I was walking across campus between classes. In a veritable sea of people, they stopped me. It must have been my briefcase. People who carry briefcases exude a silent authority that nobody respects until they face it, like when the taxman comes calling. “Excuse me, sir” a middle-aged man said. He was wearing an alumni hat, School of Law Class of ’85. “I’m here with my daughter on a campus tour. We’re looking for Foster Quad. Do you know where it is?”
“You’re looking for Foster Quad? And you want me to show you where it is?”
“Well, yes. Don’t you work here?”
“I used to think I did.” I could see the unease start to show on his face. “Look” I said, reassuringly, “It’s too late for us. But she doesn’t have to make the same mistakes we did. You should go home. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
He stood there, staring at me. She was typing something on her phone. I turned and walked away, like a man who knew where he was going.