“I’m hoping for a good turnout at the conference. That might help our case. Some national recognition wouldn’t hurt. Maybe we could find someone to cover the conference in Philosophy Now? I also have a few other ideas, but we need a refill first.” Harvey stood. “You want another beer?”
By Matthew Meduri
The following is an excerpt from Collegiate Gothic by Matthew Meduri and released by Bordighera Press.
It was another pointless late Friday afternoon meeting—unnecessary, unrequired, and largely unproductive. William Thierry sat in an old, paisley armchair in the Buchanans’ living room, stomach growling from the aroma of garlic sautéing in the kitchen, mind elsewhere as he feigned concern for Dr. Harvey Buchanan’s complaints about the typical academic woes. What had begun as the occasional get-together with drinks and casual philosophizing had quickly devolved into a weekly supper club and shop talk. As Harvey paced the room and ranted about the current university drama, Will emptied his glass of beer and watched Harvey’s wife Anne prepare dinner. He didn’t watch her for the way she used a knife to delicately cube the tofu after pressing it, or julienned the vegetables for the stir fry, or even how she dressed the kale salad with a pesto of walnuts, lemon juice, and herbs. Will witnessed her every movement solely by way of the position of his chair.
Angled more toward the kitchen’s doorway, the chair provided Will a perfectly framed view of Anne’s body, making it difficult to give Harvey his full attention, which was compounded by the man’s relentless pacing. Maybe if Will discreetly rotated the chair back to where he thought it had been, he’d feel less like an awkward spectator.
“Do you hear what I’m saying, Will?”
“Sure, but is it me, or is this chair in a different spot?”
“What? No. It’s always been there.” He paused long enough to sip his bourbon. “The predicted university budget cuts are giving me a goddamn ulcer.”
Will returned his gaze to Anne. The way she moved or stood or did absolutely anything was enough. Her slender physique in teal yoga pants and a Guided By Voices T-shirt, her shoulder-length auburn hair yanked back in a ponytail. She had taught her morning and noon Power Vinyasa but didn’t bother to change. And now, Will thought, she’s choreographed a dance that Harvey is too preoccupied to notice. His eyes followed her each time she pivoted slightly to the left or right, opening a cupboard or pulling out a drawer for a utensil. And his thoughts stripped her naked as she stretched for something slightly out of reach in a cupboard. She stood on her tiptoes to grasp it, and in his mind, she returned to downward facing dog, and now he’s behind her—
“Will.”
Will jerked his head in Harvey’s direction.
“If you want to help her in the kitchen, be my guest. I’ll tell someone who actually gives a damn about the department’s future.”
For a moment, Will thought Harvey could read his mind. “I care about the department, but my mind is on the conference and Laroche. Is he going to rip me a new asshole like he did with the book review?” Will downed the last gulp of beer and set his glass on the coffee table.
“With the money we’re paying him, he should be your best friend for the whole weekend.” Another sip. “What I was trying to tell you is I met with the Dean of Humanities yesterday. He’s certain the university and board of trustees will vote unanimously on its ‘restructuring’ plan, and, as you know, we are on the list for proposed cuts.”
“Jesus, we’re one of the least-funded departments in the most neglected building on campus. They’d be saving pennies.”
Harvey sat on the couch facing Will. “They don’t care that we have the oldest philosophy program in Ohio or an increase in enrollment. It’s all about STEM and business now. That’s where the money is.” He emptied his glass with a final gulp and hunched forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “They’ll make it public when they vote November 1. I guess that gives them two weeks to prepare for the backlash from the other targeted departments. You know those fuckers at the Office of Institutional Advancement only care about numbers and appearances.”
“So, what now?” Will shifted in his chair and crossed his legs.
“I’m hoping for a good turnout at the conference. That might help our case. Some national recognition wouldn’t hurt. Maybe we could find someone to cover the conference in Philosophy Now? I also have a few other ideas, but we need a refill first.” Harvey stood. “You want another beer?”
“Sure.”
Harvey walked to the kitchen as Will leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling, the upholstery rough on his neck. Not even halfway through his third year at Athens and his position was in jeopardy, an unanticipated consequence of taking the first job thrown at him during a recession. If only his circumstances had been different in New York, then he wouldn’t be biding his time in this purgatory of strip malls, cornfields, and the perpetual noise machine of residential landscaping. But it gave him the headspace he needed to write another book. Isn’t that why most people from the East or West Coast moved to the Midwest, as a kind of detoxified, affordable living? Still, he committed a second term to an underfunded, largely unknown university in Ohio whose philosophy program might be heading to the list of defunct programs. Will sighed. What a joke?
Harvey returned with a refreshed glass of bourbon in his right hand and a can of Genesee Cream Ale in his left. He handed Will the beer. “I still don’t know how you can stomach this stuff?”
“Where I come from, this stuff is sacred.” Will poured the can into his glass.
Harvey sat in his spot on the couch. “At this point, the conference means everything this year. Our biggest attraction is Laroche. There are two hundred people officially registered for the weekend, twice as many as last year. We have all the expenses covered. If this goes well, it might give us some leverage. Show the bastards philosophy matters.” Harvey shook his head and set his glass on the coffee table. “I hope this leads to possible partnerships.”
“Like what exactly?”
“A study abroad program with the Sorbonne. What student wouldn’t want to travel to Paris, walk the streets of Voltaire, Diderot, and Sartre, and study with world-class philosophers and faculty?”
“We don’t have the caliber of student for the Sorbonne. They wouldn’t last a week in one of those courses. Plus, I don’t speak French. Do you?”
“That’s not the point. We could bounce the idea off Laroche over drinks. Make it is a six-week program. Really sell it to him. Try to get a few contacts. If we could offer an option like that, I have no doubt we’d increase our enrollment. The Global Education Department would love us. But we need a strategy.”
“It couldn’t hurt to try.”
“If we get our shit together, we could have this up and running by next year. Make it a summer opportunity.”
“I don’t think it’s really up to him.”
“No, I know. But it wouldn’t hurt to get Laroche’s seal of approval.”
“Shit,” said Anne.
“What is it?” asked Harvey.
“Nothing. I just burned myself. I’m fine.”
“That’s what she gets for trying to be Rachel Ray.” Harvey grinned. “She’s always cutting or burning herself. I tell her to throw some burgers on the grill or get a pizza, and what do I get? Homemade turkey or black bean patties and pizza that tastes like salad and cardboard. She even once tried to make a cauliflower crust.” Harvey shook his and pointed to his bourbon. “Most of the time I’d rather just drink my dinner.”
“Are you kidding? I’d gladly take Anne’s cooking over my limited takeout options.”
“Thank you, Will,” said Anne. “At least someone appreciates me.”
Harvey continued talking for talking’s sake, but Will failed to comprehend. Again, he stared at Anne, and she glanced back, catching eyes with him, and smiled. Will’s attention landed on Harvey. What the hell did she ever see in him? Harvey didn’t appreciate her, not to mention his irritability and obnoxiousness were at an all-time high, and he practically sprinted to empty that bottle of Knob Creek he kept in the kitchen. The man seemed off.
“Food’s almost ready,” said Anne.
“Mind if I use the restroom?” asked Will.
“Knock yourself out,” said Harvey.
Will walked to the bathroom on the first floor and shut the door behind him. He unzipped his pants. A stream of urine hit bull’s-eye in the still water. He stared at a small, framed, eight-by-ten black and white photograph centered mid-wall over the tank. Aside from the mirror above the sink, it was the only object hanging on the narrow, sage walls, like a single stain on a blouse. A print of some path or walkway in Central Park. Will knew the area. At the furthest point of the path, a person stood out of focus. That part of the photo always mesmerized him, even as he stood there relieving himself. He could never distinguish as to whether the person was approaching or retreating. Every time he studied the picture he came to the same conclusion: he didn’t know. And after nearly every visit to the Buchanans’ bathroom, he only thought of Lily walking away as he lay on the ground, barely conscious. Her face had worn a combination of fear and detachment. His last view of her, the image so vivid in his mind he felt like she was next to him looking at the photo.
This time, however, he forced himself to picture Anne squeezing his hand as they walked along the path parallel to West Drive, past the Strawberry Fields, and onto the lake’s shore. They sat on the ground in a spot hidden by small trees and tall grass. He kissed her, and she kissed him back. He ran his hand through her hair, warm and red from the sun. They looked out at the water under Bow Bridge. His arm wrapped around her. She was real, and she felt just right. On the bridge was a figure of a woman he couldn’t quite distinguish. Her back turned to them, her dark hair pouring over her shoulders. The sky darkened. Will shook himself out of the trance and looked at the photo once more. If only I could take Anne to New York, he thought. But New York would never be home again. He finished, zipped up his pants, and washed his hands. The soap didn’t smell like it normally did, less flowery, sweeter, and slightly familiar. A strange feeling lingered.
Matthew Meduri is a writer and educator living in the Midwest and the author of the novel Collegiate Gothic forthcoming from Bordighera Press. His writing has appeared in Catamaran, Gastronomica, Permafrost, Story, and two anthologies and was twice listed as distinguished in Best American Food Writing. He holds an MFA in creative writing from the Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts (NEOMFA) consortium and is the recipient of a 2022 Individual Excellence Award from the Ohio Arts Council.
