Free Drowning Barbie by Frederick Ramsay Page B

president of an emerging university, the situation had facets ordinary people could not appreciate. Or so they thought.
    Ike signed out early that afternoon at four. He could be reached at his A-frame, he’d announced, but short of a national emergency approaching Hurricane Sandy proportions, he would prefer to be left alone. Ruth managed to sneak out of the Administration Building at Callend University by a side door and thereby missed an unscheduled meeting with a very irate chairman of the Biology Department who’d just discovered an FTE had been cut from his budget. The fact that he hadn’t filled the slot in three years, and clearly did not need it whereas others did, meant nothing. Turf and pride were in play. To lose so valuable an asset, even if not needed, constituted a blow to the department’s prestige and, more importantly, to his ego. The fact that the creative writing division of the English Department got the faculty slot didn’t help either. Ruth’s surreptitious exit meant his complaint would go unheard until Monday.
    Ruth did leave a phone number where she could be reached. Agnes Ewalt, her secretary—administrative assistant—knew it and she would screen how and when and by whom it should be and could be utilized. That would be any and all attempts to reach her. On the whole, Ike thought, Ruth had a better avoidance system than he did.
    They ate an early dinner of leftover pizza salvaged from an office birthday party, which they supplemented with a bottle of red wine. Neither could identify it as to vintage or year as the label had mysteriously disappeared.
    â€œMice?” Ruth asked.
    â€œCheap glue most likely. Does anyone ever use the word mucilage for glue anymore?”
    â€œIt may be the ugliest word in the English language, Anglo-Saxonisms excluded. Language aside, and stop stalling, Schwartz, where,” Ruth said as she simultaneously sipped and grimaced at her wine glass, “do we begin?”
    â€œNo idea. Parties and generating guest lists are not in the male skill set. They are in the category that includes thank-you letters, Christmas cards, and the excessive affection for cats that often borders on the obsessive. I think those traits are on the X chromosome and apparently require two of them to be expressed or, in this case, to generate such a list.”
    â€œBullshit, Schwartz, you don’t get off that easy. This is your town and these are your people. You pick up your BIC and start writing.”
    â€œLet’s think this thing through. Do we really need a party? How about a mass mailing of a nice engraved announcement? I can run down to Roanoke tomorrow and have the whole thing done in an hour.”
    â€œAnd what? You will order an ‘All in ZIP Code’ mailer?”
    â€œIt’s a thought. How about I find us a bottle of wine with a label still attached while you mull over the idea?”
    â€œYes to the wine, no to mulling. There is another possibility, you know. The Reverend Fisher might reconsider and anyway, he’s not the only game in town.”
    â€œWe’ve been through this once already. I told you Rabbi Schusterman would likely say the same thing as Blake, and showing up at the Baptists or the Methodists begs the question.”
    â€œI’m not thinking about trying another church. Why not a Justice of the Peace?”
    â€œIt would require we apply for a marriage license which could take some time to acquire and an affidavit that there are no impediments and/or previous marriages. Since it is a legal document, that might entail a bit of perjury on our part. Jail time or probation isn’t a good way to start a marriage, do you think? It’s a stretch, but it could happen, and then our embarrassment would triple.”
    â€œCrap. So, what do we do?”
    â€œWe have three options. We beg Fisher to reconsider, we proceed with the party and admit to our rash behavior, or we do nothing and