“All of them.”
“You’ve figured out some way to be in three different places at the same time?” I joked.
She didn’t laugh. Nor did she smile. “They’re all in the same room.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Then you shouldn’t have agreed to serve as department head. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain class scheduling to you. As I said, I’m busy.” She swung her chair around and went back to whatever she was doing.
I left the building and drove back to Spirits in Clay. Freddie was still painting. I told him about my conversation with Bakke.
“They’re called stacked classes,” he explained. “It’s when two or more classes are taught in the same room at the same time.”
“I don’t understand how that could work.”
“I found it to be useful in certain cases. For example, when I taught Drawing I and Drawing II, I’d schedule them as stacked classes. There were several advantages to doing it that way. Typically, I’d have about ten students in Drawing I and about five in Drawing II. Since the minimum class size is seven, the Drawing II class would have been cancelled by the dean for lack of adequate enrollment. But by stacking the classes, the Drawing II students were able to get a class they wanted. The second advantage was for the Drawing I students who got to see what the more advanced kids were doing. The Drawing II students were like tutors for the Drawing I students. And it helped me because I could teach an extra class without it cutting into my time as department head.”
“You said department heads don’t have to teach.”
“Right, but I wanted to.”
“Did you get paid extra for teaching?”
“No. Regular faculty can get overload pay for teaching an extra class, but not department heads.”
“Bakke is teaching three sections of ART 2000 as stacked classes. What are the advantages in that case?”
He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “It satisfies three-fourths of her teaching load with one class.”
“What are the advantages to the students?”
“None. And as you just discovered, the disadvantage is that their ability to schedule is removed, often delaying their graduation and therefore costing them tuition, fees, books, and room and board for another semester.”
“Why did you let her do that?”
“I didn’t. I guess Shorter must have let her get away with it. Rule 1 for department heads: we exist to help students. Rule 2: many faculty disregard rule 1.”
“What should I do?”
“Reschedule two sections of ART 2000 to different times. Bakke will go ballistic. Try to mollify her by letting her pick the hours and days so long as they are all different. Offer her a summer school course that allows her to make a little extra money.”
“Will that work?”
“Probably not. But when she files a grievance, you’ll have it on record that you tried to work something out in good faith that was fair for both her and the students.”
“What if she refuses to teach the course at other times?”
“You already read the handbook. Scheduling is the sole prerogative of the department head. You are required to consult the faculty about their schedule preferences, but the final scheduling decisions are yours.”
“I know. And it also says department heads determine who teaches each course, so I suppose I could get someone else to do it, but all the other faculty have full loads.”
“You don’t have to use them. Think about why you ended up teaching ART 2330 last semester?”
“Armstrong and Prather both refused to do it.”
“That’s your answer.”
“Use an adjunct? Where would I find one?”
“A young woman we both know recently received an M.A. in art. Maybe you should ask her.”
I drove back to the campus and talked to Bakke as Freddie suggested. And got the result he predicted. She went ballistic and refused to accept any changes in her schedule. I informed her that Section 1 of ART 2000 would remain at noon on Tuesdays and Thursdays and that she would remain the instructor. I told her that I was moving Sections 2 and 3 to Wednesdays and Fridays. Section 2 would run 2:00–3:15 and section 3 would run 3:30–4:45.
“You can’t do that,” she said.
“Scheduling is the prerogative of the department head,” I reminded her.
“With the permission of the faculty,” she replied.
“With input from the faculty. Which is what I’m trying to give you. Tell me what days and times you want to teach the sections, and so long as they are all different, I will accept your input.”
“Forget about it. I’m not changing those sections and neither are you. There are no available classrooms at this point, so you can’t change anything.”
I ignored the classroom issue and told her I would assign sections 2 and 3 to other teachers if she refused to meet the classes as newly scheduled.
I drove back to Old Town and entered La Placita, taking a chair at the table by the big tree inside the building because it’s one of the stations usually assigned to Susannah.
She brought me a menu and said, “Shouldn’t you be in your office, Mister Department Head?”
“I’m here on official business.”
“Does the business involve choosing between red and green?”
“The official business is offering you a job teaching two sections of ART 2000 this semester as an adjunct. But since I’m here and it’s lunchtime, I’ll have the green chile.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. You know I usually choose green.”
She ignored my attempt at humor and said, “Are you serious about me teaching?” She looked like a ten-year-old girl who’s just been promised a pony.
“Completely serious. The classes meet on Wednesdays and Fridays from 2:00–3:15 and 3:30–4:45.”
She frowned. “I can’t be there by 2:00. My shift ends at 2:30, and I can’t jeopardize my job here.”
“Can you teach the one that starts at 3:30?”
“Absolutely. This is so exciting. And I don’t even mind not having both sections. It might even be better not to. I’ve never taught before, and I don’t know if I could handle two sections in addition to waitressing.”
“Okay. The 3:30 section is yours.”
“Do you still want the green chile stew for lunch?”
“Yes.”
While I waited for my lunch, I looked over the list of possible adjuncts suggested by the students who needed the digital art class during the day. The only name I recognized was Raul Zamoria, a student who’d been in my fall class, ART 2330 Anasazi Pottery Methods. He did well as a potter and seemed to know everything about art history. But I had no idea if he knew anything about digital art. And on top of that, he was an undergraduate.
After lunch, I walked the two and a half blocks to Spirits in Clay, called Raul on my landline, got his voice mail, and left him a message.
Then I offered the 2:00 section of ART 2000 to Freddie. I was beginning to feel like a wheeler-dealer.
He stared at me. “You can’t hire an ex-con.”
“Like you said, I memorized the handbook. Hiring someone who is under indictment for a felony is not allowed. But ex-cons are not mentioned.”
“Maybe because they thought that was obvious. And I didn’t say you memorized the handbook; I said you read it. But I guess in your case it’s the same thing.”
I nodded. “Whit says I have an ‘encyclopedia’ mind.”
“That’s closer than he usually comes to the right word. Have you told anyone about offering me an adjunct position?”
“No.”
“You need to do that.”
“Who should I tell?”
“The dean.”
I decided not to tell Dean Gangji and rely instead on the management adage that it’s often better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.
I used my old land line to call Tristan. As you already know, he is my first cousin once removed, but I think of him as my nephew, and he calls me Uncle Hubie. He’s a perpetual student at UNM and earns a living doing computer stuff for people like me who can’t or don’t want to learn how to do it themselves. I fall into both categories—can’t and don’t want to. Despite being in his mid-twenties, he has a layer of baby fat. He also has dark eyes and black unkempt hair that hangs down in ringlets. Girls find him irresistible, although I suspect it’s mainly because he’s a nice person.
I asked him to meet me at my office and explained what I needed. Or started to explain. He figured it out before I finished my sentence and was sitting behind my desk when I got back to campus.
He looked up and said, “UNM uses Banner educational software to manage everything from admissions to financial aid to grade reports, you name it. I’ve got the scheduling module up and running using your password.”
“I don’t have a password.”
“You do now. It’s Techphobe1.“
“Thanks.”
“I figured you’d want something easy to remember.”
I watched as he changed the days and times for sections 2 and 3 of Art 2000.
He asked what I wanted in the ‘room’ field. Bakke was right. There were no rooms available. I told him to enter ART 202.
“That’s this office,” he said.
“As of tomorrow, it’s no longer an office; it’s a classroom.”
“Where will you work?”
“I’ll go back to the office I had in the fall.”
“The closet-sized one?”
I nodded. He shrugged and asked what I wanted in the ‘instructor’ field. I told him to enter ‘Blass’ for section 2 and ‘Inchaustigui’ for section 3.
“Playing matchmaker?” he asked.
Oops. I hadn’t thought of that. I may have an encyclopedic mind, but I’m also frequently inattentive to the obvious.
I penciled the following message to Bakke: “This is to confirm that you declined to teach sections 2 and 3 of ART 2000 at the times I scheduled them for this semester despite the fact that they did not conflict with your schedule. As a result, your salary will be reduced for this semester by 50% since you are teaching half of the required course load. If you wish, I will schedule you for 2 courses in the mid-semester and one course in the summer session. The two mid-semester courses will make up for the two you are short this semester. In that case, your salary for this semester will not be reduced. And you will be paid for the summer course at the standard summer school rate.”
Tristan sent the message as an email from my department head email, and he explained how to do it as he went through the steps. I now had it on record that I had made a reasonable offer to Bakke, but I didn’t think I wanted to learn any more about emails.
“I need a secretary.”
Tristan smiled and said, “Sorry, but I’m not available.”
“Okay. But I have to have you here tomorrow.”
I asked him to make the extreme sacrifice.
“You want me to be here at eight in the morning!”
“I’ll have breakfast tacos and lots of coffee.”
“Better bring them to my apartment. I can sleep right through the alarm clock.”
Chapter 18
And he did. Which didn’t matter because I have a key to his place. The coffee and dozen breakfast tacos were from Taqueria Mexico up on Lomas. I was there when they opened at 7:00 and on my way by 7:10 down to Tristan’s apartment just south of the campus. The cocineros at Taqueria Mexico are as efficient as the ones at Frontier.
After I shook him awake, he inhaled 2 tacos and a cup of coffee on his way to the shower and three tacos and another coffee after he was dressed.
The students were gathered in the hall. Tristan has a stronger voice than I do and more confidence. He told them to have their ID number ready. He sat down at my desk. The first student stepped up and Tristan typed as the student said “8705467933. Section 3.”
While Tristan was registering students, Raul Zamoria walked into the office. I told you he’s brilliant. Also organized. Has great posture and exudes confidence. But—to be blunt—the guy is ugly, acne scars, a crooked chin, and a heavy brow being the main issues. But he was well-liked by the other students in my class which I hope proves that we have moved away from judging people by their appearance, a move not yet made by Hollywood.
We shook hands and he said, “Got your message that you wanted to talk with me. I heard you’re the acting head of the department. Struck me as odd, but if the fall semester proved anything, it’s that nothing is ever normal in the art department. What is it you want to talk about?”
“Some students were complaining about digital art being taught only in the evening. I told them if they could recommend someone to teach it, I’d try to hire that person as an adjunct. You are one of the people they recommended.”
“Sure. I’ll teach that course during the day.”
I hesitated, and he said, “But first you want to know if I’m qualified.”
“Right.”
“I earned a B.S. in computer science from New Mexico State five years ago and took a job at Terameg, a tech firm here in Albuquerque. It was boring and I’ve always loved art, so I enrolled to get a second degree, a B.A. in art. The guy who teaches the course in the evening—Paul Ethan—also works at Terameg. He paid me to develop the syllabus for him. It’s basically my course. I got my B.A. in art at the December graduation, and I’m now in the graduate program. So I can teach as a T.A.”
“What’s a T.A.?”
“It stands for teaching assistant, which is what they call a graduate student who teaches.”
By the time Raul and I had reached an agreement, Tristan had enrolled fifty-one students in the two courses of ART 2000, 25 in section 2 and 26 in section 3. I gave him his next task, creating two daytime sections of the digital art class with Raul Zamoria as the instructor.
Then I had him pull up the staffing part of Banner and create adjunct contracts for Susannah, Freddie, and a T.A. contract for Raul.
If you’re wondering about the propriety of hiring friends and skipping equal opportunity and affirmative action regulations, it’s a common practice. Emergency temporary hires of adjuncts and T.A.s are exempt because they are often hired on the day of their first class. Running a search process is simply not feasible.
After all the new classes were created, students registered and adjuncts hired, I realized why Freddie had made fun of me for wondering how I would stay busy and earn my pay.
Tristan opened the bag of tacos, gave me three and took the remaining four. I brewed coffee in the fancy coffeemaker that was one of the perks of the department head’s office.
While we ate, I told Tristan about Gurney Guy and he said, “So we have a relative neither of us knew about?”
“I never knew about him, but I was hoping you might.”
“I suppose my father could have had a child with someone other than my mother, but that person wouldn’t share DNA with you.”
“Right,” I said and nothing more. I didn’t feel comfortable asking him if his mother rather than his father might have had a child he didn’t know about. But of course he thought of that possibility himself.
”I suppose my mother could have had a child before she met my father. Or even after my father died. Obviously I don’t remember anything about the first couple of years of my life. But I don’t think Gurney Guy is my half-brother. My mother thinks secrecy is kin to witchcraft. She tells everybody everything. I can’t imagine her not telling me if she had another child. And I also can’t imagine her giving up a child. She kept me even though she was widow
ed while still in the hospital maternity ward recovering from giving birth.”
“Do you know if anyone suggested that she give you up?”
“According to mom, almost everyone suggested it. Remember she eloped with my father the first night they met, so it’s not like she was prepared to raise and support a child. And single mothers were not so well regarded back then as they are today.”
“I’m glad she kept you.”
“Me, too.”
I was biting into a taco when Tristan again made me aware of my inattentiveness by asking how I planned to get 26 students and an instructor in my office.
Art 2000 is a lecture course. No need for easels or work tables. The office would hold the classes except for one problem—a desk so large that it should have ‘HMS Dreadnaught’ painted on its prow.
I remembered Freddie advising me to mollify Bakke. I went to Hockley’s office and made a pact with him. Then I walked to Bakke’s office and said, “I’ve decided I want to get rid of the big desk in my office. Hockley wants it, but I thought I should offer it to you first.”
She squinted at me. “Why?”
“It’s just too big for me. It feels awkward sitting behind the thing.”
She gave me a condescending look. “I meant why offer it to me first?”
“He already has a bigger office than you do.”
“A bigger studio, too,” she noted.
With more students in it, I thought to myself.
She said she wanted the desk. I asked her if she wanted it in her studio or office, and she surprised me by choosing her office.
I recruited six husky students to carry the thing. It took them an hour to get the desk into Bakke’s office because they first had to remove her old desk and all the cabinets and chairs in order to have room to maneuver it into place. She wanted the desk against the window, but it was too long to fit. So they had to orient it parallel to the window.
Then the office door wouldn’t close. The door opened into the office and had obviously been open when the desk was brought it. But with the huge desk in place, there was not enough room for the door to swing back to the closed position.
The Pot Thief Who Studied the Woman at Otowi Crossing Page 10
