Prose Poem: The Professor Cleans Out His Desk. (Dedicated to Bruce Young)

 

We had to back up a 

dumpster to the old college

hall, where Professor Eolith

had his office for nearly 

thirty years.

A bachelor, he had no

immediate family.

He was gone now.

To the Marmalade Islands.

To study mermaids

in his retirement.

The dean of his college

asked me, as head of Scholastic

Security,

to clean out the office quickly,

so the new faculty member,

who was to teach Cyber Literature,

could move his stuff in 

by the Fourth of July.

Like I said,

we needed a dumpster.

First there were all the books.

I don't like tossing books away.

Never have.

Eolith had told the dean

to dispose of them any which

way he pleased. 

Because mermaids

he said

are illiterate.

I asked around,

who would want them,

and nobody did.

You can't even give away books

anymore.

Damn Kindle.

So I talked to Joe

down at Habitat for Humanity;

he took 'em all to build housing

for the poor and oppressed.

Apparently books make good bricks.

So that was one hurdle completed.

But the papers and manuscripts

and maps and quills and ferules and photographs

and sextants and mimeograph machines

and overheard projectors --

not to mention a huge desk made out

of black ironwood and bookshelves 

carved out of polished isinglass.

There was all that to dispose of.

Plus a large bin of typewriter parts.

With time pressing, I told the guys

to toss it all out the window 

into the dumpster.

It would have made such a wonderful

yard sale, or they could have set up

some kind of small museum with all

that stuff.

But no -- the dean said

out with the old

and in with the new. 

When the last book shelf

had been broken down and

thrown out the window

we discovered it hid

a wall safe.

Eolith had said nothing about that.

No one knew the combination.

Naturally.

And no one had any idea

what was in it.

So I phoned the dean to 

ask if we should get a 

locksmith in to open it.

"How long would that take?"

he asked.

"Coupla days, at least"

I told him.

"Then no" he replied.

"Just paint it over.

But before we could start painting . . . 

the dean was forced to retire.

Something about spider tack

on Wiffle balls.

When the new dean learned

about the old wall safe

he said "Open it!"

So we got the locksmith

in. He did some drilling

and said we could open it

anytime now we pleased.

The new dean

and most of the faculty

showed up for the opening.

The local TV station was there.

The dean let me be the one

to open the safe door.

That new dean was a nice guy.

Well, when I slid the steel

door back there was only a brown

metal canister, or capped cylinder 

you might call it. 

Stenciled on it was one word:

'Peanuts.'

I silently handed it to the dean.

I figured he should have the honor

of opening it.

When he did 

several cloth covered springs,

painted like snakes,

jumped up into his face.

His widow has since 

moved to the Marmalade Islands

to track down Professor Eolith.