Kate sprinted across campus with a canvas backpack slung over one shoulder, unable to believe that after months of conniving and pestering to make an appointment with the Walrus, she had almost forgotten to attend. A pack of frightened freshman, stopped to rest on the benches beneath the sprawling oaks of the main quad, parted, diving out of the way as she leapt over them. The Liberal Arts building loomed lifeless overhead, with an appearance more suited toward an abandoned mental hospital.
She pushed the heavy wooden door open with a ram of her left shoulder, readily assuming to find a large, purple bruise covering it the next morning. Her sneakers, though soft-soled, still managed to release a burst of sharp, echoed taps as she rushed her way up to the third floor and stopped in front of the second office to the right, which was, more appropriately, the first of a series of connected offices intended primarily for the department's secretary. The secretary was absent, but the door just beyond the small, dusty desk, marking her intended destination, was slightly ajar, filling her with a bit of hope that she hadn't arrived too late. She knocked in a rapid, desperate succession, accidentally swinging the door in and opening the room beyond to full view.
"Ah, there you are, Miss Knight. After all your persuasion, I was beginning to think you weren't going to show."
At his desk sat a short, stocky, bespectacled man with the highly unfortunate combination of the name Walter Russell and a broad, bushy mustache that composed the vast majority of the hair on his head. He hastily tucked away a small brush that Kate assumed had been employed to groom said majestic mustache and smiled innocently.
"Hi, Professor Russell. Again, I'm sorry about all the borderline verbal abuse, but in my defense, I've been trying to schedule an appointment with you since the middle of last semester."
His smile, now plainly forced, lingered.
"Yes, I've received your many, many messages. Unfortunately, I've been very busy lately, but I must admit, I do have my concerns about your... peculiar request."
"I don't know if I'd qualify it as peculiar, sir. I'd just like to switch majors. That's all."
"See, that's where the peculiarity strikes me. This university no longer offers that particular program."
"I understand. I was hoping we might be able to work something out, though. I've heard that the Interdisciplinary Studies effectively allows the students to create their own majors, right?"
The Walrus grimaced.
"Er, something like that."
"With the approval of a professor."
He rubbed his temple.
"Christ, Kate, you're putting me in a tight spot. Are you sure you won't reconsider? I've heard wonderful things about the Journalism Department's News Bite program."
"I've made up my mind, sir. This is the entire reason I went to college in the first place. I want to be an English major."
"Yes, but why?"
"Frankly, sir, as the last English professor at this school, I thought you'd understand."
"Not really, no. Think about it, Kate. You're condemning yourself to a life of teaching something that's basically dead."
"They still teach Latin."
"And not just that... well, to be perfectly honest, the pay is nothing to write home about."
"I don't care about the pay or if I have to teach for the rest of my life. All I really want to do is write."
The Walrus bravely attempted to control himself, but a smile and a deep, rumbling laugh escaped his grasp.
"Oh, Kate. I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh."
She stared at him coldly, silently.
"Fine, I'll see what I can do. You have most of your core requirements completed, correct?"
She nodded.
"Then it's simply a matter of designing a study plan. There won't be a class, of course. We can hardly create one just to house a single student, so it will most likely be some sort of independent study--maybe a thesis."
"I have a suggestion," she said.
"All right, then."
"I'd like to write a novel--full length, fiction. Do you think that might work?"
He pondered this intensely.
"I don't see why not. It would be just as useful as any other essay. I suppose we're settled, then. Anything else?"
"Nope. Thanks, professor. That wasn't so bad, was it?" she said with a smirk as she vacated the office, leaving the Walrus to collapse on his desk in a fit of exhaustion and pent-up frustration.
As she began her return trek across campus, back to the luxury of her one bedroom apartment by the railroad tracks, she noticed a thin, dark figure approaching, walking his own crooked little path toward the Liberal Arts building. She looked up at the pale, wrinkled face as it passed, but it wasn't until they were separated by several additional feet that her mind processed the recognition. She spun on the toe of her sneakers and jogged to catch up to the gaunt man hurrying on his way, oblivious to the campus that surrounded him.
"Excuse me," she chimed.
"You're quite excused, dear. Is there a problem?"
"No, it's just that I recognize you, I think. I'm sure you get this a lot, but are you Oscar Bruges?"
"Indeed I am. No doubt I've performed at one of your birthday parties," he said, casting a brief glance at her face.
"No, but I--"
"I'm sorry to cut you off, young lady, but I have a very important appointment, and I'm afraid I'm already running behind."
"Oh, sorry. No problem," she said, coming to a halt as the seemingly ill-tempered old writer marched on, leaving her alone in the middle of the quad to ponder what had just happened.
She pushed the heavy wooden door open with a ram of her left shoulder, readily assuming to find a large, purple bruise covering it the next morning. Her sneakers, though soft-soled, still managed to release a burst of sharp, echoed taps as she rushed her way up to the third floor and stopped in front of the second office to the right, which was, more appropriately, the first of a series of connected offices intended primarily for the department's secretary. The secretary was absent, but the door just beyond the small, dusty desk, marking her intended destination, was slightly ajar, filling her with a bit of hope that she hadn't arrived too late. She knocked in a rapid, desperate succession, accidentally swinging the door in and opening the room beyond to full view.
"Ah, there you are, Miss Knight. After all your persuasion, I was beginning to think you weren't going to show."
At his desk sat a short, stocky, bespectacled man with the highly unfortunate combination of the name Walter Russell and a broad, bushy mustache that composed the vast majority of the hair on his head. He hastily tucked away a small brush that Kate assumed had been employed to groom said majestic mustache and smiled innocently.
"Hi, Professor Russell. Again, I'm sorry about all the borderline verbal abuse, but in my defense, I've been trying to schedule an appointment with you since the middle of last semester."
His smile, now plainly forced, lingered.
"Yes, I've received your many, many messages. Unfortunately, I've been very busy lately, but I must admit, I do have my concerns about your... peculiar request."
"I don't know if I'd qualify it as peculiar, sir. I'd just like to switch majors. That's all."
"See, that's where the peculiarity strikes me. This university no longer offers that particular program."
"I understand. I was hoping we might be able to work something out, though. I've heard that the Interdisciplinary Studies effectively allows the students to create their own majors, right?"
The Walrus grimaced.
"Er, something like that."
"With the approval of a professor."
He rubbed his temple.
"Christ, Kate, you're putting me in a tight spot. Are you sure you won't reconsider? I've heard wonderful things about the Journalism Department's News Bite program."
"I've made up my mind, sir. This is the entire reason I went to college in the first place. I want to be an English major."
"Yes, but why?"
"Frankly, sir, as the last English professor at this school, I thought you'd understand."
"Not really, no. Think about it, Kate. You're condemning yourself to a life of teaching something that's basically dead."
"They still teach Latin."
"And not just that... well, to be perfectly honest, the pay is nothing to write home about."
"I don't care about the pay or if I have to teach for the rest of my life. All I really want to do is write."
The Walrus bravely attempted to control himself, but a smile and a deep, rumbling laugh escaped his grasp.
"Oh, Kate. I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh."
She stared at him coldly, silently.
"Fine, I'll see what I can do. You have most of your core requirements completed, correct?"
She nodded.
"Then it's simply a matter of designing a study plan. There won't be a class, of course. We can hardly create one just to house a single student, so it will most likely be some sort of independent study--maybe a thesis."
"I have a suggestion," she said.
"All right, then."
"I'd like to write a novel--full length, fiction. Do you think that might work?"
He pondered this intensely.
"I don't see why not. It would be just as useful as any other essay. I suppose we're settled, then. Anything else?"
"Nope. Thanks, professor. That wasn't so bad, was it?" she said with a smirk as she vacated the office, leaving the Walrus to collapse on his desk in a fit of exhaustion and pent-up frustration.
As she began her return trek across campus, back to the luxury of her one bedroom apartment by the railroad tracks, she noticed a thin, dark figure approaching, walking his own crooked little path toward the Liberal Arts building. She looked up at the pale, wrinkled face as it passed, but it wasn't until they were separated by several additional feet that her mind processed the recognition. She spun on the toe of her sneakers and jogged to catch up to the gaunt man hurrying on his way, oblivious to the campus that surrounded him.
"Excuse me," she chimed.
"You're quite excused, dear. Is there a problem?"
"No, it's just that I recognize you, I think. I'm sure you get this a lot, but are you Oscar Bruges?"
"Indeed I am. No doubt I've performed at one of your birthday parties," he said, casting a brief glance at her face.
"No, but I--"
"I'm sorry to cut you off, young lady, but I have a very important appointment, and I'm afraid I'm already running behind."
"Oh, sorry. No problem," she said, coming to a halt as the seemingly ill-tempered old writer marched on, leaving her alone in the middle of the quad to ponder what had just happened.
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