In an office at Stanford, a linguistic anthropologist snickers at his desktop. Today is the day he turns the dime on his life, but he is not yet aware that God has another dime to turn instead.

-Part 1-

Luuk Smit

800 Sand Hill Road,

Palo Alto, CA 94304

June 30, 2019

Bolivar House

582 Alvarado Row

Stanford University

Stanford, CA 94305-2150

Dear Professor Copper,

I am thrilled to inform you that I am tendering my resignation from the Senior Lecturer position at the Department of Romance Languages and Literatures, effective today.

As a member of this institution, I had some fundamental expectations. However, nothing in this department has satisfied me. During the past three years, I have been fortunate enough to learn that this place doesn't butter my toast.

I will be four hundred miles away in two days, so I can't offer my help during the transition period.

I have apprised Professor Norman of my resignation. As I will not actively participate in his ethnolinguistic research in the Amazon, he will revoke my name as the surrogate for the expedition.

I know it will be hard for the department to grow and be successful without me, but I wish you luck and the very best moving forward.

Sincerely,

Luuk Smit

I leaned back on the chair and hit enter. The printer beside the desktop computer quivered and spat out a sheet of paper. I snatched it up.

"Ik heb't gevoel dat ik vandaag 'n doorbraak maak," [This might be the day I make a breakthrough,] I said to the desktop as I saved the letter.

Resignation had been hovering in my subconscious for three years. I had never been a person who regrets his action, but Stanford had never been a goal of mine. Working here was my childish rebellion against Alex, my brother, who married the repugnant Frenchwoman, or so I thought at that time. Heartbroken, I had resigned from his security company in Los Angeles and moved to Stanford. It sounded like the best decision back then. Hell, every asinine choice sounded like the best decision every time I argued with him about his wife. Look where I ended up because of one of those foolish decisions: five hours away from home, teaching simpletons who hated my wits.

Today, after a phone call with Alex (he was asking me to come back and manage a new branch), I told myself: "Stanford has been sucking your intelligence out of you. It's not worth it."

On my first day teaching the Portuguese class, I told them: "If your brain's left hemisphere is as dominant as mine, try to learn a language or two. Humans are vile beings. You shouldn't trust them, especially the ones you can't understand. I did once as a gullible wee lad. Bad news."

My students called me a pompous asshole. Those snowflakes said I was condescending. Hearsay reached my ears every now and then. Well, I concurred. I have absolute faith in the Almighty. For indeed, with hardship will be ease. But this purgatory had been everything but ease.

Regardless of their vernacular, you might think Linguistics students are at least proficient in writing. I shouldn't keep correcting simple grammatical lapses ad nauseam. Yet I soldiered on, crossing out mistakes like: For many languages in the verge of extinction, or pointed out the correct usage of past versus passed. My red pen had pointed out so many errors that it had became my staple stationery; my life would be pointless without it.

The part-time employee (a student of mine) of the bookstore I patronized would greet me with: "We have a new brand of red pens today. You can cross out up to a million words with it."

Gah! The irony of his own sarcasm. I had crossed a big F across his essay paper for the midterm.

With an email saved as a draft and a letter folded inside the envelope in my hand, I started toward the Dean's office. Taking a right turn around a potted Chinese Evergreen, I was shocked to see milling students filling the lobby. The crowd was too coordinated in one spot for it to be par for the course. Suspicious, I backtracked and peeked from behind the plant. The students were snapping pictures like paparazzi. A plethora of expressions marred the students' faces. Mouths dangled open. Eyes blinked excessively (I know one of them did have an excessive eye-blinking condition). But I still couldn't see what happened beyond the horde, because... well, let's admit it. Despite my Dutch genes, I'm a midget.

However, my ears caught disjointed, isolated phrases: drug dealing in Brazil and cocaine and Professor Norman. Gossip was transferred like vectors transmitting pathogens. A not-so-wise adage mentioned, "Don't believe what you hear, and only half of what you see." But when one corresponds to the other, the hearsay is highly likely true.

Heels clacking from my right side made the discombobulated crowd give way to the owner of the shoes, Dean Copper.

The scene that greeted me... oh boy, that was not a sanguine scene.

The half-bald Portuguese course coordinator, Professor Norman was led to the entrance by two burly police officers. Reddened, delirious eyeballs stirring in their sockets, Norman mumbled something inaudible to my ears. One officer recited the dreaded Miranda warning in the tone a broker would use to express his final deal-breaker in a business. Then he pushed the beer-bellied guy out of the entrance.

The left side of Norman's flowery shirt became untucked when he was shoved into the police car. Its rooftop lights flashed against the department's walls, and the car rolled away, leaving me flabbergasted.

A thought flashed like a lightning in my mind. If they arrest Norman, who'll go to Brazil and conduct the research in the Amazon?

A sneering voice at the back of my head answered, You, schmuck. You're the proxy.

"Professor Smit!" The raucous voice scared the bejesus out of me.

My gut-gnawing instinct screamed: Hightail your ass out of here, Luuk. Now!

At least fifty heads turned to me after I ran into a fat student in my attempt to flee the scene. My ego couldn't take the hit from the embarrassment, so I crouched down half-heartedly, helping the boy gather his research papers. I slammed the last paper on top of his thick arms. Lower lip pooched out, he gave me a look that told me he agreed with everyone that I was an asshole.

"Move it." Tsk. Godverdomme. I swung around, pivoting on my heel.

There. A cadaver was approaching me. Dean Copper was at least ten pounds underweight. Her cheekbones were protruded. She forged her thin, purple lips into a quivering smile as she strode across the lobby.

When adrenaline kicks in, it's either fight or flight.

Because both options would make me look like a buffoon under such a situation, I chose to spin some yarn. "Professor Copper. I have a class of repeaters to edify. Excuse me." I sidestepped her, and her blue-painted claws stopped me in place.

She was the very antithesis of Stanford's motto: The wind of freedom blows.

She loved to don a white dress, contrary to her dark personality. Her silver hair was bound into a high bun so tight, I was actually afraid her hairline would tear out of her forehead. It was incredible how her dense eyebrows could still bump together when she scrutinized me. "Let's not fool around, Professor Smit. Everyone knows you rejected that class years ago. Now, come with me to my office," she said peremptorily and walked away.

Reaching the office, a group of staff was discussing something in front of the meeting room—Norman's arrest must be the topic of interest. The bearded Jewish colleague of mine glared at me as if I was an accomplice to whatever crime Norman might have committed. But I was just being paranoid. Everyone knew I didn't socialize with Norman or anyone at Stanford. It wasn't because I am emotionally congested. I didn't fraternize with them because I didn't need to.

To be a Smit wasn't the most discrete fact in this university. The students wouldn’t necessarily know who I was, but every staff here knew I belong to one of the wealthiest families in California, along with Elon Musk and David Geffen. Ergo, the reason why the staff always had aberrant behavior and talked behind my back.

"Anyone wealthy enough to have an arms-producing company shouldn't work here in the first place. I don't get the logic." I had heard the English Literature lecturer said three years ago. I didn't owe her any explanation. Unlike her who was here on contract even after six years, I was talented enough to become the permanent academic staff. So jokes on her.

"Please close the door. Sit." Dean Copper's voice was sweeter than sugar, and I knew it would be diabetic for me soon. The miasma of lavender in the room didn't help my optimism either.

You need to be extra careful with a kind-looking old ladies like her. They know they can get away with things easily.

She seized her tumbler and removed the lid. The smell of Americano filled her drab office. The vapor blurred her face as she drank, and when it cleared up, the webworks of lines around her mouth and eyes deepened. The dark room became gloomier when she sighed. She snatched a softbound book on top of a slanting pile of theses behind her.

"Let's make this short. You saw what happened. I'll not reveal Norman's alleged crime, but we need to talk about the Amazonian research, and we need to talk right now." It was ironic that her voice was thick with resignation, but my own resignation didn't come fast enough.

I wasn't interested in Norman's clandestine activities if the out-and-out truth was to be spoken. I just wanted to beat a hasty retreat from here. The likelihood of avoidance was highly unlikely, but I couldn't help hoping for an escape. So I gave her my disconsolate smile and said, "It's unfortunate that we have to postpone the research—"

"Nobody is deferring anything." A parking ticket fell like a pendulum onto my feet when she slammed the book in front of me.

Jesus! I better shut my trap before she defenestrates me.

"This research involves hundreds of thousands of dollars of grants, and we have the government's endorsement. You're aware of that fact. I will not include Norman in the research any longer, even if he's not guilty. We don't have time to wait for his proceeding. The expedition is next month." She leafed through the proposal and stopped at the research committee's page. "We have discussed this contingency committee months ago. And now you need to maintain the status quo. You know your responsibilities."

The Amazon expedition. Committed to research, the Department of Romance Languages and Literatures had proposed an expedition to one of the most remote villages in the Amazon. It was ethical research to preserve a waning language—the reason why linguistics anthropologists like me and Norman exist. Norman was the Portuguese course coordinator, ergo, the leader of the delegation.

But by being arrested today, he ruined everything, including my life. I would need to renounce the world and work in the jungle for three months, without interaction with civilization. Scratch that. I didn't give a rat's ass about civilization. Apart from my family, I was an equal opportunity hater. I just couldn't imagine living without seeing my family for that long. My parents were coming back from Rotterdam next month after half a year, the same day the trip was scheduled.

But I had dug my grave by signing the contingency agreement. Now indecision grasped me.

No matter how much of a misanthropic, I-am-better-than-everyone asshole I was (according to other assholes), I knew my responsibility. The students needed a supervisor for the project now that Norman wasn't available. It would be hard for them to graduate without my help. As opposed to their claims, I was not so much of an asshole that I would ruin their future.

God's will is obdurate. I don't have the power to mess with certain things. I needed to lie in my grave despite myself. I sighed, realizing I didn't listen to half of what she was saying. "What about my classes?"

"I'll take care of the trivial stuff," she said, reverting to her motherly tone. "Go get your vaccines. I'll send your name to the Brazilian embassy in a minute. And we have a final meeting on Wednesday with the Forestry Department. Now that you're an official part of this, please show up." Her face softened and flushed like a chameleon. "I understand this is sudden. Just consider this the stepping stone to your vocation." She held my hand with her bony fingers, and I almost flinched from distaste. "You'll gain the whip hand in this institution when you return from the Amazon, Professor Smit."

I crushed the letter under the table.

Sorry, no dice. The first thing I'll do when I return from the Amazon is to send this resignation letter, Professor Copper.