John Doucet is an associate professor of biological sciences, coordinator of the University Honors program and an acclaimed local playwright.
Continued from Aug. 25
In my last column, I described the first 35 minutes of the first hour of the fourth day of my college career. In those minutes, I had been accidentally self-disinfected, chased by an angry cafeteria creature, admonished by a pandering prophet, accosted by violent librarians and invited either to or as dinner by a large, obligate carnivore waxing poetic.
7:37 a.m.-I finally reach Allen Hall. I enter and immediately see Room 43-the legendary Room 43. On the glass window is painted, “The Southern Review.” Room 43 is where Robert Penn Warren, three-time Pulitzer Prize winner and first Poet Laureate of the U.S., used to work. All right!! They’ve finally realized my brilliance and have moved my English class to a historical classroom where once and future laureates had lectured.
7:38 a.m.-So much for brilliance. Either the mathematics subscore on my ACT test is grossly inflated or the rooms in Allen Hall are numbered by some logic that only higher beings like seniors understand.
7:39 a.m.-I retrace my steps and find a stairwell that leads in two directions vertically. I suspect that rooms numbered with single-digits are below-not that numerical logic has worked for me so far. I descend in a circle to the depths.
7:40 a.m.-At the end of the spiral, there are nine doorless closets. One is apparently where old manila folders come to die. Another is an orthopedics ward for broken desks without insurance. In the third a rotund man in a pinstriped suit and smoking a large cigar trades football tickets for wads of cash and Rolexes. In the fourth are stored stacks of non-Charmin bathroom tissue rolls and crates of freshman English essays from ages past. In the fifth is the cafeteria cave-woman wielding a steak knife. The next room bears the number “6” above the doorframe, and, to evade lacerations from room five, I eagerly enter.
7:42 a.m.-All of a sudden, or at least since 7:39 a.m., I wax metaphorical (which I hear is less painful than waxing mustachial but is no less a false reality): Is this Dante’s Inferno or what?! Too cool: Not only do we study the epics, but we get to act them out, too!
7:43 a.m.-“If this is the Inferno,” my brain recalls, “Chiron’s down here some place!” It all started to make sense: My brilliance, a historic literary building and the greatest teacher of men, the Centaur Chiron. Yes, that Chiron, the immortal teacher of heroes: Jason, Achilles, Heracles and Doucet. This is why tuition is so high here!
7:44 a.m.-I hear hoofsteps. I can’t tell if there are four hooves or only two. Actually, the hoof impacts are irregular, like when you try to walk the white line for a policeman (as I learned from television cop shows and not from personal experience). Hey, maybe Chiron parties like a squirrel! “This is gonna be a fun class!” my brain tells itself. “Mais, it’s not that horse-thing, I’m telling you,” my superego interrupts. “It’s that be-bte Geryon!” I have no idea how my mom knows the creatures of the circles of hell, despite what she says I put her through as a child.
7:45 a.m.- The air is now tainted by the closeness of the beast. Strangely, it is a pleasant smell, quite perfume-like, as if it were scratched and sniffed from Cosmopolitan, but it nonetheless races my heart’s beatings. “Turn out the lights; the party’s over!” my brain laughs, as it flutters my eyelids and dims my vision. I begin to faint. But I am startled because the hoof steps stop. The beast is here. I regain faculties. I see an appendage. There is neither hoof nor hair. The appendage is delicate and flesh-colored, with an attractive calf muscle, tiny foot and embellished nails. The ankle was small and awkwardly turned out of a black, high-heeled shoe that had lost its stiletto. Into the horrible silence, the leg spoke with a breathless, womanly purr, “Would you be a gentleman and help me?”
7:46 a.m.- I awoke and thence came forth to rebehold the stars.
Yes, that’s right. I dreamed my way through the first hour of the fourth day of my college career. I did stay wide-awake the second hour of Day Four, furiously recording the dream in a blue book so that it would serve as that week’s English essay.
But, it’s highly unlikely that you’ll experience the same thing here at Nicholls, either on the fourth or on any other day of your college career. Why? There are a number of reasons:
* We have no circular stairwells; you can only get square ones on low bid.
* You’ll never have class in a basement because our buildings have no basements. Elkins and Beauregard Halls are elevated 4-5 feet above ground level, however, but this is only so that faculty can safely park their Ferrari convertibles.
* Cafeteria workers do not run after you with steak knives because, for insurance reasons, we stock only plastic butter knives with minimal serration.
* You will never be invited to dinner or to discuss poetry by a mascot, because we no longer have one.
* Although we have great teachers on campus, none are centaurs. Of course, we only see them clothed. Nonetheless, testing this hypothesis is not recommended.
* Our librarians do not sound like cicadas. In addition, they no longer use tasers.
* Our cafeteria workers have a dental plan.
* Our custodians have cable.
* Our squirrels prefer tequila.
For these reasons, you can expect a wonderful and totally unique experience on your Day Four at Nicholls. Or at least we can hope for the same next year because it will actually be late-September when you read this. Nonetheless, all the kicking and screaming and pouting and cursing and spitting and wetting and Exorcist posturing should be over by now and should not reappear at least until midterms.
