This is the last tale of Ken at the Sylvan Courtyard, and probably the last tale of Ken. We will see. For the moment, sit back and enjoy the end of his idyls as a grad student.
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Sylvan Courtyard -- Ten: A Going Away Surprise
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The defense of my dissertation was exhausting. Actually, the week before was the truly exhausting part, as I drilled and rehearsed and spent hours with my mentor fielding sample questions. When the morning of my defense came, I was ready and I knew it. I wasn't cocky, I was ready. I was also worn out before it began.
The board that was formed to hear my Viva Voce was almost flattering, and definitely intimidating. Our university's lone Nobel laureate, a retired professor emeritus I had not seen on campus in a year, was on the panel. Amanda, let's call her Doctor Thames in the context of this event, was of course not among the examiners, but she did attend, which was gratifying. Her presence was also impressive in that it required her to be in the same room with my mentor for more than two hours.
Several other professors who did not need to be there also made time to attend my defense. I had invited all my current students (and one or two others from prior classes). A gratifying number of those among them who had doctoral ambitions of their own actually showed up to experience my ordeal, and learn.
It was a risk, inviting current students to watch me take the most important oral exam of my life. If I crapped the bed, it might be hard to maintain discipline going forward.
My father attended via Zoom. That was real pressure.
I did not invite anyone from Sylvan Courtyard. I wanted my defense to be a professional, not a social thing. And also... a successful defense would mean big changes, and I did not want that to color my experience on the day. My defense was about my career, and I did not want to think right then about how a success would change my personal life.
Fortunately, my university is one that does not cruelly make a candidate wait for a decision. The board adjourned to an adjacent room for a shockingly short period of time, then returned. They all looked grim-faced as they sat. Finally, Dr. Fetterman came back in, approached me, shook my hand, and for the first time I was addressed as, Doctor Hawthorne!
My father was shockingly close to emotional about it all, but refused to stay online to talk to me for long, insisting that I go celebrate with my friends. He made it sound like I was ten again, and I had just won that chess club trophy I still kept. Trust Dad to give me some perspective.
I then was congratulated by a gaggle of my students. I knew that many of them wanted to razz me, but they knew if they did, I'd quiz them about my defense. If a quarter of them had understood a single damn thing about my research, I was a better teacher than I thought.
I found myself really hoping that I might get an 'invitation to a celebratory tea' from Amanda. What I got instead was the chance to be stuck between her and my mentor for a ten-minute edition of one of their vicious, utterly civilized catfights. Worse, the unspoken subtext of their contretemps was my having fucked Mandy... Amanda... Doctor Thames... whoever. Both of them seemed to feel that they had put something over on the other by way of that sexual escapade.
Do not fall in love with a professional rival. Noted.
In my younger life, I had learned many valuable lessons about Love. I was glad not to have had to learn this one the painful way.
Still, no invitation to tea for me!
A week later, in a moment of weakness, my mentor confessed that he was the one who got the invitation to tea, followed by six fucking hours of... fucking. He further confessed that that sort of thing happens a little more than once a year. The two really can't stand each other, but neither can quite give up the sex either.
I escaped their bickering, or foreplay, or whatever the fuck it ended up being, and made a phone call to Colorado to let the department chair know that his bet on me had been a good one.
I went out drinking afterward with four of my fellow candidates who still had the ordeal in front of them someday. We went late into the night, solving the world's problems, and I needed to Uber back home.
I awoke the next morning badly hungover. I rarely get drunk enough to be hungover, and I do not enjoy the sensation, nor do I handle it well. I emailed my one class of the day that
Doctor
Hawthorne was granting them a day off from class in Celebration of His Ascension, then went back to sleep. I spent the afternoon talking on the phone and via Facetime to people at my new job in Colorado, mostly about housing options. Everyone out there to whom I spoke was gratifyingly enthusiastic that I had cleared the last hurdle before becoming one of them.
About six o'clock, I realized that I still needed to retrieve my truck. I also needed to eat and maybe buy some wine. Or maybe not, when it came to the wine... My head no longer hurt, but it actively remembered hurting.
I wandered down to the complex's entrance, puzzling over my phone. Uber was quoting a goddamned 25 minute wait for a car. Lyft was saying only 8 minutes, but I knew the Lyft driver who lived out our way. It had to be him to be available so nearby, and the guy was a total douche. Also, his car smelt like patchouli. But 25 minutes...
Josie was in the lobby when I got there, taking down expired notices on the bulletin board and putting up something about a birthday party for Manny Dinkins the next month.
"Heyo, Ken! You look worn out for this time of day," she observed drily at my still-recovering demeanor. "Bad day today?"
"Not the best," I admitted. "The real problem is that last night was great... and very, very late. Now I have to take a rideshare to retrieve my truck from McMurtry's where I left it last night."
"Wait! The Great Ken Hawthorne let himself get too drunk to drive?" Josie mocked with a smile. "Jesse would be so disappointed!"
I curled my lip but thought better of telling her what Jesse could do with his disapproval.
"Well, as it happens," Josie went on, gleefully ignoring my sneer and stabbing a last staple into the board. "I am now officially done with my workday. How about I drive you over instead?"
"Would you?" I asked, perking up considerably. No 25 minute wait. No patchouli...
I had never actually seen Josie's vehicle before, and I had a brief moment of male angst when I grasped by how much her F-350 pickup dwarfed my only slightly newer F-150. "Listen," I said as we settled into that beast and she pulled out expertly from the narrow space, "I am also starving. I cannot face the grocery store tonight, yet have nothing but soup in my apartment. How about I buy you dinner to pay for the ride?"
Josie laughed. "You are not buying me dinner, Ken. Sounds too much like a date. You know I don't date tenants." Before I could object, she went on quickly. "But as it happens, I too have nothing but soup in my apartment, so I'll be happy to split the check."
"Fine, but I am still buying the first round," I acquiesced. "And no tequila!" I vowed fervently, shaking a finger at my driver. She laughed.
We got my truck and decided on a little seafood place nearby. We drove over there and got a table. Josie immediately betrayed me by ordering us both Paloma's before I could open my mouth. She looked so gleefully smug at putting one over on me that I did not override her. Instead, I overrode my lurching stomach.
When the drinks came, I raised my glass to Josie and said, "Here's to me!"
She dutifully raised her own, but pulled it away before they clinked together. "What did you do that rates my approval?"
"Allow me to introduce myself," I said, taking a happy sip. "I am Doctor Ken Hawthorne."
