The Dean
by Ariel Krizack
The Daily Cal meeting room
UC Berkeley
October 3rd
8:15 am
“These interviews need to be very well written and in full detail. Meet with your interviewee a couple times. These series of interviews will highlight important figures at UC Berkeley and what they have done for our school.” The editor of the UC Berkeley newspaper, The Daily Cal, wagged her long, bony index finger at the writers as they nodded along with droopy eyes and dazed looks on their faces.
“Matthew, you’ll be writing about Professor Perldine from the English department. You were in his class last year, right?”
Matthew nodded.
“Good, then that will be easy for you. Um…let’s see here… Jamie, you’ll interview Anthony Strong, the men’s water polo coach. Carly… you’ll have the Dean of Admissions, Mr. Bronson DeWitt.” Each writer on the Daily Cal was assigned to a professor or coach that they could easily relate to. Matthew was majoring in Journalism so Professor Perldine suited him well. Jamie wrote the sports column and was a huge water polo fan. Carly was just a good writer. She could write about her pet turtle and it would still be the best writing among all the other newspaper journalists and columnists. Carly was also majoring in Journalism and was soon to be the new editor of The Daily Cal, as long as Kathleen graduated early in January and handed the position of power down to her.
“Okay, I need these finished and turned in by the 9th so hurry, hurry,” Kathleen ordered.
* * *
Cal Dormitories
October 4th
12:15 am
“So what kind of pizza do you want? I like Hawaiian style with the ham and pineapple.” Carly’s roommate, Dawn, said as she flipped through the yellow pages searching for some place that would deliver after midnight on a Wednesday.
“I don’t really care. I mean, I am a big black olive fan, but whatever you want is fine.”
“Okay then, a medium pizza with ham, pineapple, and black olives it is.” Dawn dialed the number for Pizza Man, ordered the pizza and a box of cinnamon sticks, then hung up the chunky, neon green, 1980’s telephone. “He’ll be here in, like, 30 minutes.”
Carly lay down staring at the blue ceiling above her top bunk and the green turtles she had painted on it. Carly was not only an amazing writer, but a marvelous artist as well. At her high school she had organized and painted a mural that won her an art award, an A, and the respect of every art teacher at her school of 3,000 students. She reached up and gently glided her fingers along the turtles’ shells she had painted a brownish-yellow color.
“Hey Carly… Carly…Carly!”
“What? Sorry, I was thinking about this interview I have to do for the paper. What’s up?”
“You’re always spaced out,” Dawn giggled. “Are you coming to Malcolm’s with me after we eat?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Why? What else are you doing tonight?”
“I need to work on my article. It’s due really soon.”
“I thought it was an interview. How are you going to work on an interview at 12 am?”
“I have to research background information before I meet with him.”
“Meet with who?”
“Bronson DeWitt, the Dean of Admissions.”
“Isn’t your parents house like right across the street from his house?”
“Yeah. When I was a kid my best friend and I would sneak into his backyard and steal lemons from his tree to make lemonade.”
“Well, as much fun as learning about the Dean sounds, I think you should come to Malcolm’s house with me. You never go out and there’s going to be a lot of cute boys there.”
“No thanks. Maybe another time. Do you think the Dean would be mad at me if I told him that I used to steal his lemons?”
“I don’t think he would care. That was, like, fifteen years ago.”
Knock, Knock, Knock
“Yes! Pizza!” Dawn exclaimed as she fished through her purse for sixteen dollars and twenty-five cents. She opened the door and retrieved the hot boxes of delicious post midnight snacks.
* * *
The International House
UC Berkeley
October 5th
4:10 pm
Carly sat at a small table for two by the window, looking out onto the student-filled steps leading towards the International House Café. She nibbled at her lemon scone and breathed in the rich aroma of her hot cup of coffee. She glared outside the window as her finger twirled through her curly, brown locks. The café was filled with students, many from different countries, speaking languages foreign to her American tongue. She noticed a group of young men sitting across the room. They were all very tan, had dark hair gelled into faux hawks, and dark eyes that you could get lost in. Dawn would get all googly-eyed over these boys, Carly thought to herself. She could faintly hear their conversation, but did not understand a word they were saying. Probably something chauvinistic and macho.
“Blech!” Carly gagged. Why are college boys so immature? I need an older man, a much older man.
Tap, Tap, Tap. Carly’s foot would not stop and her nerves were eating away at her insides. Suddenly, the lemon scone looked nauseating. Her eyes veered towards the window. Again, and again, and again. Then she glanced at her purse that was getting in the way of her incessant tapping. She picked it up and pulled out a small mirror and a fresh tube of lipstick. The color smoothed over her dry, thin lips as she made a quick pucker and a kissing sound while looking in the mirror. She glanced out the window one more time. Carly’s eyes widened, then she frantically put away her makeup, folded her hands across her lap, cleared her throat, and straightened her back.
“Are you Carly James?” a friendly voice asked.
“Why yes, yes I am,” she said timidly.
“Sorry I’m so late. I had so much more work than I had planned on. Bronson DeWitt, Dean of Admissions. Very nice to meet you.” Mr. DeWitt stuck out his hand. Carly stared at it with sparkling eyes for a of couple seconds, then shook.
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. DeWitt.”
“So, I understand you have an article to write about me,” Mr. DeWitt said as he dropped his briefcase and sat down across from Carly.
“Yes, it’s silly. Really, only a couple of questions I need to ask.”
“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Carly giggled as she batted her eyelashes and proceeded to ask Mr. DeWitt a series of questions she had been rehearsing since the day before. Their conversation continued like that for about an hour, during which Mr. DeWitt had ordered another scone for Carly and two for himself, followed by a cup of coffee for each of them. She stared into his big, hazel eyes and admired his full head of brown hair with streaks of gray. But the whole time Carly could not stop the contemplation of whether or not to tell him that she was the little girl who stole all his lemons many years ago. Her mind was playing a game of ping pong that began to give her a headache. She noticed many opportunities to bring it up, but decided that nothing good could come of the release of that information.
When Mr. DeWitt had finished his coffee he checked his watch. It read 5:23 pm.
“Oh my. I didn’t realize it was so late. I should be getting home. It was a pleasure talking to you.” Mr. DeWitt picked up his briefcase as Carly stood up for a goodbye.
“Ok. Well, it was really nice talking to you too. We should do it again sometime Mr. DeWitt.”
“Please. Call me Bronson.”
* * *
Cal Dormitories
October 6th
1:30 pm
“Damnit Dawn! Did you move the pile of papers that was sitting next to my laptop?”
“Yeah Carly, they were all over the place and I needed to use your computer to check my email.”
“Well what the fuck? You don’t just go moving other people’s stuff around if don’t know what it is! And why are you using my computer? Can’t you get your own?”
“I told you that it was getting repaired. You said I could use yours whenever I needed it. What the hell crawled up your ass and died?”
“Look, I don’t need your sass right now. I have a deadline to make.”
“What are you so worried about? You’re an awesome writer and you always write these articles in, like, a day.”
“Well this one is very important. Bronson is an important figure on this campus and deserves a story that portrays him for the great man he is.”
“Great man? He decides who gets accepted and rejected from Berkeley. He’s not Ghandi.” Dawn flopped down onto her bottom bunk and began to skim through a copy of Harper’s Bazaar.
“Whatever. You don’t have to agree with me, just let me do my work in peace,” Carly demanded as she pulled her hair back and secured it with the pencil that was behind her ear. A few curly tendrils fell in front of her eyes, but her fingers and her brain were moving too quickly for her to even notice.
* * *
417 Derby St., Berkeley
October 7th
10:30 pm
Ding Dong. The glowing doorbell made a ring that sounded throughout the entire house.
“I’m coming. Hold on just a second,” a woman’s irritated voice called out.
The door opened to reveal a tall, somewhat slender woman around the age of 45, with pin straight hair that ran just past her shoulders. Her arms were folded across her chest and her plump, full lips were pressed together with a hint of frustration between them. She hadn’t put anything on over her pink, satin, thigh length slip and was beginning to get goosebumps from the cold breeze of the night. “Yes? May I help you?”
“Hi, um… Is Mr. DeWitt here?”
“No, he should be home soon though. Who are you?”
“I’m uh… Carly James.”
“Well what do you need to speak with my husband about, Carly James?”
“I’m… um… writing an article about him for The Daily Cal and… I… need to… ask him an important question that I forgot to ask him the other day.”
“Well, he is at a movie with his brother. He should be home very soon, but I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
Carly’s face turned red with anxiety. She sighed and pressed her hand against her head as if she had gotten a migraine. “It’s just… the article is due tomorrow and I really need to ask him something and I… don‘t know what to do,” she lied. “Can I please just wait for him inside?”
* * *
417 Derby St., Berkeley
October 7th
11:22 pm
Bronson DeWitt walked into his warm house filled with the smell of homemade lemon cream pie. “Mmmm. She made my favorite,” he whispered to himself. Mr. DeWitt walked upstairs, lead by the light of his pet turtle’s tank. His feet thumped loudly as he took each step, hoping that he might wake up his wife, even though he knew she was already in a deep sleep. He walked into the bedroom, stripped to nothing but underwear, and crawled into bed. He closed his eyes as he spooned with the woman lying next to him and felt her warm body against his. He placed his hand on her thigh and gently glided it over her satin slip. “I love you, baby,” he said quietly. He slowly moved his hand up her arm and touched her cheek. He ran his fingers through her hair, but instead of the silky straight feeling he was used to, he felt a curly, matted mess. He pulled his hand back, but his fingers made their way up to her face to find a pair of dry, thin lips waiting to kiss his balmy fingers.