The line to the Bureau didn’t seem to be moving anywhere in a hurry; Adam tried to strike up a conversation with the man in front of him in line, a thirtysomething dressed in bright yellow coveralls and goggles. “What are you in for?”

“The name’s Sol Nechny,” the man said. “I’m a solar mechanic.”

Adam nodded, pretending to be fascinated. “I see! What’s a solar mechanic do?”

“We keep the sun in good order and running,” Nechny sighed. “I’d think that would be obvious from the adjective ‘solar’ and the noun ‘mechanic,’ but I know the state of grammar instruction in schools these days.”

That made Adam feel a little defensive. “Last I heard, the sun was part of the natural world and didn’t need mechanics.”

“Oh yes, I certainly must have things all wrong,” Nechny barked with exaggerated politeness. “After all, I only work in the bloody sun; surely someone such as yourself who’s never been knows more about it than I!”

“It’s a big ball of nuclear fusion, not some kind of steam engine!” Adam cried. He was pretty sure he’d heard that in some long-ago science class.

“Nuclear fusion? Are we going to talk about the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny while we’re discussing old wives’ tales and myths? Do you honestly think an explosion of that size would just stay nicely put and provide free energy out of the goodness of its heart?” Nechny cried.

Adam bristled. “It’s not like I just made that up, you know! I heard it from a science teacher!”

“Nonsense cooked up by people with nothing better to do; not that we’ve any intention of enlightening them, of course,” scoffed Nechny. “Next you’ll be lecturing me about how the center of the earth is full of molten rock!”

Miranda had an impressive interview, and her resume and references had been beyond reproach. So she’d been hired. But, as is so often the case, the glowing reviews and impressive accomplishments hid a simple truth: the good people at Iowa Northwestern had been trying desperately, hungrily, to rid themselves of her.

And it was easy to see why.

She was absolutely batshit insane crazy.

The warning signs had been there for anyone who cared to look, but it wasn’t until the deal was sealed that worrying things came to light. Miranda had assured Burroughs that Elvis and Lennon were alive and well over coffee one morning, for instance. When prodded, she’d said they were on the same spacecraft in the shadow of the moon. She had an utterly unnerving habit of cutting faces out of the paper and adding them to a collage–of obituary columns. Faces of Irish Lottery winners grinned cheerily from a bulletin board in Miranda’s cube; if pressed, she said they made her feel more alive.

But none of it was enough to terminate her five-year contract early, at least not in the eyes of anybody upstairs. So she was shuffled from project to project, contributing vociferously to derailing discussion and never assigned any deliverables for fear they’d arrive in lavender ink (as had once happened on an official memo to the mayor).

That was the state of her when I was assigned team as Miranda’s team leader.

The best way to sooth restive passengers, Kayleigh had found, was with a little humor. A quick internet search was enough to turn up dozens of corny lines which she jotted down on notecards and trotted out whenever the occasion demanded.

The run to Santa Mayo was always rough due to the crosswinds that constantly buffeted the island’s airport and Trans-Pac’s refusal to bring in smaller planes. Santa Mayo was increasingly popular with tourists, so a smaller jet or turboprop wouldn’t have been economically feasible, or so they said. But it wasn’t Trans-Pac suits enduring the bone-crushing landing and braking on every hop, either.

That day the flight had been particularly vicious, with heavy turbulence caused by an incoming weather front buffeting the plane as it made the trip. Kayleigh had gone through almost her entire stash of notecard air travel jokes to calm alarmed mutters from the passengers, winding up with her very last card as the jet came in for a landing which rattled her to the teeth.

“Welcome to the Santa Mayo Regional Airport.” she said, fumbling with a card. “S-sorry about the bouncy landing; it’s not the captain’s fault. It’s not the co-pilot’s fault. It’s the asphalt.”

A few snickers, but the tension in the air was still high. Kayleigh pulled out another rough-landing card. “We ask you to please remain seated as Captain Kangaroo bounces us to the terminal.”

Elections for homecoming royalty were always a hazard, McClernan thought. The groups of sorority girls, always clad in matching too-big t-shirts in bold primary colors, relentlessly pushed their candidate of choice on hapless passersby and streamed across campus roads in droves. Strategically placed groups of women blocked every access point to campus and every thoroughfare between major buildings.

They were everywhere.

And they were well-prepared.

Drilled in late-night sessions over the past month, the pledges were prepared for every dodge and evasion that McClernand could summon.

A group of girls canvassing for Phi Qoppa’s candidate jumped him on the way in. “Vote for Brandy!”

“I”m a professor,” McClernand said. “I can’t vote.”

“Tell your students to vote for her after class, then!” They formed a human phalanx and wouldn’t let McClernand proceed until he’d taken a stack of fliers to pass out to his biology students.

Another group hovered near the cafeteria at lunchtime. “I’m a graduate student,” McClernand volunteered.

“We have a candidate for Graduate Council too!” they said as different fliers were unleashed.

Walking between Hurley Hall and Davis Hall, another group accosted him. “I’m just visiting,” he said.

“Tell your kids to vote for Mindy and the Qop Sigs!” the lead girl said.

“I don’t have any kids,” McClernand returned.

“Well, when you have some, tell them to vote Qop Sig.”

“I don’t ever plan on having kids. Can I go through?”

The head girl fixed McClernan with a steely, patrician glare. “Nephews? Nieces?”

By the time he arrived at Davis, McClernan had promised his niece Susan’s vote to three different sororities in perpetuity, despite the fact that Susan was three years old and in Connecticut.

I was privileged enough to receive a tour of the new suites by the University of Michigan’s Vice President of School Spirit, Charles Mellner. When the group meets Mellner, I ask him about the controversy over graduation—the fact that work on the new luxury skyboxes prevented it from being held in the Big House, its traditional venue.

Mellner, a big man with a big laugh, answers with a wide grin. “It was regrettable, but after all there’s a graduation every year. Each and every game is unique, and we’d do our fans a grave disservice if games were delayed.” One can understand why. Season tickets for the boxes start at the price of a fully-loaded luxury sedan.

The entryway is laid with Italian marble, with a grand staircase leading upwards. Mellner begins the tour asking if we recognize it; no one does. I mention that it looks like the staircase on the Titanic; at this, he claps delightedly. “It is! Either an exact replica or the original, raised from the ocean floor and refurbished at incredible expense.” Coyly, Mellner refuses to confirm which.

We’re then led into a standard box, with Second Empire carpeting, inlaid hardwood floors, and leather chairs. Each is equipped with a minibar—domestic and imported liquors are on tap—and a snack bar run by a major franchise—in this case, a Pizza Hut Express. “The boxes provide everything a Wolverine fan could want,” Mellner beams. “Access to the game from a superior viewpoint, and the staff is ready and able to provide a massage or salon treatment on demand.”

Mellner leads us to the front of the box, to a red switch under a lucite cover. “This signals to the field that the occupants want the last play repeated. It’s perfect for when a patron has to go to the bathroom; a comfort that the TiVo generation demands.”

This is trifling compared to the executive suite, which occupies a full floor. Designed to the standards of the Saudi royal family, the suite is pure six-star extravagance. Up the marble staircase and across the onyx flagstones set in a pool of vintage champagne, I ask Mellner about handicap accessibility. How can he justify the suite’s lavish layout when the university’s being sued by Wolverines in Wheelchairs?

“It’s actually not a problem,” Mellner says with an easy laugh. “There are only 16 people on Earth who can afford season tickets to the executive suite, and none are disabled.” I nod. “We think that’ll hold up in court,” he adds, grinning. After all, the people with tickets include the Chief Justice of the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals and 3 members of the House Judiciary Committee.

“Will students be allowed to use the boxes?” I ask.

“We recognize that students have an important role,” Mellner replies. “Namely, they serve to fill out the stands, which helps preserve the sense that one’s in the Big House. Naturally, we can’t allow students in the boxes; might cause our paying customers discomfort.”

Mellner directs me to a series of fire hoses in the stairwell, which are actually for crowd control, to prevent unruly students from storming the boxes, alongside the 50-man uniformed security contingent. In an emergency, all of the service personnel are armed and fully deputized by the city of Ann Arbor.

“That’s for undergraduates, of course,” Mellner smiles. “Most of our graduate students attended other schools before, so they might be spies for another Big Ten team. As such, they’ll be shot on sight—we have a first-class sniper post at the very top!” I beg and cajole, but we aren’t allowed to see it—it’s not done yet. The live fire trials, involving 120 rhesus monkeys over a 6-week period, don’t begin until next month.

“How much did this all cost?” I ask. Mellner regrets that he can’t tell me; the official figure is classified. Tthere’s a bit of mischievous maize and blue in him, though, and he gives me a candid estimate. The budget was drawn from the general fund, meaning that students’ tuition dollars were immediately transformed into building costs. Mellner estimates that around “30,000 to 40,000 students” gave their entire 4-year tuition to fund the construction—an impressive figure, as the university has only about 41,000 students enrolled at any one time.

And how much of the cost of a luxury skybox ticket goes back to academics? “That’s a different fund,” explains Mellner. “The money we make here is rolled back into the program—new uniforms, multimillion dollar coaching salaries, solid gold cleats for All-American players. Standard expenses.”

“And here we have the non-circulating collection.”

Gus examined the nondescript-looking cabinet, notable only for the heavy padlock which secured it. “What can we possibly have that’s worth putting behind a lock that beefy?” he asked Sally.

She shrugged. “Rarities, mostly. A lot of Oscar promos. One of the DVD’s is signed by Martin Scorsese. Another’s a rare blooper made from the raw workprint instead of a matted and cropped version.”

“So why keep them here?”

“Lots of reasons,” Sally sighed. “Coruthers up in Archives doesn’t think movies are art so he won’t touch ’em. Profs in Film Studies sometimes take ’em out to flash around. But most of all…” She lowered her voice. “It makes it look like we’ve got something to hide back there.”

Gus blinked. “But we do!”

“Exactly. When–not if, when–people break in, they go straight for the lockbox. A smash n’ grab could make off with a thousand dollars of DVD’s if they wanted, but every minute they spend trying to cut that beast open is one more minute we have to catch ’em.

This post is part of the September Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s theme is seasons as a metaphor for an aspect of one’s writing.

A little late-season drizzle trickled onto Peter’s car as it crawled through the morass of city traffic during rush hour, just enough to get the wipers moving.

“Another lovely fall day,” said Sedena from the passenger seat. “I do wish Littleton & Associates would find somewhere tropical to send me during this time of year.”

“Sure it’s a little rainy now,” Peter said. “But in a day or two it’ll be all blue and crisp out, and all the park trees will be lit up like Chinese New Year. People sometimes drive up north to get a good gander at fall, but we’ve got all the fall you could want right here. I love it.”

Sedena sighed. “I can’t stand autumn,” she said. “I don’t want to seem needlessly contrary, but I hate it and spring. They tear at me, cloud things, make them difficult.”

A car ahead tried to exploit a gap in the traffic; rather then ruthlessly cut them off, Peter waved them ahead. “What’s to hate? Fall is about beautiful colors, mild temperatures, and that hearty bite to the air before things get too cold. And spring’s a marvelous season of flowers and rebirth after a long winter. I don’t want to seem needlessly contrary either, but I don’t see how anyone couldn’t appreciate that.”

“Not appreciate the highly variable weather patterns that make them a nightmare for people in my line of work?” Sedena said. The driver ahead repaid Peter’s kindness with an obscene gesture, which Sedena returned with gusto. “Autumn is all about death, everything growing gray and cold and the streets choked with photosynthetic corpses. I don’t like to be reminded of that. And spring…granted, there’s new life, but you also get to see the world at its most dead uncovered by snow. Spring for me is soot-choked piles of lingering snow and barren branches with nothing to beautify them.”

Peter’s knuckles whitened around the wheel. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stir up any bad memories.”

Sedena shrugged. “Forget about it. More than a little of that is my father talking, anyway. The part of me that’d criticize an artist into giving up his craft and then berate him for quitting.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post an entry of their own about a seasons as metaphors for aspects of writing:

Ralph_Pines (direct link to the relevant post)
Aheïla (direct link to the relevant post)
DavidZahir (direct link to the relevant post)
LadyMage (direct link to the relevant post)
semmie (direct link to the relevant post)
llalah (direct link to the relevant post)
hillaryjacques (direct link to the relevant post)
AuburnAssassin (direct link to the relevant post)
laffarsmith (direct link to the relevant post)
sbclark (direct link to the relevant post)
FreshHell (direct link to the relevant post)
PASeasholtz (direct link to the relevant post)
IrishAnnie (direct link to the relevant post)
SF4-EVER (direct link to the relevant post)
T.N. Tobias (direct link to the relevant post)
Proach (direct link to the relevant post)
Regypsy (direct link to the relevant post)
WildScribe (direct link to the relevant post)

Now, I’d never been much of a believer in Freud, or lucid dreaming, or any of that stuff. New age hippie crap, I thought, like energy crystals or pet rocks or George McGovern.

But that was before I got sick.

It’s the stress that did it, most likely. I worry too much; plus unemployment and barely $6k of padding between me and destitution sure didn’t help. There wasn’t any money for the doctor, but then again the last time I’d gone they’d given me antibiotics for what was clearly the flu and told me to rest and drink fluids. I could do all that on my own and–as a bonus–not contribute to the creation of superbugs.

So that’s how I found myself on the couch, feverish, and too sensitive to light and sound to so much as turn on the TV. Things started kind of subtle; I’d been talking to an old girlfriend from high school for twenty minutes before I realized that she wasn’t there. After that, I decided I’d go for a swim, and turned off the gravity to float about the apartment.

It wasn’t the safest place, or the warmest, or the one that stirred the most memories. Those were all spoken for.

But, nonetheless, it was my place.

I sat in the gazebo swing, watching tiny clouds of rust thrown up as the long-still chains moved–as silently as when they were new and freshly oiled. The early autumn sun came in streamers through the trees above and the gaps in the old wooden roof, illuminating a ballet of dust motes that swirled around me.

As a youngster, I’d never been able to understand Dad’s fascination with the gazebo–the long summer afternoons he spent building it, painting it, lovingly planting the trees that now dwarfed it. It had been many things for me growing up: a rocket ship, a fortress, a pirate schooner. But never just a gazebo in the furthest corner of our yard.

It wasn’t until he was gone that I got a better sense of the place. When the time came to clean out his things, Mom had let me do it–too many memories, she said–and I’d found a picture of Dad with his parents. He couldn’t have been more than four or five, and they were posing together on an old gazebo, the very twin of the one I now sat in.

They’d had to sell that house when things had gotten rough after the war, but Dad had seen to it that I had the chance for the same lazy summer memories that he did.

It so happened that there was once a student. Like many of his kind, he was buffeted by the powerful forces of Scheduling, such that one day of his week stood apart from all the rest in its rigor. Such was his Hell Day, and his Hell Day was every Thursday.

Such was the nature of this day: at the hour of ten, there was a project group meeting, and yea it did last several hours. Though optional, it was not to be missed for fear of incurring the wrath of a Poor Grade. This was followed by an hour for lunch, which the student took at home, as the vendors in the student union charged prices that were muchly unjust, and fit only for those with parents of richness.

This was followed by a class, which did last exactly two hours and never a second more or less, for its teacher was of the punctual type who, in a less enlightened era, might have run a bank. Annoyance was thusly caused, as another class began immediately thereafter, lasting not less than three additional hours, and yea it was across campus.

Following upon this second class was work of the student kind, which was like unto slavery but with a worse health care package. It was not until break time at this job, which came not earlier than ten of the PM, which the student was able to eat the meager dinner he had deposited in the fridge earlier.

As such, the snack during the second of the two classes was of utmost importance. For its salty or sweet snacks, coupled with a liquid candy bar of the soft drinky kind, would provide the badly needed energy to see the student through to dinner. He would always set aside not less than two dollars and twenty-five cents for this feast out of his meager budget.

But yea, there came a time when the student did approach the snack machines in the lounge and inserted his currency, only to find a most distressing prospect. For his dollar bills were rejected, though they be crisp and new as the day they were printed. The machines demanded of him an offering of EXACT CHANGE instead.