I found myself waiting in his office with plenty of time to kill ans not a whole lot to look at save the mammoth bookcase behind the desk.

The volumes on the shelf ranged from Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason to the second edition of Integral Calculus. The bindings weren’t worn, and I got the feeling that these books were present not for the entertainment of their owner but rather served to intimidate any lesser minds who happened to glimpse the shelf’s contents.

“Maybe that’s his strategy,” I grumbled. “Sit people down and have his library intimidate them. Softens ’em up.”

Ever mindful of the story, told early and often, of her parents meeting in an ENGL 250 class, Susie had attempted to duplicate that magic in her own relationships. And, in the three subsequent years of frustration and heartbreak, she had noticed a few strange trends.

Like blueberries. Three of the last four men she’d dated had been fierce blueberry fans to the point of all but ordering them on pizza. Then there was the strange case of band–it seemed like every one of them was a current or former band member. And not “band” in the sense of “rock band” either, but full-on brass bands in high school, college, or beyond.

There was Chaz, for instance, a trumpet player for the Marching Emus, who was always sucking on a blueberry Dum-Dum. He’d left Susie for an old flame, sending a “Dear Joan” via text message. Then there was Gus, former clarinet section leader in high school and fierce patron of the blueberry muffins at Schneider’s Bakery. He’d decided that Pin Chakrabongse, the Thai girl in the textile arts program and a regular patron of the Intercultural Beauty Pageant held every summer, was a better match despite her loose command of English.

It got to the point where, when a potential suitor ordered blueberry pancakes at IHOP or began fingering along with the college fight song, Susie would, with weary resignation, begin looking for a way out.

Harold doesn’t see why anyone comes around to visit anymore. It’s never pleasant for anyone, since the medication makes him prone to moodiness and outright bouts of rage. And it’s no secret that the children would rather be somewhere–anywhere–else, given the amount of time they spend on their game systems each visit.

Nevertheless, one a month, Harold entertains portions of his family. He suspects that they have a rotation, probably designed to keep anyone from having to visit two consecutive months. Sometimes it’s his divorced granddaughter Charlotte and her three and a half kids–she takes after her mother, that one; Harold sees very little of his late son in her. His grandson Gregory never comes, but sends his wife and the twin girls instead. The wife is Sandy, and Harold can never remember what to call the girls…they have some terribly modern, terribly ugly names with trendy spellings.

And, sometimes, Jason visits–Harold’s great-nephew, the only son of his only sister’s only daughter. When Charlotte or Sandy ask after him, Harold always says the same thing:

“There’s a reason nobody after Julius Caesar had much to do with their great nephews.”

“So you’re working as a lifeguard over the summer, huh?” the girl said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said, sucking in my gut and hoping that the loose t-shirt I wore gave the impression of muscles lurking beneath.

“That must be hard if you can’t swim.”

“Who said I can’t swim?” I said.

“You did,” the girl purred. “To Betsy, two tables down, just a minute ago.”

My face instantly was red as a beet.

“I, uh, er…that is…um…” I sputtered.

My brain was trying to come up with something witty and subtle to say that would quickly evaporate the incident into a cloud of soft laughter. All I came up with was a sort of stutter. Doubtless, I would wake up in the middle of the night a week from now with an absolutely perfect line, but it’d do me little good now.

Kevin had never liked Emmett very much, and the feeling was mutual. But, given the proximity of their cubicles, the two were bound to run into each other frequently.

And they did.

Kevin returned from lunch one day find all his pictures on the floor and his cubicle swaying like San Francisco during a 6.9. Emmett was on his end, Allen wrench in hand.

“What the hell?”

“I measured. Your cubicle’s six inches wider than mine, so I’m just correcting that little oversight,” said Emmett.

“How can you do that?” Kevin cried.

“Oh, it’s easy. The stuff’s all modular; all you need is the right tool.”

I’d never seen him so pale or gaunt. His eyes were sunken, riveted to the bank of monitors in front of him, and his clothes hung loosely from his emaciated frame. He clearly hadn’t seen the sun or any other light except his flat screens for weeks.

“My God, you look awful,” I said.

“The outside reflects the inside,” he replied without moving.

“You need to get up and do something,” I said. “You’re letting these people do whatever they like with your stuff. Kevin is out there now using your charge card, and Mary’s been tooling around in your car.”

“They’re doing what I’d like to do,” came the reply. “What the hell’s wrong with that?”

“You’re not doing it and they are. You’re letting them take over your life.”

A hoarse laugh. “Maybe so. Maybe I took over theirs. They’re kids, you know, really. Away from home for the first time, going out, establishing identities. It’s what I’ve wanted all along…”

“What you wanted?”

“You heard me.”

But I digress. This professor, who I believe I said should remain nameless, had it in his mind to debunk before the class each and every emotion known to man.

And he started with love.

“Love,” he said,” is merely a biochemical reaction designed to see that our genes are passed on. Do any other creatures feel love as we experience it? Of course not! It’s all instinct, from the courtship dance to the nest building. Anyone who says otherwise probably works for a greeting card company or chocolatier.”

“When you reduce things to their basics,” he continued, “it’s all biochemistry.”

My neighbor in the lecture leaned over. “Word has it he’s conducting some practical experiments along those lines after hours.”

This was too grievous an insult to bear. The Marching Wildcats stood for a moment, stunned, until big Jacob Yotz held his sousaphone aloft and uttered a guttural cry before heaving it at the ground. The crowd and the players froze, watching silently as Yotz pried a piece of piping from the mangled instrument at his feet and charged forward, screaming.

The tubas followed him, and then the trombones, the trumpets, and the entire band. The percussionists threw aside their heavy drums, brandishing their sticks as the Marching Wildcats erupted into hoots and hollers and charged. They plowed into the enemy, cutting a swath through them as the Battle of the Band was joined.

Harry gnawed meditatively on the end of a pencil, leaving deep tooth marks.

“That’s a bad habit,” I reminded him, as I always did.

“And you have a bad habit of reminding me that it’s a bad habit,” came the standard reply.

Everyone has a nervous habit, and Harry simply preferred pencil-chewing. He claimed it was cheaper than smoking, and better for the environment to boot. In front of the bank of computer monitors in his apartment, there was always a fresh batch of pencils in a little jar. I once got a good laugh by replacing one with a yellow pen, which burst and gave Harry a blue mouth for a week.

Don’t get me wrong–I want to be sad about what happened. But how can I be, when every memory I have of Harry is so much fun?

No one is perfect; that’s an established fact. My idea of perfection in a person would be the right combination of personality and looks. A beautiful person with a single-digit IQ is like a Ming vase, pretty to look at but disturbingly empty. An ugly person with a winning personality isn’t bad, but it’s hard to appreciate someone who shatters mirrors and turns mortals to stone.

I’ve often noticed that people who have the power to attract a retinue will usually surround themselves with one of either type. Maria, for example, was regularly accompanied by Annabelle Schmidt and Betsy Purdue. Annabelle set the curve in chemistry class but had terrible teeth and more moles than a country garden; Betsy had near movie-star good looks, but thought General Motors was named after a war hero.

Through skillful manipulation, Maria used them both in different ways to make herself seem smarter and more attractive; I was about to get a more personal demonstration than I would have liked.