The Masque of the Faculty Senate
With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe
Covid-19 had long devastated the country. In spite of promises of a calm summer and a second wave in the fall, conveniently timed right after Thanksgiving, no pestilence had been so fatal or hideous. There was the sudden loss of smell, the shortness of breath, the decolored toes, the ravaged lungs and nervous system. And the whole process of the disease, from dry cough to final gasps at the ventilator, to makeshift mass grave, were incidents of a fortnight.
But the Deans, the Provosts, and the President were happy and dauntless and sagacious. As cases around campus were soaring, they summoned to their presence thousands of hale and light-hearted students, and somewhat reluctant staff. The campus was an extensive, magnificent structure, the creation of the previous president’s and some wealthy benefactor’s eccentric yet august taste. The students and faculty, having entered, brought with them face-masks, and face-shields, and copious amounts of hand sanitizer. They resolved to space the desks six feet apart.
With such precautions, they might bid defiance to contagion. The external world would take care of itself. In the meantime, it was folly to grieve or to think or to watch exponential growth curves with increasing horror. There were sports events, lazy rivers, fraternity houses, and all the other applications of pleasure. All these and security were within. Without was Covid-19.
It was towards the third week of this happy seclusion while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad that the Deans, the Provosts, and the Presidents, entertained their thousand faculty senate members at a large meeting of most unusual magnificence.
It was a voluptuous scene. Let me tell you about the rooms where it was held. Or perhaps not, as there was many an objectionable statue and portrait of slave-holders and Confederate Presidents. In spite of this, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The President could have held the meeting via Zoom, but he disregarded the decora of social distancing. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. Some thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not, and in any case, had signed waivers promising not to sue the university for any harm inflicted by Covid-19.
As this meeting went on and the Deans, Provosts and President, were discussing great plans about new buildings and new sports facilities and donor runs, many of the weary attendees began to notice a face-masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. Tall and gaunt, the figure was shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave, but worse, on his body he had an x-ray displaying the ravaged lungs of a Covid-19 patient.
“Who dares?” the President demanded hoarsely of those who stood near him “Who dares to insult us with this blasphemous mockery? It is not yet Thanksgiving — we are not yet at the second wave! Seize him and unmask him!” It was near the statue of Cecil Rhodes where stood the President, a group of pale deanlets by his side.
At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement toward the intruder, but remembering to keep six feet away, the deanlets relented. With solemn and measured step, the gaunt figure walked up to the President unimpeded, and he whispered, taking off his face-mask “You should’ve gone online.”
And now was acknowledged the presence of Covid-19. And one by one, the faculty senate members succumbed to violent bouts of coughing and lost their sense of smell. And Darkness, Decay, and Financial Disaster held illimitable dominion over all.
END
