So it was, on this mostly lazy day, that Teller wondered what could conceivably happen next. Just when he believed that things would certainly settle down on the Cascadia College campus (it was late December, final exams were over, and his faculty had scattered to the four winds, after all), stuff kept happening: events that were, unfortunately, consistent with the perpetual, overwhelming feeling of trying to function in a totally whacked-out (to use a technical term) environment. Sadly, Teller’s experience of the current “holiday break” seemed to be a continuance of the end-of-term craziness that he had just lived through.

For, even before the current semi-lull, there had been increasing intensity surrounding the conversations (that is to say, expressions of extreme doubt) about the institution’s leadership. One afternoon, for example, after the Thanksgiving holiday, Cascadia’s president distributed, to all staff, a draft version of the position description that would be used to recruit for the provost position sometime after the beginning of the new year. (Dr. Mennace, the current provost, was, at present, occupying the job on an interim basis.) Several of Teller’s faculty members had criticisms of the document, some of whom forwarded their concerns to the president. Many were just plain terrified that Dr. Mennace would not only apply for the job, but eventually secure it on a permanent basis. This prospect caused a huge amount of distress among Teller’s faculty, who, as noted previously, had significant distrust for just about everybody in the current administration.

Following the document’s distribution, Teller was approached by faculty members, often several times a day, about his intentions. Practically every single one of these interactions was not only to engage in a conversation about the status of his thinking, but also to encourage Teller to submit an application for the job. For although Teller was a member of the current administration, he had something that others in instructional leadership apparently did not: the trust of the faculty.

Naturally, Teller was flattered by all this attention. But he was not as elated as might be expected. The feeling of being wanted was, of course, exceptionally wonderful. However, the chaos that was the Cascadia College campus was not something Teller was convinced he could positively affect, even from the senior academic officer post: if he had the skills to provide assistance, to facilitate the change that was required, did he have the will? Did he have the energy?

Teller had become even more convinced of the continuing downward spiral of the institution during the previous twenty-four hours of this “break,” when one of his department chairs, a very talented person in the sciences, informed him that she was leaving Cascadia at the end of the current academic year. She had just accepted a teaching position in a neighboring state. This would be the second major loss to that department during the year, and Teller interpreted the development as yet another sign of the institution’s decreasing viability. When an organization keeps losing its best and brightest (and this was part of a pattern of continuing massive turnover, with three top-level administrators also leaving during the Fall quarter alone), when anyone who has an escape route uses it, then there is something definitely very rotten, as they say, in the State of Cascadia.

Of course, Teller continued to have his own struggles with the college’s leadership. For although Dr. Mennace was the chief instructional officer on campus (at least for the time being), he bore little similarity to Teller with respect to education, experience, philosophy or interpersonal skills. In terms of both personal and professional background, Teller and Mennace came from vastly different worlds. Whereas Teller was (among many things) a researcher, scholar, intellectual, therapist and consensus-builder, Mennace embraced a military model, viewing himself a field commander in a theatre of action. While Teller listened, Mennace gave orders. The following relationships seemed to apply: Teller/Mennace = comedy/tragedy; yin/yang; order/chaos. In other words: an obvious mismatch (given that there seemed to be no way to “complement” the Mennace paradigm).

Not surprisingly, the matter of leadership-style differences manifested themselves on a regular basis, and this had happened again during the holiday hiatus. In the case of a faculty member who was apparently skirting some safety rules, Mennace (being “the decider” that he is) expressed an inclination toward summary dismissal. Teller was nothing short of appalled, as he argued for a more (humane) developmental, due-process kind of approach.

Teller was extremely grateful that the holiday was finally here. Perhaps he could put these struggles aside for a bit. He was going home, to stay away from the office and the instability of the campus for an entire ten-day stint. Teller wanted to relax. To breathe. To spend some time with friends. And to prepare his own escape: he had some job applications he intended to complete.

Teller rarely dreamed. Or, more accurately, he only occasionally remembered his dreams. Even when he woke up in the middle of the night with the awareness of particularly vivid images in his mind, and with the serious intent to remember what had just been happening, absolutely no memory was left by the time morning arrived. Whereas other folks seemed to retain their dreams and talk about them a lot, Teller always remained silent during those kinds of conversations.

So, it was particularly interesting recently when Teller found himself, in the deepest, darkest part of the night, at his former home in the big city (in the most northern part of Cascadia). As he entered the living room from the bedroom that served as his office, he was astounded to see a huge animal occupying the space. While paralyzed in place at the sight of this beast (what was this thing? could it, gasp, be a monster guinea pig?), Teller had some time to process in his head the thought that this thing was actually more than huge, it was unbelievably gigantic. It more-than-filled the entire room: yes, it seemed to be bigger than the room itself, and when the beast (was there really anything else it could be called?) inhaled, the house expanded, and when it exhaled (it had awful breath!), the house contracted. And, amazingly, although this was a sixty-year-old wooden structure, the building seemed to not make any noise while it rhythmically responded to the animal’s breath. The living room, actually the house itself, was a supple, tight-fitting body-glove for this beast.

As Teller listened, spell-bound, to the animal’s respirations, he thought, somewhat detached and analytically, hmmmmm, what is going on here? This is really interesting… 

However, while Teller’s mind was trying to adjust to the reality of this thing in his house, and frozen in place thinking about what this all might mean, the giant animal noticed Teller’s diminutive presence. The beast looked at Teller, and Teller looked at it; their eyes locked. Teller’s demeanor was mostly neutral as he adjusted to this startling new development, though the beast’s face (somehow Teller thought he could make out the features of the face well enough) took on an expression of true curiosity: a sort of “cock your head” kind of reaction, as a housecat might make when suspecting a mouse is somewhere around.

But, the expression of simple curiousness rapidly disappeared, replaced by one of a predator sighting new prey: the look of a carnivore anticipating its next meal. Teller recognized the expression, and his rational mind told him to run. This is not someplace I should be, he thought. But his feet, somehow, were superglued to the hardwood floor; he simply could not move.

Teller knew a little bit about guinea pigs, and thought he remembered they were not carnivorous, but rather herbivorous. (How he could even be thinking this, though, at a time that should have been utter panic, he did not understand.) However, this was obviously not your average guinea pig. Who ever heard of a guinea pig as big as a house? He guessed, by the look on the beast’s face, that its size was indicative of its overall abnormality, and that this particular non-garden-variety guinea pig was, indeed, a killer looking for someone to eat.

Teller turned. Finally. He knew he had to make a run for it. There was no other option other than being devoured by this rodent of mythic proportions. However, just as he took his first step, the beast was finally ready to make its move. Teller immediately felt himself being lifted up by the scruff of the neck. The back of the neckband of his t-shirt was in the beast’s mouth, and, as Teller was lifted up, he started to gag and choke. I sure did overdid the analysis part this time, Teller thought to himself. I should have made a dash for it a LOT sooner.

The beast knew it was in total control now. Its next meal was trapped with nowhere to go. With this fact confidently in mind, the beast, incredibly, decided to treat itself to a nap first and enjoy the meal, that is Teller, upon waking. With Teller dangling from his black and orange (“Beaver,” another kind of rodent, how ironic) t-shirt, the beast carried him down into the basement, while all the time, the house oozed around the beast to accommodate its immense size.

The beast was apparently skilled at keeping trapped prey in its mouth and sleeping at the same time — so promptly dozed off. Teller was virtually apoplectic, with a very high level of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and, of course, scared out of his wits. He knew he was toast when the beast awoke. But, what to do? Here he was: trapped in the teeth of a sleeping beast, down in the cold, dank basement, in the middle of the night, with no prospect of being saved. It seemed like his life was over. What a way to go, he thought. A monster guinea pig; this is my fate.

But wait: was there a noise upstairs? Was there somebody else around? Was it possible that he could be saved? Can I call for help without waking the beast? What do I do now? …were all questions that raced though his mind.

He knew he had to act. And act swiftly. He had no idea who or what might be making a noise upstairs, but he had to try and make his plight known. He needed to be saved…so he summoned all he had and, literally, screamed: HEEEEEEELLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPPP!

And, of course, with this, Teller screamed himself awake.

During the next half hour or so, while he tried to calm himself down (and waited, rather anxiously, for the police to arrive — thinking that certainly a neighbor had reported the screaming), he resolved to not do so much obsessing, during any given evening, about the challenges of the next work day. On this particular occasion, Teller had an early morning appointment with Cascadia College’s Provost, Dr. Mennace, and he just knew he must have been processing this in his subconscious during the night.

Teller really needed to work on letting go.

Teller, simply, didn’t know what to do.

His life, it seemed, was at an impasse. Any way he turned seemed to be a dead end. Most days, he felt as if he were living a work of fiction: more specifically, as a character in a tepid novel written with little sense of direction or plot. Certainly, the ridiculous nature of his existence couldn’t be real. How, he often asked himself, could this possibly be my life?

Teller identified a lot with the character of Harold Crick in the recent movie Stranger Than Fiction: a person whose moments in life, the significant and mundane ones, were all but indistinguishable. Teller existed, in recent times, within a narrow range of experience from neutral to negative. If this were an actual life he was engaged in, surely it belonged to someone else.

Surely it must.

Because: here he was, this year, at Cascadia College, located in a little town in southern Cascadia. How did this happen? It was absurd, really. Yes, everything about his existence at this point was absurd. That plainly was the word for it.

Even the name of the college, Cascadia, was just too weird. This was what the campus in Bernard Malamud’s 1961 novel, A New Life, was called. In that story, a professor (Samuel Levin, steeped in the liberal arts) finds himself teaching at the fictional Cascadia, an agricultural college with traditions much different than he was accustomed to. Struggling to overcome past adversities, Levin relocates and takes the teaching job in a far-off place in an attempt to start his life over. It is a place so foreign, however, that Levin finds he must have been attracted to a mirage. His struggles, not unpredictably, continue on. You can run, as they say, but you cannot hide.

So, here he, Teller, was. He was trying mightily, after a couple of job losses, to put his life in order. Unlike Levin, though, he was not a teacher (any longer). He was now an academic administrator, and held the position of Dean of Faculty at the real-life Cascadia College. A small campus in an isolated, rural setting. A place so entirely different that his past experiences had ill-prepared him for what he found. Teller had earned his doctorate at a big-time Big Ten campus of over 35,000 students. And now, here he was, attempting to function in a place where the entire little city barely scratched the 20,000 mark, with no diversity to speak of at all. This was not a college town. The place felt stiflingly-small and claustrophobic. And amazingly conservative.

Further, the college was in a condition that he had not really appreciated.

From the start, he found his administrative peers friendly enough people. They weren’t really bad folks. But, too, Teller wasn’t sure they were the right ones to actually run a college. Teller found he did not fit so well with them. So he spent as much time as he could amongst his “own kind” … i.e., the faculty. Teller’s span of control was fairly wide-reaching on campus; he lived with the humanities folks (that’s where his office was located), but was in charge of all the liberal arts and sciences. These people were the ones who not only intellectually engaged him, but also shared their stories and lives with him.

Sure, Teller found that there were some good aspects to all that sharing. He was, after all, able to talk with them about a wide range of topics: reactions and replication; reading and reasoning; rocks and rhymes; language and logic; peace, prose and philosophy; equations and equality; literature and liberals; Iraq and irony; politics and pooh-bahs. But mostly what everyone talked about (at least with Teller) was how to cope: namely, how to manage their lives given the massive number of changes the college had undergone in the last few years, including several presidents, leadership styles, and unclear expectations.

The net effect of all that change, Teller discovered, was that most everyone was off-center most all the time. And there was little trust, might say none, between the faculty and administration. Teller, of course, as the Dean, lived his professional life at the intersection of faculty and administration and their issues. So, if the conflict on campus were the Gunfight at the OK Corral, then Teller was in the crossfire. It didn’t take long before he found himself gravely wounded.

Totally dismayed at the current state of the campus, and while expending inordinate amounts of energy to keep from being injured any further, Teller concluded that there simply was no way to live in between these two warring groups. Although he believed himself to be the consummate diplomat, none of the gunslingers involved in this fight seemed to be much interested in letting their weapons cool and engage in team- or trust-building.

Teller, simply, didn’t know what to do.