But there was little time for self-pity since Malarkey was summoned to appear at the Office of Faculty Effort and Time Management to talk to Mrs. Rasmussen, a pudgy, mid-fifties woman with a too-tight chignon, Trotsky-like glasses, and matronly dress one might see on The Waltons and who, as she glances over some documents on her desk, tries not to stare at Malarkey, who is sitting patiently waiting for her to react to the Mike Tyson inspired tattoo perfectly plastered on the left side of his face. Clearly, Mrs. Rasmussen is unnerved by Malarkey’s appearance even though she tries not to stare at Malarkey’s homage to Iron Mike, whose philosophical wisdom Malarkey often quotes in class, his favorite being: “Everybody’s got plans until they get hit.” Genius.
“Should we get down to business then?” Malarkey asks, rubbing his hands together and pretending to shadow box.
“Yes, now, Professor Malarkey it’s … it’s come to our attention that your, your annual faculty effort and time management form is overdue.”
“What is that? I have no clue.”
“It’s a form that indicates how much effort you’ve put into your teaching and research and how you’ve managed your time.”
“Yes, I gathered that from the title which reads Faculty Effort and Time Management form, but what is it exactly?”
“I think I’ve stated that fairly clearly.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve been at Citrus City College for almost three decades and I’ve never filled out one of these.”
“That’s because it’s a new form.”
“Right, but if it’s a new form then how is it overdue?”
“Well, it’s not that new.”
“Then how new is it?”
“Relatively new.”
“That’s a relative term. Just how relatively new is it? And to what is that relative if not relevant?”
Malarkey rests his elbow on his thigh and blinks at Mrs. Rasmussen with a smile.
“Maybe a year.”
“I see, but what I fail to see is how I’m supposed to account for my time and effort. How does one quantify that?”
“Well, that’s listed on the form. I can show you.”
She opens her desk drawer and pulls out a form which she nervously hands to Malarkey trying desperately not to gawk at the Tyson tattoo. Malarkey scans it.
“So, as I read this, all my time has to be accounted for including, say, trips to the toilet?” Malarkey asks.
“That, that’s correct. There’s a special column for the number of times you go to the rest room and the amount of time you spend doing each.”
“Each what?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t. Could you clarify that?”
Mrs. Rasmussen clears her throat.
“Number one and number two,” she whispers.
“Number one and number two!” Malarkey repeats loudly enough for the entire office to hear. “Hope everyone is clear about that!” “Of course. Number one and number two! How could I have mistaken those two numbers!”
“Yes,” she replies sotto voce somewhat embarrassed by his outburst.
“Right. So, how, exactly, am I supposed to measure the time taken for my number one and number two?”
“I’m glad you asked.”
She opens another drawer, takes out a plastic bag and removes a plastic stopwatch.
“You can use this.”
She hands him the stopwatch.
“A stopwatch.”
“Yes, all you have to do is account for the actual time you spend …”
“Doing number one and/or number two …,” Malarkey interrupts.
“Yes, and then log it in the appropriate column.”
“Is there a maximum amount of time allotted for this or are we on the honor system? And do you want me to return the stopwatch? That’s a bit sketchy.”
Mrs. Rasmussen nervously adjusts her blouse.
“I detect a bit of sarcasm on your part, Professor Malarkey. This, this is very important data collecting.”
“Caca collecting?”
“Data collecting.”
“No, not a drop of sarcasm on my part. Actually, I’ll get started on this right away,” Malarkey answers with feigned enthusiasm.
He grabs the form, stuffs the stopwatch in his corduroy jacket and starts to leave.
“Oh, one last question.”
“Yes?”
“There doesn’t seem to be a column for diarrhea. Should I add one or just bring in a sample?”
Mrs. Rasmussen doesn’t answer and Malarkey skips out of the office.
If the Reader has been reading closely, then the Reader knows exactly what is to follow. As usual, Malarkey sits across from Chancellor Jones.
“Joe, it’s April Fool’s day. It’s a fake tattoo.”
Malarkey starts to rub it off though it doesn’t come off easily.
“Fucking henna.”
“Malcolm.”
Malarkey is licking his fingers trying to get the tattoo off.
“Malcolm, it’s March first not April first.”
Malarkey looks at Jones somewhat confused.
“March first?”
“Yes, March first.”
“Who would have guessed? Leave it to Stephen Hawking to fuck up time.”
“Regardless, Malcolm, not everyone gets your sense of humor or your satire or your sarcasm.”
“I wasn’t being snarky. You know, the world would be a better place if it did. Even Jesus must’ve had a sense of humor.”
“And why is that?”
“He had a yahoody mother, right?”
Jones folds his hands on his desk.
“Can I ask you a personal question, Malcolm?”
“Sure. As long as it’s personal. I hate impersonal questions.”
“Are you under some personal stress?”
“Personal stress. Personal stress. Hmmm. Let me think. Why do you ask that, my droog? Sounds hound-and-horny to me.”
“That’s what they say.”
“That’s hearsay, Joe. Even Judge Judy wouldn’t accept that.”
“But is it true?”
“Maybe. Some. A little. We’re all under some kind of stress, aren’t we? Who goes throughout a day without some kind of stress? At this point, having a bowel movement would cause me stress. What if takes too long and I go over the defecation time limit! Or put the time in the wrong column! Can you imagine the pushback from Mrs. Rasmussen?”
The Chancellor leans across his desk.
“Malcolm, I mentioned this to you last term, but I think you need to take that sabbatical. You earned it so you should take it.”
“Is that what they think?”
Jones looks at Malcolm sympathetically.
“No, Malcolm, it’s what I think.”
Malarkey nods, but reluctantly.
“Will you think about it, Malcolm? Just think about it.”
The following page is left blank for the Reader to think about what Malarkey may have thought about after meeting with the Chancellor.