Chronicles Of An Academic Predator - 15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

July 8, 1962

Chicago, IL

The bright morning sunlight hit my eyes and I resolved for what seemed like the hundredth time to buy curtains. I was still lying on my side, but Jeff was lying behind me, flat on his back, still gently snoring. I missed the contact, and the warmth. Warmth may seem like an easy commodity to come by, since it was July and hotter than hell, but I like it cold when I sleep.

I rolled over and stared at Jeff. He had the arm closest to me draped back over his head. I smiled when I thought about how often I'd seen André sleep the same way. It put his armpit right in my face, his odor wafting toward my nose. One of the first things I noticed about Jeff was that he had pretty pungent body odor. I wasn’t sure if he didn't use deodorant, or if he did, he just didn’t use the right brand, but he emitted a pretty strong, unpleasant smell. I found, though, that I was getting used to it, and that compared to when I first met him, I really only noticed it when I was this close to him.

I felt a strong urge to move over and snuggle up to him, and laid my head on his chest. I wondered if he'd think that was queer. I went back and forth in my brain, fighting between desire and propriety, and in the end, lust won. I decided that if he could spoon up against me and stab me in the ass with his dick, I could snuggle up to him on his back. I moved onto him, feeling his chest underneath my cheek, then sank into his welcoming body. His arm moved down and stroked my back gently, so I put my good arm over his chest and hugged him.

“Is this alright?” I asked him.

“Yep,” he said, then went back to sleep.

I lay there, wondering what his deal was. Here he was, cuddling up with another guy in a way that most guys would consider totally queer, and it didn't seem to bother him at all. In fact, he seemed to thrive on it. Could he be a fag? I'd seen him watch attractive women walk by; they clearly got his attention. I never noticed if he did that with the guys because I was usually too busy staring at them. I resolved to do better research on that in the future. I decided that maybe he was gay, or maybe he wasn't, but there didn't seem to be anything sexual about the way he held me. Even now, when I had basically wrapped myself around him, it didn’t seem to be erotic. If I were here in this position with any other guy, my next move would be to try to move my leg up to “accidentally” brush against his hopefully rock hard cock. In this situation, I didn't even bother, because even if I did he'd just brush it off as no big deal.

His total comfort with his own body was as foreign to me as it was natural to him. I think if I told him I was banning the wearing of clothing in my condo, he’d probably be fine with just parading around stark naked. He might ask me to turn up the heat, but otherwise he’d be fine. And if I was doing the same thing, that probably wouldn’t bother him either. I tried to figure out why he was so uninhibited. I guess growing up in a small house with 5 brothers and one bathroom would probably have that effect on a guy. Not only that, but he was as into sports as anyone, so as he said, he probably spent tons of time in the locker room. But why did the physical contact not bother him? To me he was like a big teddy bear. I wondered if the way he was raised and his involvement in sports had turned him into the human equivalent of a pack animal, where at night, they'd all cuddle up for warmth. In that situation, there would be nothing sexual about it.

I thought back to my historical studies, and how medieval peasants used to sleep in one room piled on one bed, just like dogs. There, though, it could be sexual, if the parents wanted to fuck, but then everyone else just pretty much had to ignore it. Was I being inherently snobby, attributing his physical intimacy to his “peasant” upbringing? I felt his hand brush across my back again and sighed, relaxing into him. I decided that I was over-analyzing this, and that there was no reason to question his motives. I should stop being an idiot and just enjoy the intimacy we shared. My mental gymnastics were interrupted when his stomach growled. I was closer to it than I normally was, so maybe that made it louder, but it sounded like a bullhorn.

I laughed even as I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom. He was still lying in bed like a slug. “Come on, let's get going.” That’s all it took to get him motivated.

This was our fun day, our day to explore the city, so after breakfast we headed downtown, only instead of driving we took the El. I wanted to familiarize myself with it, although it seemed pretty easy to use. Jeff was totally intrigued by the whole thing. I told him that lots of big cities had systems like this, especially in Europe. He'd looked at me skeptically, and clearly didn’t believe me when I told him that the Paris Metro Trains actually ran on rubber tires instead of metal wheels. I took him to the Field Museum, we wandered around Grant Park, we strolled up the Magnificent Mile and it was a blast. I'd done this kind of thing with other people. I'd taken Stefan around to see some of the same sites, but he'd grown up in Paris, so he knew what a big city was like. What made if even more fun with Jeff was that he’d never experienced any of this before. It was all new and wondrous to him, and he was like a kid in a candy shop, absorbing everything.

Michigan Avenue, Chicago

I took him to Marshall Fields, and that really blew his mind. I bought some of the trademark Frango Mints, and then headed over to the men's section. I smiled when I thought that here I was with an incredibly hot guy, and I end up shopping again. Unfortunately, he ended up being much more difficult than the other guys I’d done this with. I fought him tooth and nail to try to get him some nice clothes, but he wore me down with his obstinacy. In the end, I got tired of the battle and just wrote down his sizes. If I wanted to spend money on him, by God I was going to do it, with or without his cooperation.

We took the El back to the condo, but it was a pain in the ass lugging all of the packages on the train, especially since I only had one arm available. I made a mental note to drive next time I went shopping. After we dropped our packages off at the condo, we took the car up to campus. It was funny, because I'd just taken him around one of the most vibrant, thriving cities in the world, but the thing that excited him the most was the campus of Northwestern University. I showed him where my building was, and took him in to see my office, still empty and dormant. After that, I showed him the library and the student center, then ended our tour with a visit to the stadium and the athletic department.

Northwestern University Stadium

“Wow. This is amazing. This is big time. Look how big this stadium is,” he said excitedly. “Man, what I'd give to play in a place like this.” The dream shone in his eyes.

“Jeff, having spent some time with you and gotten to know you, I think you have the world at your feet. All you have to do is work hard and your natural talents will shine through.” I guess I was trying to sound inspirational, but to me I just sounded lame.

He looked down at me dubiously. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely,” I said firmly, and made him make eye contact with me so he could see how sincere I was.

July 9, 1962

I woke up early, again, practically draped across Jeff. I guess I was so short and skinny that my weight was like a fly to him, but I wondered how much moving around I had done to get there. One thing's for sure, I sure didn't have to dream up any jack-off fantasies, not while I spent my nights rubbing up against that body.

I got up and jumped in the shower, still thinking about Jeff. The neatest thing about his body was that “beefiness” that I had noticed the first time I'd seen him naked. When I put my head on his chest, or draped my arm across his stomach, I didn't feel rock-hard muscles. Instead, I felt a soft layer of skin and fat. The muscles were there, they were just shielded by his soft outer layer. My thoughts about his amazing body had subconsciously turned into action as my hand was stroking my cock, and I was just about to blow my morning load when I heard him come strolling in to pee. The shower had a glass door, so it provided no help in hiding its occupant. I turned away from him quickly to hide my erection, figuring it was better to flash my ass at him. I felt exposed and vulnerable. Even if I hadn’t been in the middle of whacking off, I didn’t think that I'd ever be able to adopt his nonchalant attitude about nudity.

I calmed down my erection and got out of the shower to dry off. I noticed him eying my body almost as intently as I had looked at him the first time I’d seen him nude, which seemed a little strange. I couldn’t figure out why he’d pay attention to me at all. Not only was I a guy, I was a short, skinny little freak; certainly no one worth paying attention to.

Jeff had volunteered to stick around the condo so he could be here when the furniture was delivered. That would probably tie him up for the next few days, since most of it was being delivered separately. Since he took that burden off me, I was freed up to go up to campus and get situated.

“Why don't we get some breakfast and then you can drop me off on campus? That way you'll have the car if you want to go somewhere.” I wouldn't need a car on campus. He nodded. “Think you can come pick me up around five?” He nodded again.

“I might try to do some of that painting you want,” he said while we were eating breakfast. How he could talk and shovel food in his mouth at the same time was truly an amazing skill.

“Jeff, you don't have to do that. I didn't bring you here to be a laborer.” I really didn't want to impose on him. I liked his company and I wanted him to enjoy his time in Chicago.

“I want to. It will give me something to do.” He said that while downing an entire piece of sausage. I felt that there was something else he needed, but he didn't know how to ask me. I searched my brain, until it finally dawned on me that if he was going to paint, he'd need to buy paint and supplies to do it. I had a lot of problems to deal with in my life, but fortunately money wasn't one of them. Unfortunately, though, it made me oblivious to it as an issue.

“That’s great, I’d really appreciate it, but I don’t want you to feel obligated to do it. Do it because it’s something you want to do.”

“It’s something I want to do,” he said, and stopped eating while he did as if to emphasize his words.

I'd gotten paint swatches yesterday, then I’d gone around and put little marks on the walls indicating what color I’d planned to paint them. I'd done it for the painters I planned to hire, but knew what I’d planned so he'd be able to figure it out. I took out my wallet. “Here's $150. That ought to cover it, don't you think?”

He looked at me funny. “I could almost buy paint for your whole building with that.”

I smiled back. “Yeah, but I want you to buy good paint. And I figured you'd need half of it just to buy lunch.”

He snaughed. “I'm a growing boy.” I just rolled my eyes. We drove up to Northwestern and I gave him directions, which annoyed him since he seemed to know where he was going. He dropped me off near my building, not quite in front, and I strolled toward what would be my new home. I was starting my first real job, and that combined with the beautiful campus around me fully charged up my mood.

Jeff had dropped me off at 9am, which gave me plenty of time to get my office organized. I walked into “my” building, walked up “my” stairs, excited to get to “my” office. When I got to the departmental offices, I introduced myself to the department secretary, a professional looking woman in her 40s named Annie Greenfeld.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Crampton,” she said. “Dr. Peterson would like to see you when he gets in. He should be here in about 20 minutes.”

“Thanks, Annie,” I said, throwing her one of my best smiles. I learned a long time ago that the staff was the key to getting things done and they deserved to be treated with respect and appreciation. If they didn’t like me, they could make my life difficult. “I think I’ll wait in my office.” She opened her mouth to say something, so I waited for her to speak, but she just turned away and refocused on her work.

That was a little odd, but I shook it off and headed to my office. I was smiling as I unlocked the door, and as soon as I walked in, my smile vanished. There was another guy sitting in my chair, putting things in drawers in my desk, and otherwise making himself at home. I couldn’t hide my surprise this time. I just stood there, stunned, wondering what who this guy was and why he was in my office.

“Hi there,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand. “I'm Dave Adams. From the look on your face, you must be JP Crampton?”

“I am,” I said, in a friendly but guarded way. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re probably wondering why I’m in your office,” he said with a smile. He seemed like a really nice guy.

“That was on my mind,” I responded, with a charming smile of my own.

“They've done some office rearranging, so I ended up here, and they're putting you somewhere else. I’m sorry that I don't know where, though. I think Peterson hoped he'd get in before you did to avoid any awkwardness.” It made sense that since I was the junior man on the totem pole, that I'd be the first person to be dislocated.

“Guess I was just a little bit faster than him today,” I said, throwing him the same smile that I just gave Annie.

“Kind of a crappy way to meet someone, squatting in their former office. Don't hold it against me. It was Jensen's fault.” His expression turned from painful to irritated when he mentioned this “Jensen” person.

“It’s really not a problem, I wanted a bigger window anyway,” I joked.

“Well Dr. Crampton, I think we can accommodate that.” I turned to see Dr. Peterson standing behind me. Adams snickered at me while I prepared to do damage control for my impertinent comment.

“I’m sorry about that, sir, I was just joking,” I said, horrified that he’d heard me.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peterson said in a tone that said it wasn’t an issue. “I see you've met Dr. Adams. He’s my other young bright, shining star, or at least he will be if he ever finishes his latest paper.”

“Quality takes time sir,” Adams chirped. Peterson looked to the heavens, as if begging for intervention, then turned his attention to me.

“I've got good news and bad news. Good news is that you've got windows. Bad news is they're not very nice ones.” Adams shook his head and was about to say something, but Peterson cut him dead with a look.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” I said optimistically, but the look on Adams’ face told me that I was in for a very unpleasant surprise.

Peterson led me down the hallway to the very end and pulled out several keys, trying to find the one that would open the door to my new office. There were two desks right outside, which would be perfect for a secretary and a teacher's assistant. I didn’t have the status to warrant a secretary, but I’d probably end up with a teaching assistant, and possibly even a research assistant. I didn’t see what Adams had been worried about. So far this was an excellent setup.

Peterson finally found the key, opened the door, and led me into my new office. I’d been trying to envision what could be so horrible as to warrant Adams’ dour expression, but nothing I’d dreamed up came close to describing this room. It literally looked like a hurricane had whipped through it. “I'll try to find you something better before the weather changes,” Peterson said, in a very subdued and un-department-chair like way.

“What happened to it?” I asked, not quite hiding how shocked I was.

“The problem is that the windows leak prodigiously, so when it rains, or snows, or the wind blows, or it gets hot, this office gets thrashed by the elements. So please, think of it as only temporary. I sincerely apologize for this.”

I walked over and looked at one of the windows, then touched the wood frame, which almost crumbled in my fingers. “This wood is rotted out,” I noted.

“When things get bad, you may have to grab one of the desks outside,” he said, and was unable to hide how acutely embarrassed he was. I studied the office, looking beyond the problems. It was big and square, about 15×15, with windows on two sides. One set faced south; in fact I could see my condo not too far away. The other set faced Evanston. The floors, standard university vinyl tile, were yellowed and peeling, while the walls showed significant signs of water damage. Peterson was watching me with concern. “I know this is not the best way to start out in a new position.”

“Dr. Peterson, I think I could turn this into a really nice office. I'd be willing to do it at my own expense, provided you promise me that, during the five years of my contract, you won't move me.” I had seen the potential in this space, and I had the money to transform it.

“That's highly irregular,” he said, but it was obvious to me that he was just stalling while he thought about it.

“It is, but then again, so is this office,” I said with a smile. He gave me a frosty one in return. “It’s going to cost a lot of money to set this place to rights, and I don't want to pour a lot of money and effort into it only to be moved again. Surely that's understandable?”

“It is very understandable,” he said with a grin. “Very well, Dr. Crampton, you've got a deal.” We shook hands, as if to formally seal the arrangement, but he augmented that simple gesture. “I'll put it in writing just in case lightening strikes me on the way home.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, although I certainly hope you make it back home tonight safely,” I said, joking with him.

“Good luck with your remodeling project,” he said as he started to walk out. Right before he left the room, he paused and turned back to face me. “I’ll trust you not to do anything too outlandish. I don't want it to look like some artist's loft in Greenwich Village.”

“Of course not, sir,” I said formally, and then he turned and left me alone in my new quarters.

I stood in the center of my new office, such as it was, mentally making a note of all that would have to be done. I had a penchant for decorating, and I was willing to grant that I was pretty good at it for an amateur. This would be a labor of love. I kept revolving myself, taking in all the features of this office that had decayed and been overlooked. There was even decorative molding left from years ago that would add tremendous character once it was refinished. I knew that when I was done with this office it would be incredible, which is why I’d wanted that guarantee that I wouldn’t be moved while I was here. The office was empty except for a small table with a phone. I grabbed a chair from outside and got to work.

Around noon, Dave Adams popped his head in. “Hey, I was going to get some lunch and I thought I'd see if you wanted to join me. Least I can do, since you ended up in the birdcage.”

“Sounds good,” I said, even as I stood up to follow him. “The birdcage?”

“That’s what we call this office. It’s light and airy, and the walls and windows keep out the weather about as well as the wires on a birdcage.” I laughed at that.

“I think with a little renovation it will be a great office.” We chatted as we walked.

“Yeah, well don't make it too nice. Soon as you get it spiffed up, Jensen will decide he wants it and you'll end up back in the ghetto with the rest of us.”

“I'm not worried about that.” He looked at me questioningly. “Peterson promised I could stay there if I fixed it up. I even got it in writing.”

Adams whistled at that. “This should be interesting.”

“So who's this Jensen guy you keep talking about?” With that, I opened the floodgates on Adams' vast database of gossip. He seemed to know everything about everyone, but he was especially knowledgeable about Jensen.

“That Jensen guy is Dr. Robert Jensen, or Bob Jensen if he only moderately hates you,” he said, making me laugh. “He's been here for years, one of those grizzled old guys who got tenure a long time ago. He uses the University's seniority rules to demand all kinds of crap. You study French history?”

“That’s my primary area of research,” I said. I’d expected we’d be talking about that rather than our unpleasant colleague, but I was being a sponge, soaking up all the information I could get.

“Jensen is like those guys at Versailles that spend all their time arguing over who gets to hand the King his shirt,” he said scornfully. I didn’t bother to point out that symbols like that were very important in the ancien regime, even though most Americans dismissed them as ridiculous protocol.

I’d encountered professors like Jensen before. They were old, cranky, and embittered, where seniority was the badge of honor they used to hide their lack of productivity. “So how did he make Peterson rearrange the offices?”

“I was supposed to move down next to Peterson. He gives me crap, but I've gotten a lot of grant support, and got two awards on my latest paper.”

“Congratulations,” I said, interrupting him to recognize his success.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling appreciatively. “Moving next to Peterson was supposed to be a reward for my success, but Jensen pulls out the old College rules that dictate offices are awarded based on seniority, so Peterson's hands were tied.”

That really sucked. “Which office were you in last year?”

“The birdcage,” he said ruefully. “So if you don’t get it fixed up, and you need advice on where to sit when it rains, just let me know.”

I laughed at that. “I’ll make waterproofing it my top priority. I’m sorry you ended up getting jerked around with this whole thing.”

“It turned out just fine in the end,” he said philosophically. “Peterson went to bat for me and got me a raise. I've got a wife with a kid on the way, so that was more important to me than office real estate. That’s the thing with Peterson; he looks out for us rookies.”

“Rookies?” This place was so much different than Princeton.

“Yeah, the new kid in town. Now that you’re here, I’m not the low man on the totem pole.”

“Lucky me,” I grumbled.

“Kind of makes you a target. You think Jensen was a dick about the offices, just wait until your first faculty meeting. He'll try to rake you over the coals. His biggest asset is that he's a mean son of a bitch.” I took it all in, all that he was willing to share. I instinctively liked this guy, even though he was a little free with his information. I made a mental note not to tell him too much.

“Thanks for the warning,” I said. “I’ll have to keep my guard up.”

“Do that,” he cautioned, then changed the topic. “Did you find a place to live yet?”

“I did,” I said. “I’ve been moving in and getting things organized.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Housing's pretty expensive close to campus. It’s not always easy to find somewhere that works on an assistant professor’s budget.” I tried to ignore his tasteless reference to money.

“I managed to find a place not too far from here,” I said, hoping that would end our conversation on housing. I should have known that he would keep digging.

“Oh yeah? Where is it?”

“It’s a new building off of Sheridan,” I explained, and told him exactly which one it was in response to his questioning.

“Wow, that's a really nice building, and it’s brand new too. How'd you swing that? I need to ask for another raise?” I'd always been taught that money was a base subject, something polite people didn't talk about. That didn't faze Adams.

“It was a present from my parents,” I said matter-of-factly, hoping that would end his inquisition.

“Wow, they must be loaded.” Now he was getting crass, but I felt that I owed it to him to be somewhat candid. He had given me a good outline of the challenges I’d be facing with this new job.

“My father is pretty successful. He runs a construction company, which is pretty convenient, since I’ll need his money and his expertise to fix up the birdcage.” He laughed and nodded, and I used the opportunity to change the subject.

When I got back to my office, I decided to use those family connections to help me out. I called my dad and told him about the office, and that I needed someone to handle renovating it. I also told him about my tight time constraints, because I could hardly have construction projects underway when the semester started. I had called him at 1pm, and it was proof of his considerable influence in the construction industry that at 3pm a contractor, one of his friends in the business, was meeting with me to plan the resurrection of the birdcage.

The contractor delayed me so I was about half an hour late meeting Jeff. I hurried out of the building and found Jeff patiently waiting for me with the Corvette. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I apologized.

“No problem,” Jeff said in his laid back way. If it had been André or even Stefan whom I’d kept waiting that long, I would have gotten an earful. Jeff just took it all in stride.

“Come check out my new office,” I said. He parked the car and followed me back to my building.

“What a mess,” he said. He looked around, noticing all the flaws but not the potential. “This place needs a lot of work.”

“It does, but I was meeting with the contractor, which is why I was late,” I said. “They start working on it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked, stunned by the speed with which I could get such a big project started.

“Tomorrow, and they said that they’ll have it done in a week,” I said.

“They’ll be done in a week,” he said dubiously. “Right.”

“That’s what they promised,” I said. About that time Peterson came walking up, so I introduced him to Jeff. Peterson eyed Jeff up and down like he was checking him out, which was beyond strange. Peterson was in his 50's, still pretty handsome in a bookish kind of way, with a wife and three kids, but evidently Jeff was so handsome he even attracted Peterson’s attention.

“I’m glad I ran into you before you left,” Peterson said, and I wondered if that was because he got to meet Jeff, or because he wanted to touch base with me after my first day.

“So am I, sir. I hired a contractor to renovate the office. They start tomorrow and have promised me they'll be finished by Friday night. Will that be alright?” His surprise at my speed in getting things done was obvious.

“That is quite fast,” he noted.

“It is,” I agreed. “It may be a little noisy here while they're working. Will that present a problem?”

“Not at all Dr. Crampton. I'll alert the staff. And thank you again for being so cooperative about all of these changes.” He shook my hand firmly, then shook Jeff's hand firmly too, although it seemed like he held that shake for a little bit longer. On that note, we headed back to the car

I looked at Jeff as we approached the Corvette. “I think he was flirting with you.”

Jeff looked at me like I was an idiot. “So?”

“Doesn't that bother you?” Did nothing faze this guy?

“Nope. Why should it bother me when someone stops to appreciate such an amazing work of art?” I punched him in the shoulder. His wit, his humor, almost reminded me of Peter.

As if I didn't have enough surprises for the day, when I got home I almost passed out. Jeff had worked like a dynamo. He had painted the entire living room and dining room. To just say that he painted it didn’t really give him enough credit. He’d done a really good job, making sure that the edges were finished precisely. The furniture for those two rooms had been delivered today as well, and he’d instructed them on where to put it. It was all placed out exactly as I planned. I'd left an empty house with white walls this morning, and I’d come back to a model home. I was speechless.

“I think it turned out pretty well, even though I got a few touch ups to do tomorrow,” he said, like this was no big deal. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna hang up those pictures. You'll need to show me where to put them.” He was talking as his eyes surveyed his own handiwork.

He was being calm and cool, like I normally was, while I found it was impossible to contain my feelings. “This is fucking amazing! You did such a great job! Holy shit! How did you get all this done?” I stood there, admiring my palace.

"Wasn’t all that hard,” he said with false modesty.

“Bullshit,” I said, then I turned to him and pulled him into a big hug, one that went on for a really long time. I just didn't want to let go.

“Does this mean you like it?” he joked. He didn’t understand how stressful moving and getting organized could be for an anal-retentive person like me. He couldn’t see how getting the two main public rooms of my condo set up like I wanted them was a huge load off my shoulders, and he didn’t understand how this made coming home for me just that much better. He’d taken a project, a chore, and turned it into a sanctuary.

I pulled away from him and looked at him, and suddenly the mood changed. His eyes were like a magnetic field drawing me toward him, and I gave into the desire and moved closer to him until I was kissing him on the lips. Only what had seemed so right, so romantic, was turned into a monumental catastrophe when he just stood there and didn't kiss me back. I pulled away from him and saw his shocked expression and completely freaked out. “I'm sorry Jeff, I apologize. I just got carried away. I don't know what I was thinking.” I stammered on. His reaction, his lack of a response, told me how far over the line I had stepped.

His look softened as he presumably realized how upset I was, and in his typical way, he used humor to try to gloss over the whole thing. “Hey, now I usually charge for kisses. No more freebies.” Then he started laughing. I joined him, not genuinely, but out of relief. I mischievously wondered what it would take to truly upset him. If I sucked his dick, would he just say thanks, would he kick my ass, or would he turn it into a joke? He stirred so many emotions in me that I couldn’t begin to enumerate them, but the two that were the most obvious at that moment were confusion and frustration.

I was worried that when we went to bed that night, Jeff would be shocked by my kiss and would pull away from me, but as soon as he crawled into bed he moved right up and spooned with me. It was kind of hot, but also pretty frustrating for a young queer guy to share a bed and snuggle up with one of the most amazingly handsome guys around, who just happened to be totally straight.

July 11, 1962

Our lives had evolved into a comfortable routine, one that was about as close to domestic bliss as we were going to experience. We'd wake up, have breakfast, and then Jeff would drop me off on campus. I’d spend my day there, working to get organized or coordinating with the contractors as needed, then around five, Jeff would come pick me up.

The contractors had shown up yesterday as promised. Maybe I wasn’t being entirely objective, but it seemed like they worked harder and faster than any construction crew I’d seen. The downside of that was that they’d created a lot of noise, dust, and general chaos. The staff had taken it in stride, but I’d offered to take them all out to lunch to make up for it. They seemed shocked that I gave a shit about them.

I sat at the desk outside my construction zone of an office, the same desk that Adams had occupied most of last year, according to him. I’d been working on a paper I’d derived from my dissertation, but I got tired of reading my own words for the thousandth time so I took a break and decided to read the newspaper. The big story was that AT&T had just launched a contraption they’d named Telstar, which was a satellite that was designed to transmit communications. I wasn’t entirely sure how that would work, but the Chicago Tribune assured me that Telstar would revolutionize international communications. It seemed like a good thing, and it seemed like these changes just got more impressive every year. It was a pretty exciting time to be alive, even if there was always the chance that the Russians would vaporize us all on a whim.

There was, of course, an article on the Cold War as well, this one demonizing Soviet intentions in the Western Hemisphere. It was a strange conflict. I didn't let the Cold War dominate my thoughts, but it was always there, always in the background. I think most people were handling it like I was, not that we had much choice. There were bomb shelter signs around town and on campus, places to run for shelter in the event the alarm was sounded telling us that the Russian nukes were on their way. I was pretty fatalistic about it. I figured that if the world was going to be blasted by the combined nuclear arsenals of the West and the East, I'd rather be incinerated in the conflagration than stick around and see the remnants left behind.

I was interrupted from my international apocalyptic ruminations by a very angry, older man standing in front of me. “What the hell is going on around here? I can't work with all this noise,” he shouted. I detested shouting, the verbal tool of bullies, so I eyed him coolly.

“I don't believe we've met. I'm JP Crampton.” I stood up and held out my hand. He shook it grudgingly.

“Dr. Jensen. Now I want this noise stopped immediately.” It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d asked me instead of issuing an order, but it would have been nicer.

“I'm making some renovations to the birdcage. They'll be finished by the end of the week, and then this infernal din will end,” I said pleasantly, even though I didn’t think it would have any effect. I was at least right about that.

“Now you listen to me,” he said, wagging his finger at me. “I'm a senior member of the faculty here, involved in very important research and planning, and I don't need some newly minted PhD popping in here disturbing me.” He got right in my face as he finished his diatribe, but I didn't move. I'd seen bullies before, and I knew that the worst thing I could do was back down. Maybe Adams let this idiot get to him, but I wasn't going to.

“Well, Dr. Jensen, the last time I checked Dr. Peterson was still the department chair. I have his explicit permission to disrupt the department with this ‘noise’ for the remainder of the week. If you have an issue with that, I suggest you take it up with him.” I said that directly and firmly, with no hesitation in my voice.

His face contorted into an evil smile. “Well aren't you just a cocky little smart-ass. I've got your number, Crampton.” And with that he turned on his heels and stormed off. I saw a couple of the secretaries giggling over by the mimeograph machine. I just shrugged and went back to work.

I had a great lunch with the secretaries. They were really a nice bunch of ladies, and they appreciated that I'd take the time to try to make up for the noisy inconvenience. They all talked about Dr. Jensen, and I gathered that although he was universally reviled and feared in the department, everyone had grown to view him and his tirades as a source of amusement.

When I got back, my contractor was there with a very concerned look on his face. “Someone must have called the local unions. They're bitching because you hired us instead of their members. They're threatening to shut us down.” I knew very well who that someone was.

I walked into my partly renovated office to find a union official. I smiled to myself, wondering at the corruption that someone would have to master to be a union official in Chicago. Still, if my father planned to make a push for contracts here, he'd need to be in their good graces. If only for him, I had to make this guy happy.

“Hello, I'm Dr. Crampton.” I held out my hand and he shook it. He had a strong, calloused grip.

“It’s nice to meet you Dr. Crampton. I'm Patrick O'Hara from the Teamsters Local. Looks like you're using non-union contractors, which is a direct violation of the university's policy. I'm going to have to shut you down.” The guy didn't seem malicious or vengeful; he was conducting himself like a guy who was just doing his job.

“I'm so sorry Mr. O'Hara, I had no idea the university has such agreements in place. I just got into town and these gentlemen are friends of my father and agreed to do the work for me quickly. It was certainly not my intention to cause problems, and to disrupt your day like this.” He looked at me carefully.

“I understand Dr. Crampton, but rules are rules. The only way to avoid shutting this job down is if I sign off on the work order.” We’d been posturing a bit, trying to figure out what the real issue was, but with that statement it all became clear to me.

“Mr. O'Hara, can you tell me how much, roughly, it cost your union by not having this job? I ask you that because I'm thinking that maybe by just compensating the union, I could make up for my error and still let these gentlemen finish up this project.” He looked at me with consideration because we were now speaking the same language. “Of course, I haven't opened a checking account here yet, so I'd have to pay you in cash.” That meant he could pocket any money I gave him. In the real world, we would call that a bribe.

“Hmmm,” he said, looking at the work in progress. “This is quite a large project.”

“It is a big undertaking,” I agreed.

“A big job like this is worth a lot,” he said, and then paused, as if doing some calculations in his head. I stood there patiently, willing him to just get to the bottom line. “I expect missing out on this project is going to cost my guys about $150.” This was highway robbery, extortion at its finest, and certainly worthy of a Teamsters’ official. I could refuse, but then he’d shut me down, so as I saw it, I really didn't have a choice. Besides, it would really frost Jensen's balls to have his big plan to fuck me over fall flat. That made the final decision easy.

“Well Mr. O'Hara, that's quite a bit of money. I can see now why you were so concerned about your members.” I took out my wallet and handed him $150. He took the money and signed the work order. “One more thing Mr. O'Hara. My father is Jack Crampton, of Crampton Construction. Have you heard of him?”

“I know who Jack Crampton is, but I didn’t know you were his son,” he said with a bit more friendliness than he’d shown before. “He's got one of the fastest growing firms in the Midwest. Crampton’s supposed to be making a play for business in Chicago.” This guy was remarkably well informed.

“See, you know him as Jack Crampton, head of Crampton Construction, but I just know him as Dad,” I joked, flashing him my best smile for effect. We laughed at that together. “Anyway, he'd be really mad at me for causing you guys problems, and for forcing you to come out and waste your time today. Would you take this $20 and buy lunch or a beer for your guys? Tell them I apologize for not giving them the business.” His eyes lit up. He'd spend the money on them alright, and take credit himself. It really didn’t matter. I'd made a friend, and helped my father out too.

“Thanks Dr. Crampton. That's very generous of you. If there's ever anything I can do for you, just let me know.” We shook hands and he left.

My contractor walked up after he was gone. “So we're shut down huh?”

“Nope,” I said and handed him the signed work order. “And do me a favor; try to be extra noisy will you?”