What was I saying? Oh, right, Royce Hall. It is that last bastion of grandeur, one of the original four buildings on campus. And I have always been lucky enough to major in subjects whose classes were offered in that storied hall. There I called it a hall not an institution. Satisfied?
I like all the nooks and crannies it has. I even like the bathrooms. Yeah, it’s kinda weird. But I think it’s so darned cool that this hall is where a lot of venerable performers and performances take place. I personally loved my Bobby Ferrin experience because the Alvin Ailey performance was one that can be summed up by an overheard comment at said really elegant bathroom during intermission, “I’m not sure if I was supposed to laughor not at that last piece.” The “piece” was a bunch of dancers gallivanting around on the stage hooting. Yes, hooting. It was a really unfortunate rendition of modern dance. Of course, the Paul Taylor Dance company’s encore of the eponymous Mr. Taylor doing “Caught” is of course the most absolutely awesome dance piece. Ever. I mean, using strobe lights, he’sjumping across the stage so it looks like he’s floating? Are you kidding me? That kicks some serious you know what and whenever I see it, I go nuts. I mean, it might as well be UCLA taking out Stanford for how cool it is.
In my opinion, the best, absolute best thing about being a graduate student in East Asian Languages and Cultures at UCLA—I don’t care that they’ve gotten rid of the “East” part now—is that it was housed in Royce Hall. Pretty darned cool. The office was on the second floor,and while my advisor was not the best of advisors, he was able to somehowwrangle almost the entire second floor to our department, much to the dismay ofeveryone else who, before the earthquake retrofit, had laid claim to it. Our TA room was in the bowels, which while it may not sound awesome, was because itwas also on the same side as the performance entrance. Hence those super bathrooms I was talking about. And just in case you’re wondering, yes, I like nice ones because too many of them absolutely suck. Dirty. Gross. I was once told that I was never, ever going to get the hang of walking all aroundthe Nepalese mountains if I didn’t get over my obsession with nicely appointed bathrooms. Well, guess what? I’m too out of shape anyway, so that is two strikes against that proposition.
Anyway, on the second floor is not only this amazing grad student lounge—well, aftersome enterprising students stole the nice leather chairs, it’s now reserved for talks, but while I was there it was still just a lounge, with a couple of sofas too boot, just for us to hangout in. If that wasn’t enough, there is also this very well-appointed reading room just reserved for those departments housed in Royce.
I was headed there now when I happened upon one of my fellow China field studiescompadres. Well, actually, I have absolutely no idea what he studied. He sortof lost me at “folklore” but anyway, for some reason he was in a few of my religionseminars. There just isn’t a lot to choose from and desperation being what itwas, I guess he decided these seminars would suffice.
We’d gone drinking together more than once. For some reason he often avoided goinghome. From an ironic connection I discovered later, his wife was an architect and she disdained his entire academic endeavor as a) far too glacial an undertaking, and b) not promising enough in the whole earning potential department. Years later, when I knew her professionally, I would listen to her snicker about her husband to her coworkers. She also once made him use a kitchen saw to “fix” a crooked Christmas tree. That is a story for another time.
Anyway, I saw him and I proffered the normal, casual, salvo, “Oh, hey Miller, how’s it going.” Now, I’ve got to describe the plan a bit. You see, there’s a stairwell and you round the corner and walk down the hall. At the end is are the double doors that lead to the reading room. Which, when I was an undergrad, used to bea lecture hall. Oh, well.
Anyway,I’m walking down the hall. The stairwell, as well as the columns and waist-level area for students to sit is to my right. He’s to my left and I turn to face him. Now, he’s walking in the middle of the hallway, like I am. But,the minute, the minute he sees me and hears me greet him, he immediately edges towards the opposite wall.
Thisis not normal. “What’s going on?” I ask, all the while puzzling why in the world he’s edging away from me.
And why I wonder is he looking suddenly shifty eyed? No that isn't a judgment; it's an objective analysis. When someone starts looking anywhere but at you and starts hemming and hawing this is interpreted as being shifty eyed.
“Oh, nothing. Actually, Whitley just had me fix a Christmas tree.” No, I’m not telling you that story yet, you’ll simply have to wait.
After listening to what seemed an eternity to a very long and actually humorous story(though admittedly not very flattering to him), I note that he is continually inching along the opposite wall. Awayfrom me. He knows that I’m getting married. And he’s alreadymarried. I don’t get it. I don’t eat men. I don’t moonlight as a Black Widow.Really. Most men think I’m quite nice. Innocuous. Okay, maybe not innocuous, but I really am quite nice. When I want to be. And I was trying because I had to deal with this person for another ten weeks in the very small office of our mutual professor.
“Umm, so, how is Whitley otherwise?” I ask. To, you know, break the tension, the origin of which I have idea about. I mean, what in the hell? And of course,this did nothing, he just merely continued inching away from me.
Fine.
“Well,”I say brightly, “I’ve got to get in to the Reading Room. So, I’ll see you in seminar!” Now it’s my turn to runaway. I mean, really. What a total dufus.
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