a project that would benefit us both. I can see that Dolphie, standing next to Dancey like a bodyguard with his biceps stretching the short sleeves of his shirt, hates the idea as much as I do, but with the non-tenured obsequiousness that unites us, we both nod and assure Dancey that this is a great idea.
“Anna, you have heard about the new jewel in our crown, haven’t you?” Dancey continues. “The new Institute for Cognitive Science, Linguistics and Psychology? Nick Hornberger was instrumental in acquiring the necessary funds—well, he and the task force delegated to undertake this project. It would make an excellent impression if the English department were among the first to convene a conference there—perhaps about Renaissance art and neuroesthetics? That’s Dolph’s field, of course, but you have worked on iconography, too, so you wouldn’t find yourself too much out of your depth!”
I just want to get out of this overheated bar and head back to my quiet little haven on the tomato farm, but I have to be polite. “You wrote your dissertation about neuroesthetics?”
“Visual art and visual images in Shakespeare, yes,” Dolph speaks up for the first time. “That’s how I cover the early modern requirement and bring cutting-edge theory to the table. I guess you see why it irks me that I lost out to two MILFs who sailed in here on a diversity ticket.”
I can only stare at him, the last sip of wine unswallowed in my mouth.
“All search committees have to balance academic excellence and fit with political considerations.” Dancey nods as if he hadn’t heard. “These days, white, middle-class men sometimes get rough deals. That’s only fair, of course, seen in a historical perspective. And Anna, you’d not be doing yourself a favor at all if you allowed this to reflect on your standing at Ardrossan. We are very happy to have you!”
“He said what to you?” Irene screeches into the phone.
“I know.” Generally, I enjoy entertaining Irene with Tidbits from Academia, but I’m not enjoying this.
“He called you a MILF?”
“Not directly, but—yeah, he did. And if you love me, don’t—!”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say, I told you so!”
“Well…”
“Reenie, I don’t know how to play this.” On my back porch, with another glass of wine, I don’t feel as low as I did when I drove home, but I’m still depressed enough to send a little cri de coeur to Manhattan. “They’re nice to me, don’t get me wrong. But boy—these small departments are cans of slithery, scholarly worms!”
“So what’s new?”
“That I’m in the thick of it. Well, not the thick of it, I’m not that important, but…involved. I didn’t used to be. That’s what was so great about England. I used to be just the li’l Yank and no one paid any attention to me. I preferred that.”
“But, Anna, Anna Banana, you can’t always be the promising grad student. Now it’s time to be the badass prof. You gotta toughen up! What were you wearing?”
“Polka-dotted hammer pants and flip-flops. There is nothing badass about these petty power games and these malicious Machiavellian machinations!”
“Come on, Anna, you know that this is what college is like! What’s the big surprise?”
I pull my knees close to my chest in a gesture that reminds me of Jules Walsh.
“I want to be Anshel, the Yeshiva boy.”
“Like there ain’t no power play at a shul!”
“But I hate it so! I want to concentrate on my work, not on playing games!”
“Power games are part of your work. That’s the crucial thing you don’t understand. Start shmoozing, girl! You still believe that all you have to do is work hard and be nice and you’ll get the job, but eighty percent of it is connections!”
“I got this job.”
“Yes, and why? Because you shmoozed that guy Schermerhorn. Matterhorn. Horny Horn.”
“Hornberger.”
“Hornberger!” Irene squeals. “Dude! Work him—you said he liked you, and you need allies.”
“I do need allies, but he isn’t one of them. Two reasons: a) I think Horny Horn is having an affair with one of the teaching assistants, and b) the people I like here don’t like him. On the other hand, he is chair at the moment. And he’s the golden boy because he nabbed a huge sponsorship deal.”
“Your chair is a dirty old man who fucks grad students?” Once again, even pragmatic Irene is shocked.
“Oh, no, no, no, you have the wrong idea. He’s not young anymore, maybe fifty, but big, and he looks good, or looked, if you like that sort of thing. Bronzed, brawny, but evidently