type... So full of himself, but at bottom just another pretentious sot who thinks the world owes him a living. So, how about that coffee?”
“The coffee maker is broken,” I said, ashamed and defeated, yet not really knowing why. I felt scolded.
“No matter, then; I saw a café on the way here. Let’s catch that quick guzzle of joe before heading for St. Mike’s college. I ought to tell you the sordid tale of Mike, the saintly Mikhail…”
And so he did. I had to admit that the thoroughness of his explanation, filled as it was with intriguing anecdotes and lateral associations to other meaningful historical events, perhaps even outshone my own knowledge. His words had an eclipsing effect, and when he decided to speak in this way, I was pulled in by my own desire to hear more.
Before leaving, he arranged for my “disguise”… He had me wear my old suede sport jacket with the leather patches, tussled my hair, and produced a pair of awkward-looking and very thick spectacles. He mildly complained that my nose was not aquiline enough to balance the effect of the spectacles, but that it would have to do. I trusted his judgement, for what other choice did I have? He had demonstrably proven that he was much more skilled at a task I was yet to even do once. We left my apartment and situated ourselves in the pastiche bustle of the early morning café crowd, each resignedly dreading the rest of their day of employment spent in waste and little benefit. It was there that Angelo schooled me on the particular “ruse” we needed to utilize in order to procure text number one. We were a comical pair: me in this stereotypical harried professorial Harvard get-up and him steeped in a kind of maccassar hoodlum leather gear making him less suitable for a library than a patron at a dingy late afternoon pub.
“You,” he began, “are a visiting scholar from - let me see now…” - He rifled through his shoulder bag for a particular envelope, plucked it, and opened its contents - “Ah, here we are! State University of New York.”
The letter bore the unmistakable SUNY letterhead.
“I am to use this?” I asked.
“Yep. It’s pretty standard. I drew it up last night. It says, in the proper froufrou style that you have been given express permission by the Department of Philosophy to remove this text from the library for the duration of your stay. The letter states that permission was granted by the Chair of the Department. I also have permission letters by the SUNY department, and a backup letter from the library head in case they don’t buy it. Just let me double-check to see if all the names are correct.”
Angelo removed a small PDA from his shoulder bag and called up his list. A little USB key was inserted into its side, functioning as an archive.
“Okay,” he said, once satisfied. “All the names are current and kosher. You’re good to go on this pass.”
“What do you have there?”
“Oh, you mean my database? You might call it a combination address book and who’s who archive, updated daily - or when I can secure the net connections. I have the names of virtually every departmental head in every university in the world, as well as the addresses, names of head librarians, and so forth of every library in the land. It always comes in useful.”
“And the letterhead?”
“That’s my sneaky trick. It took me a long while to procure the letterhead for every university and their respective departments. The way was this: I falsely applied as a candidate to each of their programs and received a mass of rejections all on their letterhead. I scanned each and now keep them in a separate database. When an acting Chair quits the position, I find out who has taken the place, and alter the file. The trickier letterheads are the embossed kind, but I have connections with those who have the right tools in their workshops to make counterfeits. I then order a block of a hundred blanks, which usually covers my needs.
“The coffee maker is broken,” I said, ashamed and defeated, yet not really knowing why. I felt scolded.
“No matter, then; I saw a café on the way here. Let’s catch that quick guzzle of joe before heading for St. Mike’s college. I ought to tell you the sordid tale of Mike, the saintly Mikhail…”
And so he did. I had to admit that the thoroughness of his explanation, filled as it was with intriguing anecdotes and lateral associations to other meaningful historical events, perhaps even outshone my own knowledge. His words had an eclipsing effect, and when he decided to speak in this way, I was pulled in by my own desire to hear more.
Before leaving, he arranged for my “disguise”… He had me wear my old suede sport jacket with the leather patches, tussled my hair, and produced a pair of awkward-looking and very thick spectacles. He mildly complained that my nose was not aquiline enough to balance the effect of the spectacles, but that it would have to do. I trusted his judgement, for what other choice did I have? He had demonstrably proven that he was much more skilled at a task I was yet to even do once. We left my apartment and situated ourselves in the pastiche bustle of the early morning café crowd, each resignedly dreading the rest of their day of employment spent in waste and little benefit. It was there that Angelo schooled me on the particular “ruse” we needed to utilize in order to procure text number one. We were a comical pair: me in this stereotypical harried professorial Harvard get-up and him steeped in a kind of maccassar hoodlum leather gear making him less suitable for a library than a patron at a dingy late afternoon pub.
“You,” he began, “are a visiting scholar from - let me see now…” - He rifled through his shoulder bag for a particular envelope, plucked it, and opened its contents - “Ah, here we are! State University of New York.”
The letter bore the unmistakable SUNY letterhead.
“I am to use this?” I asked.
“Yep. It’s pretty standard. I drew it up last night. It says, in the proper froufrou style that you have been given express permission by the Department of Philosophy to remove this text from the library for the duration of your stay. The letter states that permission was granted by the Chair of the Department. I also have permission letters by the SUNY department, and a backup letter from the library head in case they don’t buy it. Just let me double-check to see if all the names are correct.”
Angelo removed a small PDA from his shoulder bag and called up his list. A little USB key was inserted into its side, functioning as an archive.
“Okay,” he said, once satisfied. “All the names are current and kosher. You’re good to go on this pass.”
“What do you have there?”
“Oh, you mean my database? You might call it a combination address book and who’s who archive, updated daily - or when I can secure the net connections. I have the names of virtually every departmental head in every university in the world, as well as the addresses, names of head librarians, and so forth of every library in the land. It always comes in useful.”
“And the letterhead?”
“That’s my sneaky trick. It took me a long while to procure the letterhead for every university and their respective departments. The way was this: I falsely applied as a candidate to each of their programs and received a mass of rejections all on their letterhead. I scanned each and now keep them in a separate database. When an acting Chair quits the position, I find out who has taken the place, and alter the file. The trickier letterheads are the embossed kind, but I have connections with those who have the right tools in their workshops to make counterfeits. I then order a block of a hundred blanks, which usually covers my needs.
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