Noughties by Ben Masters

other. The table swayed in haphazard splendor with stacks of red-scrawled essays and books, some lying open and bent, others teetering suicidally over the edge. A fridge whinnied in the corner, decorated with postcards and photographs: William Burroughs disdainfully pursing his lips, smart and plain like some demented bank manager; Wilde posing as aesthetic poster-boy on American lecture tour; George Bernard Shaw scowling like a reformist Santa Claus; Salvador Dali balancing a novelty-pencil mustache on his top lip; the startling cheekbones of Virginia Woolf. Modernist prints, all of which I was embarrassingly ignorant of, were dotted about the few patches of available wall space and a perplexing charcoal sketch of a naked female torso and genitalia hung above Dr. Fletcher’s chair. It felt likesomething was being revealed to me … something I could never have known. Piercing winter sunlight illuminated the room and set me slightly at ease.
    Dr. Fletcher was sprawled on his crimson throne, watching me intently as I maneuvered my way through his scholarly maze. He was a short man on the younger side of middle age and his fashion sense reflected a longing to be hip: his thick black hair was molded into a chunky quiff (possibly a throwback to a Morrissey obsession from his own student days), and he wore a fitted gray blazer over a white V-neck T-shirt (Topman), blue jeans, and some classic Converse sneakers. Despite his attempts at retaining a youthful cool, the flecks of silver peppered through his barnet instantly gave him away. I had convinced myself that I would be slightly starstruck by Dr. Fletcher, though I wasn’t quite sure why. He is the type of academic who fancies himself a darling of the media (he calls himself a “public intellectual”): dabbles in radio, obliging the BBC whenever they come looking for an “authority” on any random matter (he was on Radio 4 last month ad-libbing about metaphors of money in a debate about the economy), and has appeared once or twice on
Newsnight Review
as that vaguely good-looking one from academia (though he despises the label “academic,” settling instead for “writer” or “creator of ideas”). And, of course, he pens the occasional book review for several literary supplements. He is the Hendrix of the scholarly world and I was desperate to be tutored by him.
    “Take a seat.”
    “Thanks,” I said, dropping onto the sofa.
    Shitting arseholes: I had forgotten to shake their hands. Oh dear god, no. I might as well get up and leave now. It’s all over. (My well-meaning but foolish deputy head teacher,in all her ignorance about Oxbridge applications, had made me practice the art of handshaking in her office the week before: “Now this is vital, Eliot,” Miss Hill had said. “Absolutely vital. Look them directly in the eye and say, ‘Pleased to meet you’ … And don’t forget to read the newspapers. Current affairs, Eliot.
Current affairs
.”)
    Dr. Fletcher filled his chair confidently though his frame was negligible, one hand massaging the back of his head, the other his crotch, every now and again venturing upward to wipe across his nose. The eccentric choreography was oddly reassuring.
    “Good to see you. Welcome to Oxford University and Hollywell College? I’m Dylan Fletcher and this is Polly,” he said in a private-school voice that had been self-consciously toned down, spiced with fashionable glottal stops and rising intonations that he’d picked up from his students.
    “Hi, I’m Eliot.”
    “How’s your day been so far? Have they been looking after you?” quizzed Dr. Snow. Great: small talk. This I could handle.
    “Yeah, it’s been good. Everyone seems really friendly.” Who? The pansy existentialist? Spade face? I’m so full of shit.
    Dr. Snow rested a pad of lined paper on top of her carefully crossed legs.
    “Right then, feel free to dive in and tell us about the poem,” said Dr. Fletcher, sipping from his takeaway coffee. I was