Mrs. Summers

While I was waiting to see William Barrett,
The guy who actually obtained the title of
Philosopher (though of course no one can be
A real philosopher, these days), well, I picked
Up in process a conversation between the
Secretary of the floor, the
voluble and distracted Mrs. Summers,
And a loud individual whom I took to be
One of the graduate students.

I’m sorry,
This was taking place in the Philosophy Dept.
At New York University, a block off
Washington Square, on the ninth floor.
I’m sorry, it wasn't very exciting hanging
Around there, of course, and I did it as little
As possible. But there I was
trying to storm the academy

Which I always thought was one of my lesser
Appointed tasks. But I was appointed, nevertheless,
And alert to the scene such as it was, I mean
I regarded the uniformed elevator operator
Who dropped me off with such aplomb, and
A sparkle in his dark eyes, as a later-day
Charon, ferryboat operator of the river Styx.
And one of the compensations for being
A student at the academy is that at least
One has such semi-colorful pretentious and
Deadly deluded comparisons to make! Yes,
Every other addled-head poet who has traded
The clothes his mother bought for him, for
A gossamer T-shirt and a pair of winged heels
Thinks he's Daedelus re-enacted. It depends
On the fact that they teach you history is all
Unreal, kind of like a discount warehouse
Where you can obtain an identity, like . . .
Philosopher, or student of the humanities.

But really, the only person who has a destiny
Here is . . . well, I knew this much right away,
The voluble and distracted Mrs. Summers--
Ethel, off campus, a gypsy woman with a
Large handbag, riding the crosstown bus.
And right then, as I listened so intently,
The one to hold off the students from
all demanding childish inquiry.

It was Mrs. Summers' primary duty to suppress
The schedules of the seventeen Professors
Who rarely inhabited the offices on the floor,
While preserving the impression for
Foreign visitors and travelling bureaucrats
Of a thriving round of University meetings
And secret seminars. What! The missing professors
Were each involved we know in correspondence
And consultations of an esoteric, I mean
Faintly political but not revolutionary
Nature--with institutions outside the false
Intellectual community that was the academy. Lord!

Every term here is so corrupt I can barely
Manage the summary. It isn't progressive
Disrepair, or the slow downfall of formerly
Civilized men, but huge corruption on the spot,
A sickly disposition is this mushroom, grown
Up fast in the free shade of recent suburbs.

And New York City is a dimestore gone mad,
Or an underwater island, or a contest in the air,
Not a second Atlantis, no, sir! It cannot be
Athens or Rome, nor even . . . Babylon!

But the big babies of the modern epoch
Roam around with their shirts tucked in, and
A fresh coat daily of brown shoe polish. I
Was tossing off these rhymes, and kicking
The wide molding along the floor, outside
The conference room, listening to the
Graduate student yell most
sweetly and bitterly to Mrs. Summers.

It was Mrs. Summers primary duty to explain
The general absence of the faculty, to those
Who thought they had a relationship going.
Ha! She could convey to an earnest youth,
That to make a breakthrough, say, in the
Analysis of the dialogue, say, between
Socrates and Meno, the ancient thinker and
His student, was interesting on the face of it,
But not enough to cause a phone call now.

She seemed to effect an air of deliberate
Incompetence, blustering, irritating, so
False it would be outrageous in the theater.
But she was powerful, she was alone there . . .
Well, this was like hell, but it was familiar.
I couldn't say I wasn't prepared for it, I
Knew instantly the whole course of the
Graduate student's inquiry, from the mere
Overhearing of one, two, three
of his indiscretions.

He was really involved with the question of
His own self prefigured rise to prominence.
What! He wanted to report to someone in
Authority, that his studies were hopelessly
Stalled, right at a point where his own, um,
Creativity, had burst right in upon him. So!
He had quickly reasoned he must be a genius.
Lest he be persuaded in the direction of
New jealousies, wanting to be inflicted
On some of the younger dashing members of the faculty, whom he has glimpsed, well
He wants new friends in the free atmosphere
Of unlimited research himself, and, Lord!
He wants to set up a meeting, a conference
To discuss the substantial content of
The philosophical problem eating away
At the twentieth century. This problem
Discovered first in 400 B.C., which has now
Resurfaced in the clarity of thought of today,
The intervening centuries being lost, in
The insensible debating of Christianity .

Lord! Not that he expects Mrs. Summers to get
Into it, but roughly, you know, its the problem
Of knowledge, any knowledge, knowledge
Considered as a problem. She could see that,
And anyway, pertinently, he expects that along
About now, or perhaps slipped to him by the
Secretary, who has mystically held knowledge
Of how the academy and its structures really
Work, he hopes he's able to stand in line
Finally for a lifetime salary. Also, he just got
A letter from his girlfriend in Colorado--probably.
Though that part of the profile I tried in invent
For myself, the rest of the exchange
being too . . . diagrammatic . . .

I had to resist entering the conversation myself
In order to hasten its death, and all I did
Was let them wrangle let the theater die
for lack of the scriptwriter.

To more patiently explore all the parts of
This incidental glimpse of life, such as
Life was, was to fall into an analytical
Style which, to relieve a slight headache,
I might have found amusing and which might
Have led, with some editing, to
a comic narration. I might have put Manhattan back on the map.
But it was never life I was in search of,
I was storming the academy for the sake
Of truth. Truth is ultimately kind, I think--
Though I don't know the final shape of that assertion . . .

The halls of the academy,
I observe, are haunted by the spector of
Unfinished lives. And desperate are people
To prolong all petty agony, all sorrows from
The soul, all languishing ideas. Ah, the
Mythos of any neighborhood is enough to
Overwhelm the dim memory that mankind
Has in its writings so poorly preserved,
Of the time when this earth was a playground
For the gods. Ah, the mythical past . . .
the time before the bulldozers!
And even that is another story. The story
Here was unknown to me at the time. I was
Lingering in earshot of two new characters
Who just a few moments before meant nothing
To the course of my major plan. What was that,
Major plan? Hold on, listener, I'll tell you.

By the student's tone of voice and the fact
That he let the secretary answer him with
Completely intimidating replies, I determined
There was no immediate danger of his
Creating any physical disturbance. I mean,
He was beaten down and pretty submissive,
Though his rapier like assertions, clearly
Deluded, were meant to be demanding,
All sufficient for ruling that sometime, in
Some future place when his frustration
Becomes too great, the chances are he
Will indeed become violent. Though a
Modern violence is like clipping the heads
Off daisies . . . a target supreme! We
Usually witness only the beginnings, I
Was thinking. Oh God, I care about these
People. I am making the translation.

The situation narrowly existing is that
The secretary of the floor, Mrs. Summers
Is making the graduate student feel hopeless
And trite. But she doesn't know that. I
Am the audience for both of their miseries.
If she should make some flat comparisons,
Hauled up from the gallery of dashing young
Professors she has served through the years,
She would have to say the human race is getting more petty, more desperate, and weaker--
though what does she know?
I thought, everyone acts like nobody is watching.

My major plan that day had been to talk to
William Barrett. I could see the false
Philosopher was totally available . . . He
Was munching on a sandwich in his dark office.
But there I was again, halted like a spy, and
Oh no, I thought, I see again what is happening.
It's another trial run, I have nothing to say.
Look now, the elevator door was closed, and
Charon of the river Styx was sailing by
through all the floors of the academy.
I was trapped again, on a flimsy mission, I
Forgot the exact point of communication, for it
Was youth and I was storming through, and I
Thought the hour of my testimony had not yet
Come. I was the recorder of things overheard,
And everything was like a fiction. I was letting
The literature of the existentialism
die on the grubby vine.

Barrett came out of his office and down the hall
Like to Men's Room, and I thought, why he's
Wearing his pajamas under that black suit! He
Walked right by me and said, "what are you doing?"
I wanted to say: "staring at the bulletin board,"
But I only said, "nothing." I wanted to say, "I'm
Looking at the calendar," or "I came to see you,"
But I only said nothing--I mean I said the word
Right inconsequentially, "nothing, sir, nothing."
And I turned around as if to be, well, waiting
For the elevator. I was a student in one of his
Classes, and so I knew it was contrary to
The general mood to be having any ideas--
In the academy all ideas are doomed. Oh,
God, I thought, why must all these people die?

And Mrs. Summers was professionally deft
At sinking the immature hopes of eager students
And making them plod on in the stated curriculum,
Though they must suspect they are being tricked
Into a useless conventionality. While around them
Individuals of a different nature manage miracles by means unknown to them, and the Philosophy Department goes on forever,
Extending the time between Socrates and Meno and
The final revealing of the purpose of abstract thought.
Believe it! Is there any purpose for abstract
Thought, whatsoever? Most people think not, really.
But that's abstract enough, a retrograde opinion.
The fact is William Barrett and many of his ilk
Are ruling the world--such as it is. There is a
Sickening state of affairs, that's all, in the
World generally. Was I confused? No, I thought,
I'm not interested in that anyway, ruling the
World. It occurred to me instead to
save Mrs. Summers . . .

So I closed my eyes and prayed that the graduate
student would walk out of the secretary's office.
And he did, just as Barrett came shuffling back.
You have to see the beauty of this--the two went off
Like arm in arm, like two shadows, down the
Falsely lit hallway, toward the cavern where
the philosopher ruled the darkness.
Then I prayed for remembrance of what year it was,
And what class, freshmen, sophomore, junior,
Or senior, I was in, and then I went to see the
Voluble and distracted lady of the phones, the
Secretary of the floor, armed with a question just
Popping into my head, which I think was on the
Order of, "are the catalogues for next year back
From the printers?" As if I cared! Son of a gun,
There was a stack of the glossy manuals at her elbow.
Miracles only occur within the province
of an alertness sympathetically born.

I told Ethel Summers I'd come up with the
Half-thought of seeing Mr. Barrett, but I
Could see he was detained, and I smiled. I
Said, just to pile of the litter of untruth,
That I'd heard he had another book published,
And I frowned. I planted in her head the
Conspiratorial idea that neither she nor I
Were on the timetable of Barrett's demise.
"Oh, is he back there?" she said, with utter
False curiosity, falsely flustered, falsely alarmed. She could care less about anything
Here, I saw, the secretary with the crystal
Ball. She'd seen the years . . . unwind.

Now to be honest, I thought right then of
Seducing her. What? I was kidding myself,
But it sort of worked. I looked at her like
The target of a very unformulated desire,
And she was close. Though it was far from
There, I knew, that I enacted that farewell,
(For that is love, in the mind of youth,
A farewell), and it was love essentially, of
Course--I mean, there was nothing about
Mrs. Summers, specifically you might say,
Encouraging to the eye of an amateur lover,
I can report. I'm not sure now what I'm saying,
I'm just being honest. I thought right then of
Seducing here, but not in the office, nor in
The conference room. Seducing here might
Be tantamount to sitting with her
in a dream-like kitchen,

And reading her a book, growing old and folding
Up the quilt neatly at the edge of the bed. I
Thought we could go back to her place, and
She'd probably be a timeless, placeless gypsy
With a deep and knowing loneliness, and
a mystical happiness--

I can see it still. A cat was perched on the stove,
Looking at us as we backed in the apartment,
There were little lamps everywhere. She was
Not the woman others saw her to be at work--
Of course. Anyone, practically, could fathom that.
But it was I who was actually drawn
to find her in her life . . .

Anyway, that's the way I imagined it, in
Three or four seconds, while shuffling my feet.

I said, "He's back, or the ghost of him, the
Professor is. Say, are the catalogues out?"
This made me appear to be lounging around,
Alright, like out of school. She laughed near
Hysterically, threw back her head, and her
Neck was rouged, her arms were white, her
Dress was ill-fitting, and she sat at the desk like a little girl. Of course I assumed her husband
Was dead, because it was impossible to
Imagine anyone was letting her behave like this.
Behave like what? Well, only to be was this
sensational.

She said, "And who are you please?" Oh yea, I
Shuffled some more. Good question. I looked
Directly at her then, but she lowered her eyes.
She wasn't looking at me when I told her
Who I was in that scene. "Well," I said,
"Who am I?" Then I said, "I'm the Son of God."

Here was a pause. But the beauty was there
Was no audience to condemn or raucously
Applaud this dialogue. I tried looking around,
But I had to shut my eyes,
for everything was making me cry.
"Oh, really?" said Mrs. Summers. She was
kind of intrigued, actually. She wasn't
Totally convinced I wasn't the Son of God,
Actually. "Just making an appearance," I said.

And then I contrived to disappear, in such a
way as to make the memory unsettling.

I mean I went down the hall and Charon of
The everlasting shore was ready, he was grinning.
And I went down to hell, which was the street,
And everybody was staring at me, and like
getting out of my way.
But only Ethel Summers, going home that night
On the crosstown bus in the twilight slowly,
And coming in her apartment, where the cat was
On the stove, only she knew who I was. God
Works it thus--a little while after, that's when
You know what has been done. It was inspiration,
I saved her life I know. I know God had not been
Spoken of, in the academy, for forth years.

Ethel Summers would never forget the moment
I made her take a mental picture of herself,
And allowed her to see, to whom she is known--
The inexplicable lady, the long-term secretary
Who watches the men and boys come and go, and when at home cries herself to sleep over
Dimestore novels. Oh God, where is she now?