Christian

The rain is deafeningly loud in the main hallway of the psychology department. Its living shadows slip down the whitewashed walls, crawl across the marble floor, strewn there by the brilliance that radiates from the peaked glass ceiling even on stormy days. The phantom streams run over my forearms, my hands, my decent dress shoes, and the new brass nameplate of Professor Aleister Greye.
Twenty minutes have passed since the time I think we've agreed to meet, and I'm wondering if I've gotten the time wrong. In my boredom, I've been assembling a poem about the deserted hallway in my mind. I hope the Professor hasn't already been and gone. There was so much publicity when the university acquired the acclaimed “young prodigy of American psychology,” last year. He's the last professor I would want to lose confidence in me, especially at the beginning of being in his employment for the whole summer. I look to my left anxiously when I hear hurried footsteps squeaking down the hall. A tall man in a disheveled blazer is striding swiftly toward me. He waves at me, and I realize this is Professor Greye. As he grows closer, I see that he is completely soaked and trailed by a long puddle. He is shivering when he shakes my hand.
“Hey, sorry I ran late. Thanks for waiting. Your name is Christian?”
“Yes, that's me. Good to meet you, Professor. Were you got caught in the weather?”
The professor looks quickly down the hall and shivers more violently. “Yeah, always am. Here, let's get in so I can take off of this wet jacket.” He unlocks the door of his office, and we step inside. The office has six walls because it's located in one of the towers of the building, with three windows in the three walls that hang out from the exterior in the shape of a rhombus. Professor Greye's desk, which has probably never moved since the department was built in the latter half of the nineteenth century, takes up most of the room. Otherwise, the room holds a dog bed coated with thick black fur and an old armchair swathed in a faded floral print sheet. The bookshelves built into the walls strain under a a jumble of disorganized binders, piles of paper, and reference books of Biblical proportions, all threatening avalanche. The professor peels off his dripping blazer and tosses it over the dormant heater under the window, then wrings his dark brown ponytail onto the carpet before settling into his desk chair and looking up at me. “So Chris... I guess you're my slave for the next three months. You up to it?”
“Yes sir,” I reply quickly, but I can't help inward my whisper of doubt that the man who keeps this office is really the genius of whom the university is so proud.
“No sirs. I'm only ten years older than you. And no Professor Greye either. Al is fine. And have a seat.”
I nod, settle into the dubious armchair, and wonder if “Al” really is only a decade my senior. His features are deeply set in his angular face, and his skin is thick and ruddy. I guess being a faculty member at the age when most are still finishing graduate school couldn't have come without stress.
Al spends a long moment vacantly considering the stale coffee in a stained mug on his desk. “You have no idea what you'll be working on, right?”
I shake my head, then cringe as Al takes a swig from the mug. He coughs and puts it back down quickly. “Ugh. Bad idea...” His gaze finally comes back to me, but unsettlingly wanders around the room as he speaks. “Good. I don't want psychics in my office. Bad for psychology.”
I blink.
“I mean, I only just settled on your jobs last night and haven't told anyone. You're very brave to sign up without knowing anything, really.”
“Ah, well-”
“You're from a small town and just want a stipend so you can spend your summer in the city?”
I feel my face warm and stop a frown before it shows on my face. He hasn't got the whole story, and it's not the impression I want to give, but it's true.
“It's fine. I was the same way in school. Still am; I'm in academia to avoid boredom.”
I laugh incredulously at his blunt admission, and Al's mouth smiles slightly while his eyes remain somewhere over my shoulder.
“What? You think 'cause I'm a professor I'm not a human being?”
I stutter at the strange question, but Al waves it away and begins searching for something under his desk. Eventually, he emerges with an empty black binder. He passes it to me, and opening it I find it contains a single typed sheet.
“That's the project description.”
“It's, uh, pithy,” I reply lamely.
“I like to save trees... Anyway, as you can read, I study grief, specifically over loss. You're going to be showing people pictures of... the deceased, and we'll monitor their brainwave patterns. Sound interesting?”
It sounds grotesque. “Uhm, well, it's very interesting...” I trail off, unsure if he can see my apprehension.
“You seem hesitant. Have I disappointed you?”
I don't get to answer because at that moment a loud creak strikes through the office as two of the old side-hinged windows slowly swing open in the wind. Symmetrically, it's the two outmost windows on opposite sides of the group of three. Before I can react, Al is leaning out the window and groping for the handle on the far end of the pane. I recover from my surprise and move to shut the other window.
“There must be some crazy wind out there,” I remark as I walk over, but when I lean out to grab the handle, I realize the outside air is clammy, damp, and nearly still. The moist chill crawls under the hairs on my arm, and I shiver as I pull the window closed. After locking the pane, I walk over to where Al is still struggling to reach the second window. Al doesn't seem to have noticed me coming over to assist him because he's still blocking the front of the window, and I realize he's looking down the side of the tower with a slight sickly pallor. The interruption of my arm into his field of view as I reach for the window brings his eyes to my face, but I don't think he's really looking at me.
“Don't like heights?” I venture, trying to break the unsettling moment.
“Huh?” Al snaps back into his office. “Oh, yeah, haha, not so much, no.” I pull the second pane shut, and Al thanks me. He steps back and regards the windows.
“That was really odd,” I say again.
“Yeah, it happens in this old building. Here, I don't like rain, it's distracting.” Al complains and pulls the thick blinds on all of the windows, drenching the room in darkness until the yellow light of a floor lamp relights the office from the corner. “Now, where were we? As I was saying, you're going to run the tests. You seemed unexcited. Is that all right?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry, it was nothing.”
Al doesn't look convinced, but he drops the subject. I move to retrieve the binder where I'd left it on the desk to help with the windows, and notice a photo of Al and a girl propped beside it. They're sitting on the hood of a convertible on a brilliant summer day somewhere out in the countryside. Al is younger, tan and shirtless, more built than I could ever hope to be, and the girl is wearing a very full bikini top and tiny shorts. Her arms are wrapped tightly around Al's waist, and her cheeks are rosy with sun, framed by brown hair in braided pigtails. Pretty. She must be his girlfriend.
“Well. Could you start tomorrow?”
Another metal screech interrupts us, and this time the blinds are sucked into the window frames, before an opposing gust sends them rippling and cracking into the office. Rain drops spray my face. Al is wrestling with the shade directly behind him, and I watch the almost comical scene for longer than I should before grabbing the nearest shade. I yank it, and it flies open. Grey daylight rushes into the office again, and I snatch the shade buffeting Al. I must pull too hard because the shade crashes to the floor, suddenly illuminating Al's white face. Now unencumbered by the blind, he rushes to the center window and leans out again, grabbing for something I assume is the windowpane. I can't pass him to grab the other shade, so I pull the first window closed. When I turn back, Al is staring out the window motionlessly. The third shade is flapping gently at his side, and water is dripping down his cheeks, dropping onto hands that grip the windowsill with white knuckles.