TRUE! -- CYNICAL -- very, very dreadfully cynical I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The law school indoctrination had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in heaven and in the earth. I heard many things on the fourth floor of Newcomb Hall. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily -- how calmly I can tell you the whole true story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I liked the Bursar's Office. It had never wronged me. It had never given me insult. For a free tuition I had no desire. I think it was the Voice! Yes, it was this. It must have begun with the message of a week ago -- in that female, soft, calm yet condescending Voice -- "Hello Sam. This is the Bursar's Office. We have an incorrect address for you. Please call us back or you won't be able to register for next semester." No name, no phone number. Only the Voice.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what circumspection -- with what planning I went to work! I went to Carruthers Hall. I was never kinder to the Bursar's Office than during my visit that day. "I received a phone call," said I. "Indeed," said she. The computer was consulted -- slowly, oh so slowly -- and my address was proven correct. "Strange," said she. "Indeed," said I.
Never before that morning had I felt the extent of my own powers. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, proving that the Voice had made a mistake. I fairly chuckled at the idea. I had beaten the University bureaucracy. For once, the red tape would not choke me, nor ruin my day.
The phone startled me awake at 7:30 AM the next morning. I kept quite still and said nothing. For all four rings I did not move a muscle. When I had waited what seemed like a long time, I gently -- oh so gradually -- turned up the volume on the answering machine, until I heard the dreaded Voice. It was talking -- clearly and succinctly -- into my machine. "Hello Sam. You didn't call me back. That was bad. Very bad. We still have an incorrect address. If you don't call me back, you won't graduate." No name, no phone number. Only the Voice.
I grew furious. The sound of the Voice chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I knew nothing of the Bursar's Office's face or person. Only the Voice. For some minutes I stayed there, perfectly still, with the covers over my head. And then, seemingly on its own, the answer machine repeated itself. Again the Voice spoke. And again, and again. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. The Voice's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw off the covers, picked up the phone, and called the Bursar's Office.
"Bursar's Office," said the Voice. "Did you just call me," asked I? "Yes," said she. "Who in the hell do you think you are, calling me at this ungodly hour" I demanded? "You were bad! You didn't return my call. And this is how I punish people who don't return my calls," said the Voice.
This was too much for me to take. I demanded her name. She demurred. I told her she had no right to wake students for such inconsequential tasks. I disabused her of the notion that she, a faceless bureaucrat, had the right to treat students with such disrespect. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. I had silenced the Voice. I had struck a blow for all those who are trampled by registration blocks and strangled by the regulations of academic deans.
"Would you like to speak to my supervisor," asked the Voice, still calm and condescending? I smiled, for what had I to fear? I bade the supervisor welcome, and asked her why she allowed her employees to use their power in such a vicious, evil way. "That is a good question," said she. "I am waiting for an answer," said I. There was a long silence. "I really don't know," she said meekly. "You see, I'm not really the supervisor. I'm just pretending to be the supervisor. The Voice and I thought it would make you go away."
"Villains!" I shrieked, as I collapsed under the weight of the University's ever-growing administration.
(Sam Waxman's column appears Thursdays in The Cavalier Daily.)
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