STILL REELING

A fellow scholar at the Shakespeare conference was seen (by me) on Saturday morning to be lying uncomfortably on a kind of chaise lounge in the hallway leading from the bar part of the hotel to the conference rooms and book exhibit part of the hotel. I have to admit I was somewhat impressed by the sheer abandon with which he was sleeping, tie slung over one shoulder, head tipped back, mouth open, one arm dangling toward the floor. Also impressive was the way my fellow academicians clustered nearby in their regular small groupings, sipping coffee, talking with animation, taking no notice of the sleeper in their midst.

At the time I saw the sleeping scholar I did not have time to examine his nametag as I was trying frustratedly to navigate rapidly an archipelago of small groupings of chatting colleagues, and also to manage the bundle of seminar papers I was clutching in one arm and, in my opposite hand, the cup of coffee I had managed to overfill. My purpose this morning had been to arrive in time for the first coffee break and then, while everyone was distracted with the Sheraton Hotel’s caffeinated bounty, make my way to the lobby where I might have a fighting chance of taking advantage of one of the complimentary internet terminals and send an e-mail to my traveling companion (who had been unable to join me on this trip) before they were overrun with disheveled graduate students. Having arrived later than I wished, I was in no little haste, and was moving in and among the little groups of chattering Shakespeareans one eye dead ahead and one on the meniscus of my increasingly tepid coffee and it was at that moment that the corner of my eye was distracted by the sleeper, causing me halfway to reel around, my left elbow jostling the surprisingly soft girth of a large, anonymous Shakespearean immediately in front of me and the impact of that jostle reverberating across my body so that it was only the resolute steadiness of my hand that prevented more than two single drops of light brown liquid to fall neatly onto the sleeper’s cuff.

As I was looking around to see if it was going to be necessary to backtrack to the tables and procure a cloth, and as I was deciding that I remained (per usual) invisible, and that the sleeper had not been awakened, the corner of my eye was again distracted by something bright and yellow that sent my morning on an altogether different course than I had intended. The bright yellow object was a BICYCLE HELMET, connected to a strap on the backpack of a Shakespearean I was very interested to meet because he had, the previous afternoon, nearly been the cause of my DEMISE, or at least my very serious injury, as he had come careening down the hotel driveway (I am not going to speculate whether he was intoxicated) just as I, out for my afternoon “speed-walk,” was emerging from behind the hedge that ended exactly where the sidewalk met the hotel drive. “Your PARDON,” I had shouted at him, hoping at least for a kind of wave of apology. But wave was there none.

Balancing my coffee cup atop my stack of seminar papers and holding these with both hands in front of my chest I sidled up nonchalantly behind him and just to his left, standing off to the side of the conversation he was engaged in (with two others) for what I hoped would be only a brief period but what quickly came to seem a very lengthy period, to the point that one of his fellow conversants began looking at me somewhat nervously. This nervous looking soon turned into a look of partial recognition as I saw his eyes go to my nametag, and then mine went to his, and I realized that this fellow was my seminar leader, the Leader, that is, of the Seminar for which I had not read the stack of papers currently supporting my cup of coffee. I attempted too late to take a step back and to the side, as though to pursue someone else I had just recognized, and the seminar leader stepped forward to introduce himself, extending his hand to shake mine. I extended in return, trying, for reasons that still escape me, simultaneously to use my arm to shield the stack of papers from his view, which resulted in my upsetting the coffee cup and spilling at least half of its contents onto my papers. “Ah!” the seminar leader said (helpfully, I couldn’t avoid thinking) but still clutched at my hand, which I gave him for the briefest possible instant before sinking to my knees in order to balance the sopping wet papers and the upset cup. Attempting to smile gracefully, but probably (I will admit) simply grimacing hideously, I looked up and flashed my teeth at the seminar leader and his two companions, who had both turned briefly toward me, even as they were in the process of moving away, and I was just able to catch the nametag of the mad bicyclist, who somehow managed to stay out of my sight for the remainder of the day, and believe me I was looking, and whose email address I have been unable to find since returning home: Sven Uskofsky. It is a name I will not soon forget, not least because he certainly did not look as Swedish as this moniker implies. I will be grateful to any readers (in the event that I ever have any) who might help me identify his institution.

“Looking forward to our discussion!” the Fearless Leader now said to me brightly before striding away to put his coffee cup down and proceeding to one of the morning paper sessions. It was with sinking heart that I noted the hall clearing, and I tried as quickly as I could to deposit the six or eight wet-beyond-repair papers in a garbage can (I must say I don’t think I have ever been in a hotel with so few garbage cans) and my half-empty cup on the table before proceeding to the lobby internet terminals all of which were, of course, now being used. As I scanned the faces of those sitting at the computers, searching (to no avail) for a sign that one of them might be quickly vacated, I became tense with what I can only describe as a primordial rage, and had to stop myself almost ripping in half the remaining three or four seminar papers in my hands (one of which, I’m afraid, was mine). The source of my rage would be immediately understandable to many of my readers, I think, if I were to reveal his name, but it cannot be the purpose of this web-log, which I write in the service of developing increased collegiality, to reveal names except in the most necessary or friendly circumstances. Suffice it to say that the source of my rage is a rival, in many senses of the word, since our graduate school days, and I have no doubt that he is as universally reviled by my colleagues in the Shakespeare Association as he was in graduate school and as he no doubt is by his family, co-workers, and “friends.” I had not expected to see him here. Unfortunately “the whirligig of time” (Viola) prevents me from writing about him further at present. A stack of student essays beckons (“you know how it is”), and I will not have this One further interfere with my professional development, not even in this context.