consequently, as I held the envelope in my hands, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of trepidation at the prospect of unraveling yet another convoluted web of legal jargon.
With a heavy sigh, I decided to postpone delving into its contents for the time being. Instead, I nonchalantly tossed it onto my cluttered desk and proceeded to tackle the remaining stack of mail that awaited my attention. Bills, advertisements, and invitations all vied for my focus, but none of them held the same intrigue as the mysterious envelope, taunting me with its secrets.
Hey, I like to get mail. There’s something inherently charming and nostalgic about receiving a physical letter in the mailbox. It’s a reminder of a time when communication was more deliberate and thoughtful, when people took the time to sit down and put pen to paper. In today’s fast-paced world, where instant messaging and social media dominate our interactions, letter writing has become a lost art. The telephone, that squat and toadlike contraption that lurks in the corners of our homes, has played a significant role in this decline. With its incessant ringing and constant interruptions, it has invaded our thoughts and disrupted our sleep with its senseless bleatings. I can’t help but despise telephones for what they have done to us - they have made us less human, robbing us of the chance to connect on a deeper level through the written word.
In an era where everything is instant and disposable, receiving mail feels like a breath of fresh air. It signifies that someone cared enough Receiving mail allows us to slow down, savor the moment, and appreciate the effort put into crafting a heartfelt message.
A few of my (real) friends share my views on this, and we enjoy lively, revealing, soul-searched correspondence. As I sat at the breakfast table of my now-solitudinous split-level, I eagerly opened a letter from Al. Before a single “I” appeared in his letter, he had spent a page and a half describing the breathtaking change of seasons on his farm. The vivid imagery painted a picture of the peacefulness that enveloped the early-fall days, where golden leaves danced in the gentle breeze and vibrant colors adorned every corner. Al’s words transported me to his world, where he marveled at the starry brilliance of crisp October nights as if each twinkling light held secrets waiting to be discovered. It was truly mesmerizing.
Reading Al’s letter reminded me of the beauty that exists beyond our digital screens and gadget-filled lives. In this fast-paced world where technology dominates our every waking moment, we often forget to appreciate the simple wonders that nature offers.
Checking my watch after 2 more letters and one more cup of coffee, I discovered that time had ambushed me yet again. The ticking hands seemed to mock my futile attempts at efficiency. With a sigh of resignation, I slipped the unopened lawyer’s letter into my attaché case, its weight adding to the burden of my already heavy workload. As I hastily gulped down the remaining dregs of coffee, its bitter taste mirrored the bitterness I felt towards time itself.
Knowing that every second counted now, I dashed towards the door, my heart pounding in sync with each hurried step. It was Tuesday, a day that always seemed to conspire against me with its relentless demands. Today was no exception - it was the day I held office hours from 10:00 until 12:00 each week. The thought of facing a small knot of students waiting impatiently at my door sent a shiver down my spine.
I could already envision their frustrated expressions and their seminar papers dangling from angry hands.
I ended up being only 15 minutes late, and to my surprise, there wasn’t anybody waiting for me. Unlocking the door with a sense of relief, I stepped into the familiar embrace of my office. Picking up some interdepartmental memos that had been slipped under the sill, I made my way toward the cocoon of my desk and bookshelves. The office was small, no bigger than 8 feet on a side, but it held a certain charm that made it feel cozy rather than cramped. The walls were adorned with bookcases filled to the brim with knowledge and adventure, showcasing my love for literature and learning. The worn wooden desk stood proudly in the center of the room, serving as both a workspace and a sanctuary for my thoughts. A single guest chair sat beside it, inviting visitors to share in moments of collaboration or simply engage in friendly conversation. As I settled into my familiar surroundings, I couldn’t help but notice the three posters adorning the walls I was instantly reminded of the countless stories waiting to be discovered and the endless possibilities that lay within those pages. All the offices in the building were like mine, with their sterile walls and impersonal decor. However, despite the uniformity, one particular colleague of mine defied convention by transforming his office into a makeshift home. He brought in a humble bedroll and a small hot plate, ingeniously setting up his own little sanctuary within the torturous confines of our workplace.
It was not long before rumors began to circulate about the reason behind this unconventional living arrangement. It soon became apparent that his wife had left him, leaving him not only emotionally devastated but also financially bereft. The meager salary of a college professor simply could not cover the costs of maintaining a separate residence.
Undeterred by his circumstances, my colleague chose to adapt rather than succumb to despair. Like a resourceful beaver constructing its lodge, he transformed his office into a haven where he could find solace amidst the chaos of his personal life. Surrounded by books and papers, he would immerse himself in his work, finding fulfillment in the pursuit of knowledge.
It was not long before rumors began to circulate about the reason behind this unconventional living arrangement. It soon became apparent that his wife had left him, leaving him not only emotionally devastated but also financially bereft. The meager salary of a college professor simply could not cover the costs of maintaining a separate residence.
Undeterred by his circumstances, my colleague chose to adapt rather than succumb to despair. Like a resourceful beaver constructing its lodge, he transformed his office into a haven where he could find solace amidst the chaos of his personal life. Surrounded by books and papers, he would immerse himself in his work, finding fulfillment in the pursuit of knowledge.
All the offices in the building were like mine, with their sterile walls and impersonal decor. However, despite the uniformity, one particular colleague of mine defied convention by transforming his office into a makeshift home. He brought in a humble bedroll and a small hot plate, ingeniously setting up his own little sanctuary within the torturous confines of our workplace.
Tillman, our department head, made the controversial decision to terminate one of our esteemed colleagues. However, the rest of us, united by a shared sense of injustice and solidarity, took a bold stand against this unjust action. We recognized that if we allowed this dismissal to go unchallenged, it would set a dangerous precedent for the future treatment of faculty members. In an unprecedented move within our English literature department at the university, we collectively decided to threaten a strike unless our colleague was reinstated.
To witness such an extraordinary display of collective bargaining power among English literature professors was truly astonishing. It revealed the strength and unity that can be achieved when individuals come together for a common cause. As we rallied behind our dismissed colleague, we demonstrated that we were not just mere academics confined within the walls of our classrooms; rather, we were advocates for fairness and justice in academia.
Our demands were clear: Tillman had to reverse his decision and reinstate our colleague immediately. We were prepared to take collective action if our demands were not met.
I sighed, realizing that my plans for the day had just taken an unexpected turn. Instead of enjoying a well-deserved break from grading papers, I now had to focus on this letter from the Vermont lawyer. With no students demanding my attention, I reluctantly tore open the envelope and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper.
As I unfolded it, my eyes scanned the concise, handwritten note that lay before me. It was evident that someone had taken the time to craft this message with care. The words were simple yet intriguing:
Roger Herzog
Attorney-at-Law
Po Box 259
North Durham VT
Brantley Tesla, Ph. D
5520 Deale
Charlee College Park
MD
Dear Doctor Tesla:
Please accept my sincere condolences for the loss of Mrs. Jeanette Fairisles. As the appointed executor of her estate, it is my duty to reach out to you at your earliest convenience during regular business hours. I have been entrusted with the responsibility of informing you that you are the sole heir to Mrs. Fairisles’s substantial estate.
It is with great respect and sensitivity that I undertake this task, understanding the emotional weight that accompanies such news. As executor, I am here to provide guidance and support throughout the process of settling Mrs. Fairisles’s affairs and ensuring a smooth transition of her assets to your ownership.
Given the significance of this matter, I kindly request that you prioritize contacting me as soon as possible within our standard business hours. This will allow us to initiate necessary legal procedures promptly and begin addressing any questions or concerns you may have regarding the inheritance.
Rest assured, my primary objective is to assist you in navigating this complex process with utmost professionalism and transparency. I understand that dealing with legal matters can be overwhelming, but I am here to provide guidance and support every step of the way.
My phone number is (802)-985-2121.
Thank you very much.
Sincerely, Roger Herzog
Although the letter implied the death of my mother’s great aunt Jean--- a woman whom I hadn’t seen since I was 10 years old---I couldn’t suppress the smile that crept upon my face like a sly cat. I found it somehow comical to be in that most mythical of American situations: to be the sole heir of a (supposedly) rich, (likely) eccentric, and (most assuredly) distant relative.
Now I didn’t want any intrusions, so I Magic-Markered a hasty note: WILL BE BACK IN 15 MINUTES, pulled off a slab of Scotch tape, and stuck it to the front of my door before closing it, sealing me in. Picking up the phone, I dialed a 9, which patched me into one of the cold, gray fish who pose as campus telephone operators.
“Can I help you?” intoned a flat, slightly sinusited voice.
“Yes, operator. This is Doctor Tesla, extension 7655----I’d like to make a long-distance call, please.”
“Is this university business, Doctor?” They always asked that.
“It is,” I said.
“Where do you want to call?”
“North Durham, Vermont. The Hellenica Textbook Company.” English professors are notorious callers of textbook publishers.
“All right, Doctor, you’ve got an outside line now.”
There was a click and a familiar drone in the receiver before I could utter a thank-you.
I dialed Herzog’s number and heard it answered on the 1st ring.
“Herzog,” said a young voice.
“Mr. Herzog, this is Brant Tesla...I got your letter this morning.”
“Good morning, Dr. Tesla. Before I go on, let me express my sincerest condolences....”
“No need to, I didn’t even know that Jean was dead till I got your letter,” I said fast. “And please, don’t call me ‘Doctor,’ makes me feel like some old fart, if you get my drift. Brant, or Brantley, will do just fine.”
A pause. Herzog cleared his throat. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Marlboros, lit one, waited.
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry that I was the one to convey the bad news. I must admit that I was curious as to your absence at the funeral.”
“I’m surprised that Jean had one. She always said she loathed t hem. I don’t give heave-ho for them either. Too ritualistic for me. I probably wouldn’t even have gone if I had known about hers.” I exhaled slowly.
“I see....” Mr. Herzog let his voice trail off, obviously thinking.
“Well, anyway,” I said. “You wanted to talk to me about her estate, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” There was a sound of papers rattling near the phone.
“I hope you don’t think I’m a coldhearted son-of-a-bitch who’s just interested in my aunt’s money, but you’ve never taught college, have you?”
“Good God, no! But---I think I understand what you’re getting at.
I laughed but said nothing, drew on the cigarette.
“Well, basically, it’s like this, Doc---ah, Brant: Jeanette Fairisles left an airtight, perfectly legal will and testament with my former partner, the late Lionel Maxwell. The document leaves all her worldly possessions, her real estate, her bank accounts---the whole shooting match---to you.”
“What about her debts?” I asked, feeling my pulse leap.
“Not a one.”
“Any chance of probate? Contestation?”
“None that I can see.”
“Now comes the $64,000 question,” I said smiling. I liked this young guy, Herzog. “How much?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’d be a good idea to discuss anything like that over the phone, Brant. That’s why I need you to come to North Durham at your earliest convenience, so we can clarify these kind of things.”
“Then I have bad news for you, Mr. Herzog. I’m not much for that sort of propriety. As you know, I’m trapped in this teaching job. I’ve got a department chairman who thinks he’s God, and a schedule that’s tighter than a hog’s.....”
“I understand, trust me,” he cut in sharply.
“Let me finish, dammit. It’s quite simple really. If my aunt left me enough, then I can simply tell this so-called university what it can do with itself. Then I’ll come visit you at my ‘earliest convenience.’ Otherwise I’ll be expected to grovel before the almighty chairman for an hour or so. Get the picture?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Can you be satisfied with me telling you that it is---substantial?”
“Don’t play games with me, Herzog! Now, is it enough for me to get the hell outta this office and never come back? How much the hell is it?” Boy, I was really starting to hate this joker.
Herzog let out a long, labored breath that was tempted to become a sigh. “All right, let me see....counting up everything, including the house but not the value of the furniture inside---lot’s of antiques, you know---I’d say it’s in the neighborhood of $600,000.”
I paused for a moment, fighting the pure biological responses to the figure. If you have never been told that you are suddenly rich, you will likely never understand what it truly feels like. Let’s just say that I thought that I was going to (a) suffer a coronary (b) experience an aneurysm (c) become hysterical (d) undergo locomotor ataxia (e) all of the above.
Instead, I found myself quite inanely saying: “Wow, what a lot of money.”
Mr. Herzog laughed, establishing his humanity anew, and I joined him in a burst of pure joy. The laughter pealed out of me like wedding bells, and it was the most wonderful sound I had ever heard.
After I had calmed down somewhat, I received specific instructions and directions form Mr. Herzog. I was to catch a Dulles flight into Springfield, Massachusetts, then take a limo to North Durham. I could easily be in Herzog’s office by 1:00 in the afternoon if I left early the next morning. I assured him I’d follow his instructions to the absolute letter and said goodbye.
Hanging the phone up, I realized that I was still giddy, flying high on the potent mixture of adrenalin and argentum. God, I felt good! I lit up another Marlboro, being careful to cover up those little “airstream filter” holes so that I could taste the smoke. I was so excited that I didn’t know what to do first. My mind flickered like old movies with images of myself and my new left: sweeping homes of nouveau architecture, foreign cars, double-knit suits, cocktail parties at the Windows On The World, breakfasts on the Left Bank, a kidney-shaped swimming pool filled with naked women....
And suddenly I was going down like a World War II Mustang with a smoking engine.
What was happening to me? What the hell was I thinking? I didn’t want any of that bullshit. I didn’t really want it. At least that’s what I had told myself when I was sitting in my library at home. I looked about the office, feeling the warmth that radiated from the crammed bookcases, the solace of the worn, battered furniture, the tightness of it all. Perhaps B. Traven was right. Gold was the thing that turned men into demons.
What would I do with all that money?
I did not, at that moment, honestly know. It required several minutes and another Marlboro (they burn to fast, damn 'em) to adjust to that self-realization; then I began, thinking rationally once again. The first thing that had to be done was to deal with Doctor Zimmermann.
I left the office and entered the corridor just as the 10:00 classes were letting out. The main corridor at the hall's end was filled with blue-jeaned bodies and the gentle murmur of conversation. Maneuvering through the young crowds, I entered the English department offices---an area which closely resembled the expediting section of a large warehouse. It was a series of cubicles set off by flimsy pastel panels, flanked by two secretaries' desks, a wall of pigeonholes for all the instructors, and everything painted a disgusting teal. Well, not everything; but it was tasteless to the point of being dull, which seemed to be appropriate for a department such as it was.
Mrs. Coslett, the chairman's secretary, studied me with the bland mask that was forever the cast of her middle-aged Welsh features. "What can I do for you?"
"Doctor Zimmerman, please," I said, putting my hands in my pockets.
"Who's calling?"
"Who's calling? For Chrissake, I'm a member of his department---Brant Tesla!"
Unmoved by this, she announced me on the intercom with all the panache of a mortician at day's end.
"Tell him to make an appointment. I'm quite busy right now." Zimmerman's voice, normally not unpleasant alto, sounded cheap and tinny.
As the intercom clicked off and Mrs. Coslett looked up to repeat my master's words, I started moving past her desk towards Zimmerman's closed door.
"You can't go in there," said the secretary, her voice rising above its dull drone for the first time in memory.
I could only smile at this. "Yes, I can," I said and strode forcefully up to Zimmerman's door, grabbing the knob and twisting it open in one fell swoop.
Before Mrs. Coslett could disengage herself from her desk, I was already inside the door and closing it swiftly behind me. As he turned around, I saw Zimmerman stuff a slick-covered men's magazine into his right-hand desk drawer.
"You look very busy, Doctor Zimmerman," I said, smiling as I approached his desk and sat down in the interviewee's chair which was prosaically termed the "hot seat" by the less imaginative department members.
"What's going on, Brant?" said Zimmerman. He struggled to resume control of the situation and wasn't doing a bad job of it.
"I gotta talk to you and I don't have time to make an appointment," I said, reaching for my cigarettes.
"Your conduct is highly irregular. You could receive a severe reprimand for this kind of thing. A note in your file wouldn't look good if you ever had to seek work at another institution, y'know." He sounded as if he were in total control of things now. He was as shitty as I'd ever seen him.
"So be it. I've just received word that a close relative has died, and I'm going to have to leave immediately for the funeral. Does that change things any?"
His eyebrows arched for a moment, and he made a steeple with his hands across the barren desktop. "Well, that depends. Where do you have to go?"
"New England. Vermont, specifically."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Forever," I said.
"What?!"
"Don't pretend you didn't hear me. I'll be gone for an indeterminate amount of time....like indefinitely."
"Am I to understand that you're resigning?"
"Yup. I wanted you to be the first to know."
"Why?" Zimmerman looked truly puzzled, as if he couldn't understand why anyone would want to leave the groves of academia, once firmly entrenched.
"Why not? What the hell's it to you? There are at least 4 or 5 hundred able and willing replacements that you can choose from. Ph. D.'s in English are working in lots of supermarkets all over the country."
He shook his head. "You amaze me, Tesla, you really do. You're young, bright, you've got a whole future before you. Your students like you, you've published in all the prestigious journals, you...."
"No, I haven't," I said, cutting him off.
"What?!"
"I said 'No, I haven't.' I haven't published anything, anywhere."
"I--I don't understand!"
"Those publishing credentials in my resume are phony. The whole resume's a phony." I drew on my Marlboro and exhaled slowly. The expression on Zimmerman's face was an ugly blend of emotions. His hands gripped each other in a white-knuckled embrace.
"That can't be!"
"Oh, come on, Jared!" I said, emphasizing his first name---because no one was ever supposed to address him thusly. "You know nobody ever checks resumes. Too much work."
"I don't believe you!" His features were slowly tightening, his complexion flushing nicely all around. A large vein started bulging across his forehead. He was starting to look like a sketch in an anthropology text.
"Sorry, but it's true," I said. "In reality, I am Dr. Brantley E. Tesla, ex-physics professor from the University of California at Los Angeles.
"Bullshit!" he cried, shocking me with his decay into good old human vernacular. "Bullshit!"
"Not this time, Jared. About 6 years ago, I realized that physics wasn't what I wanted to do with my life, so I decided to try an experiment. I had always liked to read....figured I knew just about as much about the classics as any English major. So I applied for jobs in English.
"But....but....physics?" He mouthed the word as if it were a true obscenity, as if it were a vileness unspeakable upon his tongue. It was beautiful, and I almost laughed in his face.
"Sadly, yes."
"But your references, the letters of recommendation?"
"All fakes. Wrote 'em myself. Used box numbers and addresses of friends at some of the right universities, that's all."
"I don't believe it. I simply cannot believe this, Tesla," he said in a final attempt to regain control of what must have been for him a terribly embarrassing situation.
"Well, you'll have plenty of time to check up on it if you want," I said, getting up," but I'm leaving. Adios, Jared."
"But why? Why, Tesla?" He was pleading with me now.
I wanted to tell him that my experiment---all true, by the way---had served to prove what probably all academics secretly thing as they lay in the darkness when sleep will not take them: that what they do is the biggest cultural sham in the history of the country. I wanted to tell him that people like English Ph.D.'s serve no other purpose than to create other English Ph.D.'s, and thus serve the centuries ad infinitum. I wanted to tell him that all the dead hours and reams of paper spent on the one hundred and thirty-two thousand six hundred and forty-second monograph on Shakespeare would serve the existence essence, the biological survival, of humanity not in the slightest. That the bulk of us were nothing more than the 20th-century equivalents of the friars stooped and stooled at their illuminations. That we were not special in a specialized world; so much so that any one of us---with a little intelligence and a lot of nerve---could do the job of any other of us. And that no one would suspect anything.
Oh, how I wanted to tell him all these things. I wanted to raise my voice and prance dramatically about his office like Clarence Darrow.
But I was already tired of the game. In a flash of Zen-like recognition, I suddenly saw Zimmerman for the creature he really was. A rumpled little man who could never admit to himself that his life was an endless maze of faculty teas, oral examinations, comprehensives, desiccated little bibliographies, dissertation committees, and freshman quizzes. A compendium of nothings.
And so, I turned to leave, pausing only to say: "I don't really know, Dr. Zimmerman, but it seemed like a good idea at the time."
I closed the door behind me, ignoring the stares of the two secretaries and walked quickly into the corridor. I did not now feel the dizzying rush of confidence and sense of satisfaction that I had so glibly expected. Somehow there had been little joy in exacting my personal brand of revenge upon my department chairman.
As I reached my office and began to clean out my desk drawers by throwing oddments unceremoniously into my empty briefcase, I reflected upon things. It's unpleasant for any of us to discover chinks in armory, especially when they are of our own making.
