Juarez walked down the thickly carpeted hall to the large reception area that contained only one dark, hardwood desk. Behind the desk, he spotted a young receptionist. He stopped before the reception desk and gave a quick bow. She looked up at him with large round, blue eyes, freckles dancing over her nose, her long red hair flowing over bare shoulders.
He was momentarily tongue-tied, for she wore a tight red-and-white stripped skirt that rode halfway up her smooth thighs, and a bright red tank-top that exposed her bellybutton. Juarez struggled to keep his eyes from her midsection and upon her face. “Hello, I’m Juarez, I mean Doctor Garcia, Doctor Juarez Garcia, that is.” She winked at him, and he was convinced that her bellybutton winked too, although he was not certain as he could not look directly at her naked midriff.
“Oh,” she purred, “you’re the new one. You’re young.” Smiling sweetly she held out her hand for him to take. “I’m Carol, the receptionist. I hope we’ll get to be great friends. All the others are so old. It will be fun having someone young around.”
Heart pounding at her obvious flirt, he shook her hand. “Is Doctor La Fong here yet? I was supposed to meet with the professor before my interview.”
“Oh, you’re here for the meeting. You’re going to be introduced to The Great One! Have you met him before?”
Suddenly, Juarez was nervous, for his inexperience and lack of wisdom were about to be exposed to the greatest moral philosopher of the modern world. “No, not yet. Has Professor Barfingdale arrived? Is he here already?”
She seemed to lose interest in the conversation as she looked for some item in her desk drawer. “He’s always here.” She pointed toward closed double doors on the left. On one door was a heavy brass plaque: Philosophy Department Conference Room.
Without warning, the charm of their meeting was shattered as three middle-aged men hurried down the hall and into the reception area. Juarez recognized the leading man at once as Birdwell La Fong, Chairman of the Moral Philosophy Department of Ample-Loam University, of Charleston South Carolina. Juarez held out his hand. “Professor La Fong, I’m glad to see you again.”
La Fong stopped and stared into Juarez ’s face. “It’s you! Is that today? Are you meeting Sir Lloyd today?”
As they shook hands, Juarez asked, “Sir Lloyd?”
“Yes,” replied La Fong. “We call him Sir Lloyd. Professor Barfingdale is too long. Just call him Sir Lloyd, you know, like with the British. We call him Sir Lloyd. On second thought, don’t call him anything. If you have to address him, check with me first. And call me Birdie, everyone does. We’re not too formal here, you know. Ample-Loam is a small, intimate university.” La Fong put a hand on Juarez’s shoulder. “Be quick in there, be on your toes. He is very frail, but his mind is like a computer. He doesn’t miss a trick, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, yes, I will. When will we know if I’m hired?”
“Right away. It’s all set; we want you here on the faculty of the department. Sir Lloyd’s approval is just a formality, but a formality we must have. He is a great man, you know, one of a kind, one of a kind.”
Juarez could feel the adrenalin surge through his blood as he came to the realization that he would at least meet, face to face, the greatest living moral philosopher on the planet. “I’ve read his books, all of them.”
Suddenly, a second man approached them. He slapped Juarez on the back. “This is our new man, then, huh, Birdie?” He took Juarez’s hand. “You may not remember me, I’m Huey McCord. I do middle-age morality. Are you familiar with St. Aquinas? What’s your area, Nineteenth Century morality? Do you do Kant?”
Birdie pulled Juarez by the arm toward the conference doors. “Enough shoptalk, we have to get him approved. How is Sir Lloyd feeling today, Huey? Is he talking much?”
Now other men, mostly middle-aged or old, gathered before the conference door, eleven in all, including Juarez. Birdie was fiddling with a set of keys and the door’s lock. Juarez was about to suggest that the door was open, since Carol had already told him that Sir Lloyd was inside, but before he could get it out, the lock tumbled and Birdie pulled open the door.
At once Juarez was aware of a heavy, unpleasant odor, like rags rotting, or standing downwind from a compost pile. Didn’t the cleaning service ever do the conference room? Maybe they couldn’t get in because Birdie kept it locked.
A hush fell upon the professors as they slowly tip-toed into the plush conference room, which held a very long teak table surrounded by well padded, heavy chairs. At the far left end sat a personage, someone small, bent over and motionless. The room’s lighting was subdued, yet Juarez could tell it was a person. It had to be Lloyd Barfingdale, patron of the university, published author, authority on good and evil. Birdie tapped Juarez on the shoulder and pointed toward a chair at the other end of the table. He then moved next to Sir Lloyd and sat down. Juarez realized at once that the position on the right of Sir Lloyd should be occupied by the head of the department.
Huey took Juarez by the arm and gently maneuvered him to the indicated seat. No one spoke as they all found their seats and sat down. Birdie started the meeting. “Good afternoon gentlemen, and welcome to the weekly meeting of the Moral Philosophy Department Faculty. We have a special treat today, for a new faculty member is here to receive Sir Lloyd’s blessing.” He turned to the personage at the end of the table, the one who had not yet moved. “Sir Lloyd, let me present Doctor Juarez Garcia, a recent graduate of San Diego State Universitywith a degree in moral philosophy. He has already distinguished himself with the publication of a most interesting article in the Journal of Moral Perseverance, concerning the validity of the argument regarding the destruction of a species that results…”
A fat man with a black beard held up his hand. “Birdie, we’ve all read Doctor Garcia’s article. He’s here to get Sir Lloyd’s approval, that’s what we should get on with. We all like Garcia or he wouldn’t be here.”
A look of mixed hurt and pride came to Birdie’s face. “Of course, I know that, but there are certain protocols, you know. We have to introduce him.” He quickly turned to the ancient one. “Sir Lloyd, this is Juarez Garcia. We want to hire him to fill Jacob’s position.”
As Juarezs waited for a response, all the others waited too. Then birdie bent over so that his left ear was before Sir Lloyd’s lips. In this position he nodded his head several times and hummed slightly. Sitting erect, he smiled. “Sir Lloyd says to get on with the meeting.”
The men around the table offered nods and affirmations. “I want to bring up something new,” said Huey. “It’s that computer in room 204. It belongs to the engineering department. They loaned it to us last summer so we could do some project or other, I forget which one. But now I’ve learned that they no longer carry it on their books. I think we should permanently confiscate it for our use.”
While all this was transpiring, Juarez noticed that the level of stench-ness had increased. It reminded him of some thick awful smell from his childhood.
Everyone nodded approval and several responded with “Here, here,” or “well done.” Birdie held up a finger for silence, and then leaned over to hear from Sir Lloyd. After an appropriate time, he announced to the assembled. “Sir Lloyd says it would be wrong to simply steal the computer. We must have a sound moral argument as to why our acquiring the machine is reasonable, and good. That sounds like a project for you, Huey. Are you up to it?”
Huey grinned and nodded. “Yes, I’ll get right on it, Sir Lloyd.”
Birdie rubbed his hands together. “That’s good. Now we can move on.”
More items were brought forth and disposed of. Juarez tried to follow each so as to be properly informed, yet he was constantly drawn back to the figure and face of Sir Lloyd. Upon first entering the room, the dim lighting had not allowed for any close scrutiny of Sir Lloyd’s person, but now Juarez’s eyes had grown accustomed to the soft lighting, and he could see Sir Lloyd quite plainly. The famous philosopher did not look well. He sat slumped slightly to the side, his mouth somewhat open and his eyes closed. He skin appeared dark and weathered. Was Sir Lloyd of Latin decent as was Juarez? Was he ill? In fact, Juarez was becoming convinced that Sir Lloyd had fallen asleep, for in all the time he watched, Sir Lloyd never opened his eyes or moved. Juarez wondered if it was customary for the Great One to sleep through faculty meetings.
Juarez’s attention returned to the meeting. “…and I don’t think it’s fair.” The bearded man was speaking. “They accepted our gift to place in their conference room, but refuse to send us anything belonging to Bertrand Russell. What are we asking for? Nothing, really, just some little thing that was there then, something they won’t miss.”
Now a skinny man across the table spoke. “It’s those damned people at Trinity. Just because they’re so old and all those important people went there. What about us, we have Sir Lloyd.”
All at once the fog cleared and the old memory came back to Juarez. He had been twelve, and his uncle had taken him into his funeral home, down into the basement where the bodies were worked on. The smell had been bad…very bad. Juarez again scrutinized Sir Lloyd’s face. Could it be? Had he passed away in the last few hours without anyone noticing? Had he defecated and begun to rot?
Juarez turned to Huey and shielded his mouth to deaden the sound of his voice. “Huey, about Sir Lloyd,” he whispered.
Huey shook his head, and whispered back. “We don’t interrupt. Sir Lloyd likes formality.”
“But it’s about Sir Lloyd that I’m concerned. He hasn’t moved…”
“It’s his way. He’s listening to every word. He’s as sharp as a tack. It’s just his way to pretend to be asleep.” Huey placed a finger on his lips for silence.
Juarez returned to watching Sir Lloyd’s face and listening half heartedly to the proceedings. But his mind wandered. Sir Lloyd just did not look right. Then Juarez spotted what appeared to be a large fly buzzing about the other end of the room. Yet, it was so large; could it really be a fly? Suddenly, he realized it was a wasp, one of those especially evil looking wasps that appeared to exist only to sting someone or something. Juarez became absorbed in watching the flight of the wasp. For a number of minutes, as the moral philosophers solved the problems that had occurred during the week, Juarez watched the flying insect.
Without a stitch of warning, the wasp flew toward the ceiling, and then made a dive at Sir Lloyd, landing on his nose. Juarez bolted upright as a little squeal escaped from his lips. Yet no one seemed to notice. As his heart raced, Juarez tried to figure out what to do. Should he alert the others? Should he yell at Sir Lloyd that a great stinging monster was on his nose? If Sir Lloyd awoke, would it startle the wasp, causing the insect to sting the philosopher? Would the shock of the wasp sting then give Sir Lloyd a massive heart attack, killing him instantly?
And it might all be the fault of Juarez Garcia, a nobody from nowhere. It would be Juarez Garcia who killed the great Lloyd Barfingdale, moral leader of the right-to-life movement, kingpin in the effort to have government monitor family values for us all, the one who conclusively proved the moral high ground of cutting down the forest to provide for the comfort of mankind. It would be this great man that everyone would say was killed by the no-good Juarez Garcia.
The wasp, now rested, was on the move. As Juarez watched in horror and fascination, it crawled off of Sir Lloyd’s nose and around onto his lower lip. Juarez’s heart pounded and his hands began to sweat. He knew that at any instant Sir Lloyd’s eyes would pop open and a great death-announcing scream would issue forth. The wasp moved onto the upper lip where it paused just below the left nostril. ‘Okay,’ thought Juarez, ‘if you’re going to wakeup Sir Lloyd now is the time.’ He turned toward Huey. “Doctor McCord, that wasp on…”
Huey sternly shook his head. “Silence,” he whispered, “silence.”
Juarez returned to the adventures of the wasp. It now was moving again, upward, north, away from the mouth, and into the left nostril of Professor Lloyd Barfingdale. Juarez’s agitation for Sir Lloyd’s safety was now beyond control. He stood and pointed toward Sir Lloyd as the wasp completely disappeared. Everyone, except Sir Lloyd, turned to look at Juarez. “That wasp, it went in his nose. It’s in Sir Lloyd’s nose.” He looked at the faces looking at him. “My God, don’t you understand? A great monster wasp just crawled into Sir Lloyd’s nose. It will sting him. Do something!”
As if he had never stood or spoken, they all returned to the issue at hand: should professor-student romances be encouraged?
Juarez looked back at Sir Lloyd as the full realization struck him, sucking the air out of his lungs. Sir Lloyd was dead! He pointed toward the corpse at the other end of the table. “He’s dead!” no one responded. It was as if they didn’t see or hear him. “Jesus Christ, doesn’t anyone care? Sir Lloyd has passed away. He is dead, can’t you see?”
Finally Birdie stood, addressing the newcomer at the other end of the table. “Please, Juarez, sit down. Sir Lloyd is just cat-napping. He does this often. He’s just asleep.”
Juarez couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Couldn’t they see, couldn’t they smell? “Sir Lloyd is dead, Birdie. The man is deceased. He has passed away. Can’t you see? Look at him, he hasn’t moved, and he smells awful. He’s been dead for some time.”
Birdie was now very stern. “Please sit down, Sir Lloyd is just fine. Wait!” He bent over and listened, his head next to Sir Lloyd’s. “He says he’s just fine, Juarez, that he just took a quick nap to restore his strength.”
“What the hell is going on here?” yelled Juarez. “The man is dead, he’s frigging dead I say, frigging, frigging dead.” They were now watching him. “Lloyd is dead, dead, dead, dead.”
Birdie bent down once more to position his ear. Nodding he stood. “Sir Lloyd says he’s become exhausted and thinks that it is a good time to end the meeting: everyone to Tony’s Lounge for beer.”
They were all standing and moving toward the door. Juarez had to do something, anything to break this insanity. He would show them that Sir Lloyd was dead. He began to approach the other end of the conference table, but before he got more than half a dozen steps the strong hands of Huey and the Bearded one where on his arms, turning him toward the door. Juarez would not fight them; he would not reduce this to some awful physical struggle over a corpse.
As he left the conference room and entered the reception area, the others patted him on the back and shook his hand. “Good job,” one said. “Welcome aboard,” said another.
“But you don’t understand,” he insisted. “Sir Lloyd is dead. It looks like he could have been dead for days, maybe months. Can’t you see that?”
Birdie briskly walked up t o Juarez and vigorously pumped his hand. “Congratulations, Doctor Garcia. I just spoke to Sir Lloyd, and he says he likes your spunk. He says it’s about time we got someone young onboard, someone to shake things up a bit.”
Juarez couldn’t believe this; he was being given a job while they ignored what he said? “Sir Lloyd is dead, Birdie. He’s deader than a doornail.”
Birdie smiled. “Now about compensation: your beginning salary will only be one-hundred and fifty thousand a year, but that will improve with time. And teaching, you are welcome to teach a class or two, but if you’re busy with research, that’s okay too. We’re kind of informal here.”
“One-hundred and fifty thousand,” asked Juarez?
“Oh, I know it’s not much, but there are other compensations. After all, you get to work with the world’s greatest moral philosopher, Sir Lloyd Barfingdale. That alone is sufficient compensation.”
“And he said he liked me?” asked Juarez. “He actually said he liked me?”
“Yes, yes, indeed.”