A million years ago, in 1976, I was a newly-minted MFA in creative writing and a full-time instructor in the English Department of Auburn University in Alabama. I was 22 and thought my potential unlimited. I was going to write short stories; I was going to be a superb teacher; and I was single and looking for the kind of fun that, surprisingly enough for a small, conservative college town, was in full supply: girls, parties, basketball, and beer.
Being a low-level member of the faculty, I shared an office with an instructor who had used up five of his six allotted years: Ward Warren, who coincidentally held an MFA from UNC-Greensboro’s at that time revered program as well.
A year or two before, when I had been an editor of The Greensboro Review, we had published one of Ward’s stories—a pretty thin thing about a man who resolved to kill himself when he lost his mind, then promptly lost his mind and couldn’t remember what it was he was going to do. Not too gimmicky, eh? Fred Chappell, the lead fiction writer at UNC-G, sidled up to me one day and said, “I think we saved Ward’s bacon by publishing this.”
Ward was outwardly genial enough, but grim and quiet most of the time. He was a big man, taller than my five foot ten, broad shoulders, wavy black hair, black-framed glasses, and he dressed like he was about to go put paid to a cord of wood. As he was an older fiction writer, I didn’t quite revere him, but, even in my youthful writer’s arrogance, I looked up to him and probably unconsciously followed his lead, though I didn’t quite start smoking little Turkish cigars.
He had a very thick southern accent, and he had been born and still lived in the next town over, Opelika. It was rumored that when he asked his wife to marry him, he posed, “Karen, how would you like to be an Opelika Warren?” I hope it’s apocryphal, or at least that he was putting Karen on.
One day I was working on a story in the office, and I thought I might have come up with a pretty keen metaphor, though something seemed a little off. I interrupted him: “Hey, Ward, what do you think of this? Do you like it?” I read him the sentence or two with the metaphor.
He had turned around in his chair to face me, a little to his left and behind him. He stared at the floor. “Well, all I know is, if I liked something, I wouldn’t change it no matter what anyone said.” And then he turned back to his desk.
Good, Ward, I thought: that’s as useful as urging me to hold fast to the concepts of slavery and the Confederacy.
I wonder what happened to that metaphor. In any event, I thought he was being sincere, just a little portentous. That is, I didn’t think he was putting me on.
Some time later that year, he came back from the main office. The department was poor; with perhaps 30 senior faculty, more instructors, and even more graduate teaching assistants, we had only three secretarial assistants. I never had the temerity to ask any of them to type; hilariously, some of the kids just getting M.A.’s did. So did Ward, with his sense of privileged nobility. We had recently hired a young African-American woman as an assistant. When he came back from the office, he was giggling, “Hee hee hee,” shaking his head back and forth. “That n--ga gal can’t type!”
I stared at my desk. Did he really mean that? It seemed difficult to believe that he didn’t, especially as he made no further comment. It didn’t seem something he’d put me on about.
We had a writer-in-residence of some renown, Madison Jones. He was a white-bearded owl with pale blue eyes. He wrote the novel that was made into “I Walk the Line”. Eventually he published a dozen or so novels over five decades (though no books of short stories: see below). Madison was older and tired; it’s hard to imagine him teaching a creative writing class without everyone including him falling asleep. But he was a lion of the literary south; he had studied with Andrew Lytle and was considered one of the Southern agrarian movement. To me he was endlessly gracious and never condescending.
One day, I heard Ward and Madison in the hall outside our office—Madison’s was next door. Ward asked, “Madison, do you have any liquid paper?” (I’m not going to try to reproduce the southern accent, but imagine the preceding sentence being pronounced something like “Madison, duh ya have enny liquud papah?” Let your imaginations run wild, and they won’t be inaccurate. After reporting what Madison said, I’ll revert to standard English so we know what was said.)
Madison: Do Ah have enny WHUT? (Clearly this was a modern absurdity and Ward was putting HIM on.)
Ward: Liquid paper, Madison. Do you have any liquid paper?
Madison: What now? Do I have any what?
Ward: Madison. Liquid paper. Do you have any liquid paper?
At this point, as Madison was silent for a while, we have to thrill to the idea of Madison Jones, a very smart man, puzzling over the concept of paper that had turned into some form of liquid. How could that be?
Madison: Do. I. Have. Any. Liquid paper? Do I have any? (Long pause.) I don’t even know what it ee-uz!
OK. They were definitely standing outside my door and winking at and elbowing each other and sniggering, right? Let’s put the Yankee on and big-time at that. Madison clearly had boxes and boxes of liquid paper all lined up in his office. He lathered it on when he scratched
himself.
On another occasion: I might have thought I was being put on, but Madison didn’t have time for that, and he was too nice. At some point, he had finished writing a book of short stories, but he said he wasn’t comfortable with them. Something didn’t feel right. He asked me to read them and tell me what it was.
Wow! I was really flattered. Madison Jones asking me to read his stories and give my opinion? I mean, I could barely pick up the manuscript for a week, I was tingling so excitedly. So when I did read them, I really read them. I’d gotten to where I could read a freshman’s composition in five minutes and comment on it more than adequately (the MA students would take 20 minutes a paper, but they didn’t have 100 students). But these were Madison Jones’ short stories. I would give my utter utmost. He would be impressed! He would introduce me to his agent! And hey, as far as I knew, he hadn’t asked Ward to read them. I was moving up!
When I was done, I thought I had figured out the problem with the stories. I can’t recall what it was, as it’s been over 40 years (40 years? Wha…??) But I had a definite idea about it. When you read fiction, if there’s some problem with it, if you concentrate and just feel it, you can ascertain what simply doesn’t feel right: with a collection of stories, I suspect it may have had to do with how they didn’t quite fit together. I had notes for him, and I took maybe ten minutes to give him a summary, offering to be more specific if he wanted. I looked up from my extensive notes at him expectantly.
He listened hard, stared at me, then blinked, twice. “Nah, that’s not it,” he intoned, and turned and walked away.
I stared at his back as he shuffled off, bent now with the burden of an incompetent subordinate. At least, I don’t think he was putting me on. Which was too bad—this was worse, having failed. But then, as far as I know, he never published those stories.
That year, Ward was told that he wasn’t going to be kept on. This should have been no surprise, as we had been given an industry-generous six years unless we screwed too many coeds or showed up to teach drunk. (Fred was wrong; Ward hadn’t had to publish to keep his job.) Otherwise, after seven years, the university was deemed to have given you passive tenure, and they could never get rid of you, and no one wanted that.
I didn’t talk to Ward about it, because—angry? actually surprised?—he quit on the spot, not even finishing out the quarter. I don’t think he was putting anyone on, not at that point, and neither was the university. I’ve never seen or corresponded with him again. Madison has passed on to his reward, so I guess now I’ll never know.
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