Thaddeus Bogert

A certain character has visited enough times for me to begin to think of him as a friend (at the least). I'd like to introduce him to you...

*****
We rambled into Groten Hall, room 347, at a couple minutes to two. For the rest of our university career (except for this class), we would perfect the art of late, frantic arrivals. However, we were first year students, and this was our first day of classes. Most of us knew each other from freshman orientation, and now we would share First Year Seminar - a bland title for a bland two-credit course, with a bland catalogue description to match: "An introduction to the essentials needed for successful integration to academic life, Tuesdays and Thursdays / 2:05-2:55 / Groten Hall Room 347 / Dr. Thaddeus Bogert, D. Phil."

Groten Hall was the second oldest building on campus, brownstone brick with weathered white Gothic pillars and trim. Because the campus had developed north, out from its original parcel, Groten Hall was now the most remote building on the university grounds. Room 347 was an ample space with windows stretching almost ceiling to floor and offering a view of the old oaks. Amazingly, the room still enjoyed its original dark cherry wood floor, buffed nicely though showing the character of its years.

As we entered (not quietly) and took our seats, we saw Professor Bogert hunched over his heavy desk and baptized in whatever it was he was reading. His grey hair was full but unruly. His glasses hung down on the end of his nose, defying gravity by not tumbling over the edge. His brown cardigan had a couple patches showing its wear. He never looked up, not so much as a flinch or a grunt. He sat dead-still, as if entranced by another world. We continued to laugh and rowdily chatter about everything - and nothing. Proffessor Bogert went on as if there wasn't a single other person in the universe. The only hint we had that he wasn't made of wax was the occasional and slight - ever so slight - turn of his lips. A time or two, we caught a glimpse of what I would now describe (though I'm not sure I knew it then) as the crack of a quiet grin. It was the expression I've now come to know - when something beautiful catches you by contented surprise, like the first cool whiff of Fall or an unexpected kiss.

But there he sat.

And then, at precisely the moment when the clock on the back wall clicked 2:05, Professor Bogert stood up. He stuck his pipe in his mouth and walked slowly around to the front of his desk. He leaned back on the front edge and took a deep pull from his Virginia tabacco. And waited.

The second hand on the clock offered its rhythm. The wood floors creaked with our slightest movement. The walls groaned quietly, thanks to the old boiler-heater. Professor Bogert took another pull. And waited.

Then, beginning at the back lefthand corner of the room, the old professor caught Levine's eye - Levine, the one who sat as far away as possible. He grabbed Levine's eyes and for five or six seconds held his gaze, smiling wide and deep, as if he was pouring a smile into poor, disrupted Levine. And then, one by one, he went down the back row, generously peering into each person's eyes for seconds that felt like days. The clock still ticked, and the floors still creaked. And the old man with the kind, steel eyes took his sweet, sweet time with every single one of us.

We sat spellbound while Professor Bogert took another long pull and slowly exhaled the hickory-tinted smoke. Then, for the first time, he spoke. "The world is more beautiful than you've imagined. The world is more terrifying than you've imagined. What are you going to do with that?"