The dean stood alone in the courtyard outside Firestone. “Grade deflation, sucking? Humbug! It might be tough now, but it’ll all be for the best in the future once it spreads to other schools.”
The last stroke of midnight had hardly ceased to vibrate before Malkiel beheld a solemn phantom draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards her.
The very air through which the Spirit moved seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep black garment- a Commencement robe and hood- which concealed its head, its face, its form.
“I am in the presence of the Ghost of Princeton Yet To Come?” said Malkiel.
The Spirit answered not, but took the dean’s hand. Time shifted, night became morning, and Malkiel beheld Firestone Library blanketed with snow. The Spirit pointed to a line of students waiting for the doors to open, and Malkiel approached so she might overhear them.
“I thought you said you were going home for Christmas Day- thought you might trick me to go home and fall behind the curve, eh?”
“Ha! You know it! Nothing you wouldn’t have tried.”
“Right you are! It’s the Princeton way!”
“How’s your carrel?”
“Like my thesis- sad and bare. Yours?”
“Like my ex- cold and remote. You know, it used to be that seniors didn’t work in their carrels at all on Christmas.”
“Yeah right. Give it up. We both know the game you’re playing, and you won’t convince me to put off work. Carreling’s always been a Christmas tradition.”
“I don’t know. My uncle Steve, he was class of 2010. He said a “Christmas Carrel” used to be something different.”
“You can’t believe your crazy uncle’s crazy stories. Anyway, they’re opening the doors. Merry Christmas, you jackass.”
“Merry Christmas, you unrepentant tool.”
Malkiel was shocked by the students’ rancorous demeanor. Princeton had changed since she was a professor! Doubtless, she thought things might have turned out even worse if not for grade deflation. “Well,” she addressed the Spirit, “look how much more the students apply themselves! I’ll admit the transition is proving a bit more trying for students than I anticipated, but eventually everyplace will adopt grade deflation. Eventually everything will work out for the best!”
The Spirit’s shoulders slumped, and its hissing exhalation sounded oddly like a sigh. Again the Spirit reached out to the dean, and Malkiel felt herself pulled further into the Future.
Flames roared from the shattered windows of Pyne, and black smoke twisted up from the ruined Chapel to streak a blood-red sky. Feral squirrels chittered and scurried wildly as they picked and gnawed the bleached bones of students scattered amid the rubble that was Firestone Library.
“My goodness!” cried Malkiel. “How did this happen? Was there not enough grade deflation?”
The Spirit shook its head and gestured to the ivy choking McCosh’s doorways.
“So the whole Ivy League adopted grade deflation?”
The Spirit inclined its head, nodding.
“And that meant kids from state schools took all the Ivy-Leaguers jobs?”
The Spirit nodded.
“Surely that in itself wouldn’t lead to economic collapse and the subsequent complete unraveling of government and social order?”
The Ghost stood silent, accusing.
“There were bound to be bumps- in the road!” Malkiel stumbled over a charred femur. “A transitional period.” Malkiel climbed atop a golf cart’s twisted wreckage and indicated the entire scene with a sweep of her arms. “This is all just part of the transition!” The dean cackled madly.
The Spirit took hold of Malkiel, and they stood amid the monuments and sepulchers of Princeton Cemetery. The Ghost pointed to headstone obscured by weeds. “Spirit,” said Malkiel, “is this the resting place of Tiny Tim? Say not that it is! I promise, if stricter grade deflation can save him, I will do it! Say not that this future must be!”
The wind howled among the graves, dislodging the dry vegetation. Malkiel could read the inscription:
NWM
BELOVED PROFESSOR, LESS-LOVED DEAN
HERE LIES MALKIEL, THE TYRANT QUEEN
She recoiled from the stone. “It is sometimes so,” she said, addressing no one, “that greatness is not recognized in its own time. Courageous policies might not be vindicated for generations.”
“Spirit,” she said at last. “Princeton lies in ruin, as does my reputation, apparently. What of my Spirit? What becomes of me?”
At last the Ghost spoke. “Dean Malkiel, ever you labored to help others. No matter the grief and harm and woe you caused, your intentions were good. A worthy life, and one that would have been worthy of reward.”
“’Would have been’, you say?”
“Too well you advocated your policy, Dean Malkiel. Your principles were not only adopted throughout the Ivy League, but in all the Highest institutions.”
The blood drained from Malkiel’s face. “No. No. It cannot be-”
“Saint Peter, Director of Admissions for the Kingdom of Heaven, was an early adopter of your ideas. Now only the best 35% of souls may be saved. You were of the 36th percentile.”
“No! That’s not fair! It was never meant to go this far! Good works merit salvation! Good work merits good grades! Take me from this place, good Spirit. I’ll stop grade deflation. I’ll even step down as dean! Please, Mr. Spirit, I want to live again! I want to live!”
* * *
And so Dean Malkiel resigned her position, and again hope blossomed in students’ hearts and transcripts- hope they might again pursue their studies free from the shadow of grade deflation.
And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!
– Great Tiger Spirit Emeritus Steven Liss ’10
Ed. Note: This is somewhat of a late submission for Mr. Liss, as he promised us this article *last* Christmas. Apparently, nothing motivates humor writing like having a real job that is not humor writing.
