Need Blind Ambition

1

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 2007

PARKER COLLEGE, PORTLAND, OREGON

William James was beyond saving when the Parker College security guards discovered his body sprawled near the community garden by the border of the affluent South Parker neighborhood. William was a houseless vet, a recovering addict, and a regular fixture on the grounds of the small private college. He was conditionally accepted as part of the community, and grudgingly tolerated by the security guards who were often asked to mitigate his presence in warm, dry places on cold, wet days. The guards considered William an occupational annoyance, but a more affable one than the privileged South Parker gardeners, who constantly lobbied for protection against his unauthorized harvests. William would sometimes filch a tomato or a few snap peas during the productive gardening months, but this time of year there was nothing left to forage. It was the coldest November in decades, and the subfreezing temperature sapped all the joy from any vegetables remaining on the vine.

William was never welcomed in the South Parker neighborhood, and he especially avoided it at night. It was the least likely place to find him dead or alive. Standing over William’s twisted corpse, the guards engaged in some mild speculation that led to no conclusions. His arms and legs were spread akimbo as if he fell dead while turning to run. He was missing a shoe, but his sock was dry, his jacket was unzipped, and his shoulders touched the ground with his arms spread perpendicular to his torso. His neck arched so the crown of his head rested in the freezing soil, making the gaze of his vacant eyes seem as if they were watching for the ferryman to come down the footpath and deliver him to his final destination.

Like many in the community, the guards called him Willy the Sage. His nickname was given sardonically because of his claim to be able to extract a book’s wisdom by absorbing its aura through meditation, or as the librarians called it: sleeping. William enjoyed the moniker and wore it well. When the guards were called to the library to stop his snoring, he’d say, I wasn’t sleeping. You know why they call me Willy the Sage, right?

His serious side made less frequent appearances. I’m going to start a church, he told one of the guards who was watching over his body. My church will have no rules; people will just come and look for God in each other’s eyes. You won’t find God in heaven if you can’t find him in your fellow man. The guard thought about that exchange as she looked toward the road hoping to see the headlights of the medical examiner’s van. She was cold and wanted to return to the warmth of her patrol car. Having not seen God in William’s eyes then made her wonder where Willy was now. Then she thought briefly about her own mortality before raising the irony of his final resting place.

The guards joked, with a bit of spiteful glee, about which of their least favorite gardeners they hoped he’d haunt, and then shared jokes William told at the expense of the So Park neighbors. Did you hear there was a blackout in So Park? he’d wait for a reply. It didn’t last long. The neighbors called the cops to come take me away. When he was being more direct about the neighborhood’s hospitality, he’d say, It was illegal to be Black in all of Oregon until 1927, but now there’s just a few neighborhoods.

Laughing at the stories felt too awkward, and they fell back into silence. Finding William dead on the grounds had a feeling of inevitability. Of course, it would end like this for him. Watching over William had become just another task, and his death would become just another line in their nightly incident report; it would take no more space than asking him to leave the library.

2

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2007

JUNEAU’S LANDFILL

Peter Cook drove to the landfill’s summit to purge the flotsam and jetsam accumulated over a decade of living in Juneau, Alaska. His family was moving to Portland, Oregon, and his wife, Tessa, was determined for their new life to be simple and free from clutter. Their journey toward simplicity was inspired by a book she’d found by Googling eliminating stress from family life. The couple agreed to follow the book’s guidance, though Tessa adhered a bit more zealously. She boiled down the book’s rules to one principle: Have you touched it today? Will you touch it tomorrow? If the answers are no, then eliminate it from your life. She held so firmly to those rules that Peter asked if she was going to throw away his penis. It didn’t go over well.

Peter was an engaged participant in the plan, even knowing he was the most complicated piece of clutter in Tessa’s life. He feared her next Google search upon his arrival in Portland would be for divorce lawyers and he’d be swept into the dustbin with all the other items that had lost their value. Tessa and the kids were already in Portland, having timed their move to be settled by the start of Portland Public Schools. Peter stayed behind to sell the house, finish his job at the Juneau Daily, and tie up other loose ends. He was thrilled that he would soon be reunited with his children. The separation with Tessa, he hoped, would pull them back together, but momentum suggested a different outcome. Peter wasn’t sure how to swing the tide back in their favor.

His trip to the dump felt like purging joyful memories and future accomplishments. He hated it. Growing up poor made Peter a bit of a hoarder. Discarding potentially useful things didn’t come naturally; his drawers, closets, shed, and garage overflowed with items of latent utility. To escape the pull of each object’s sentimental gravity, he quickly flung one item after another from the back of his Subaru wagon. Keeping a vigilant eye not to hit one of the ostentatiously patriotic number of scavenging bald eagles, he tossed the step stool his children had used to reach the bathroom sink when they were toddlers. Then he unloaded a perfectly good ax head that was attached to a splintered handle, a slightly warped bike rim, and a length of four-inch stovepipe that he was certain would make the perfect vent for an adobe pizza oven. Instead of adding value to future creations, his hoarded possessions were adding mass to the hill of refuse the locals called Mount Trashmore.

Swooping to claim a Costco chicken carcass, a bald eagle flew near enough to Peter for him to duck his head and tense his shoulders. At the beginning of the family’s new life in Alaska, such a close encounter would have inspired awe. But like the aphorism never meet your heroes warns, the raptors’ grandeur quickly faded with the constant sight of them scavenging roadkill and rummaging through dumpsters. They’re resplendent pigeon rats, he thought, then wondered why the raven, his favorite bird, had not been chosen as the nation’s icon. They’re black and clever—that would have never flown in colonial America.

Despite being inundated by the smell of methane while standing atop a hill of rubbish, Peter took a moment to appreciate the magnificence of the place he was leaving. He was thunderstruck by a sense of loss. Leaving the land felt like cutting off a limb. To his east, the trailing edge of Thomas Glacier draped over the chiseled mountain peaks it carved during its long retreat northward. Beneath the colossal expanse of ice, an emerald pool of glacial melt formed on a stone shelf. A weak stream meandered off the ledge so tentatively it seemed hyperbolic to call it a waterfall. The water did indeed fall off the ledge, but it quickly scattered into the wind, losing its form completely before reaching the treetops in the valley. He felt pangs of sorrow for the activities he’d miss doing with his children: sledding by the Mendenhall Glacier; picking berries while hiking to overnights at Forest Service cabins; and fishing off the rocky shores of Douglas Island when the silvers were running thick.

Juneau was the first place where the tendrils of Peter’s heart took anchor. It was home. He loved the beauty and sense of community, but his own ambition, as well as Tessa’s urging for him to meet his full potential, impelled him to swim into bigger ponds. He’d accepted a job doing media relations at Parker College—the Valhalla of higher education. Parker was the measuring stick for other colleges. Even those who worked at the Ivies envied Parker for its singular focus of intellectual pursuit.

Peter had worked hard to become editor of the Juneau Daily. It was the job he’d always wanted, but he’d reached his goal as the industry was being sedated and hooked up to life support. The mission of journalism was so deeply embedded in his DNA that he was willing to ride with the paper to the end of democracy. Tessa, however, wanted him to have a back-up plan and urged him to get his Master of Public Administration at the University of Alaska Southeast. Like many others fleeing print journalism, he took his new degree and went searching for work as a flack. The Parker job gave him an opportunity to grow his career, but, he wondered, at what cost.

After returning from the dump, Peter made one last sweep through the house and then had dinner with a few close friends at the Hanger restaurant. There were lots of hugs and a few tears before Peter towed the trailer of useful things to the ferry terminal in Auke Bay. He parked in the staging area, dozing in and out while waiting to board the Alaska Marine Highway ship Columbia for the thousand-mile voyage to Bellingham, Washington.

Fog froze to the windshield as Peter waited to board the ferry. The webbed patterns of ice created a kaleidoscopic view of the streetlamps, navigation, and traffic lights. When it was his turn to drive out of Juneau, he cleared the magical auras from his windshield, shifted into gear, and followed the instruction of the boat’s boarding crew. The engines of the Columbia idled in a rumbling, powerful baritone, accompanied by the clanging of metal on metal as tons of cars and cargo crossed the loading ramp into the belly of the ship. Peter’s Subaru wagon joined the assemblage of cars, trucks, and trailers driving onto the Alaska Marine Highway, the only road out of town.

3

PARKER COLLEGE

Monday mornings at Parker College began at 7:30 a.m. with an executive staff meeting in the president’s office. Four vice presidents and the academic dean were greeted by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and friendly conversation before discussing the pressing issues of the week. Unofficially, the meeting began when President Loch broke the pleasantries with some iconic wartime slogan or literary quote like Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more!

Arranged like dinner settings around the circular table were the meeting’s agenda and the previous week’s campus safety incident blotter, which was comprised of short reports from campus security guards: CSG #12, smoke billowing from dorm window, marijuana and bong confiscated. CSG #7, stopped argument over library carrel squatting, no action taken. CSG #2, underage drinking, confiscated case of PBR, freshman dorm. Most weeks the list was read silently and put aside without comment. Occasionally, the Vice President of Student Affairs Matthew Rosen talked about disciplinary measures taken in response to an aberrant incident. Rarer still was an entry that prompted spontaneous discussion, like William James’ body being discovered near the community garden.

William James had been one of the few people who would reflexively greet all those he encountered on campus. Even if they didn’t return his greetings, everyone knew him. The executives mostly commented on how remarkably put together he was for someone of his circumstance—though, most did not actually know his circumstance. Loch cheerfully shared the origin of the nickname Willy the Sage, before asking if there was anything unexplained or unusual about his death.

I hope students aren’t expecting the college to pay for the vagrant’s funeral, said Wells Farnum, treasurer of the college. Farnum’s comment went mostly ignored, as they often were when emanating directly from his cold, dead heart.

Rosen, the only Parker College alumnus among the VPs, corrected Farnum’s jargon, to houseless person, and begged him not to say vagrant when he was around students, faculty, or anyone with a sense of decency. Rosen went on to explain that James had served in the Army, and that Veteran Affairs was going to pick up the tab for his burial. Rosen then casually mentioned that John McMahon, an assistant district attorney, had called to let the college know that James had died of a suspected drug overdose, and not exposure, as the guards had assumed. President Loch perked up as Rosen continued. McMahon said James was the second fatal OD within a mile of campus.

"Did the DA say why he was calling, rather than the police?" asked Loch, with a curiosity that was leaning toward concern.

He said he was letting us know about increased drug activity near campus, said Rosen.

That still doesn’t explain why the call would have come from the District Attorney’s office unless they have a suspect and are building a case. Did he say anything indicating the drugs came from campus, or that dealers were focused on campus, or something of that nature?

He didn’t, said Rosen. But I suppose we can’t rule it out.

No, I don’t suppose we can. Well, something to keep an eye on, said Loch.

The VP of advancement, Alistair Goodwin, made a show of clearing his throat and sitting upright in his chair. The others looked at him, but he didn’t speak right away. Goodwin was tall, pale, slender, and shapeless. His octangular wire-framed glasses and sweater vest were the only characteristics distinguishing him from a weathered fence post. He had a series of nervous tics, most notably his neurotic behavior around Burt’s Bees lip balm. He was never without a small round yellow tin. He kept stockpiles of them in his desk drawers, in his briefcase, in his squash bag, and in the glovebox of his beige Acura TL.

Goodwin didn’t fit the mold for his job. Advancement chiefs are generally confident and gregarious. They tend to be the type of people who run political campaigns or advertising agencies. They’re disarming and feel comfortable talking with all sorts of people, including members of the press. They’re the rainmakers for the schools’ endowments—the engines that fuel private education. Goodwin was none of these things. He was, however, as members of his staff secretly mocked, a Goodwin, of the Goodwin Pharmaceuticals Goodwins. The Goodwin family name was inscribed on the school’s largest classroom building, the business cards of the endowed chair of chemistry, and on the resumes of graduates who received the Goodwin scholarship, the award for academic excellence in chemistry. To many, the Goodwin name was synonymous with Parker College. Is this something for which we should be preparing? Goodwin finally uttered while arranging his fingertips around his lip balm until the cap fit between all ten fingernails and the skin below.

Prepare for what, exactly? asked Loch.

Direct questions were one of many provocations that sent Goodwin into a ritualistic series of quirks. Rubbing his thumb over the beeswax tin to invoke an answer genie was the first step; then came the slow removal of his glasses and the deep-tissue eye massage, before drawing an exaggerated breath to summon a distant universe that he uncomfortably searched for beyond the walls of the room. I’m just thinking proactively. It seems to me that it makes sense for us to come up with some sort of messaging strategy, said Goodwin.

"Good. Well, let’s think this through. A houseless man with a history of drug addiction died on campus, apparently resulting from his addiction. I guess, additionally, we know that the DA is aware of increased drug activity near campus, said Loch. It’s a tragic story, Alistair, it really is, but unless the drugs came from campus, I’m not certain it’s one in which the college plays a central role. Of course, it’s possible you’re seeing something I’m not."

The vice presidents are a well-educated and well-heeled collection of people. Refined. Their family trees shade the old monied neighborhoods of the country. Confrontation among the leadership group was considered crude. By using Goodwin’s name to punctuate his disagreement, Loch not only questioned the validity of the idea but also the judgment of the man. No one in the room missed the Victorian smackdown.

When does the new media relations director arrive? The Alaskan, asked Loch, emphasizing the Alaskan with zeal. Perhaps you should consult with him.

Rattling the doorknob to the public affairs office always caused the staff to prairie dog. It was loud. The last time Goodwin caused that rattle and squeak, he was coming to fire the public affairs director, Rhea Smith. Jangling metal followed by the squeaking hinge had become synonymous with the swoosh and chop of the executioner’s ax.

Goodwin called for Steven Collins, the latest in a series of public affairs directors. All previous occupants of Collins’ office were qualified for the job and summarily fired for perceived encroachments into Goodwin’s authority, such as asking questions of the president when he was in the room or responding to benign press inquiries without permission. Collins had few of the desired attributes and none of the professional experience required in the six previous job listings. To those he supervised, his hiring announced an end to the approach of employing competent professionals. As Goodwin entered the office, Collins flashed his most obvious qualification for the job, a special smile that conveyed obedience and a complete lack of initiative.

When does the new media relations director get here? Goodwin asked, waiting for a spark in the blankness of Collins’ eyes. Call him. Tell him to get here sooner.

Collins picked up the phone and began to dial. Displays of efficiency were also a specialty. Goodwin nodded his approval as he exited. Collins, however, was dialing his mother’s landline. The only person at the college with Peter’s cell number had been Rhea Smith. It took several hours, calls to Alaska, and then a call to Peter’s wife, before Collins dialed Peter’s actual cell number.

Steven Collins had replaced Rhea Smith as the public affairs director while Peter was packing the U-Haul trailer. Collins had been the department’s office manager. His job responsibilities expanded from ordering copier supplies and collecting time sheets to being curator of the college’s image and, until Peter arrived on campus, filling-in as point person for crisis communications. He was entirely out of his league, but he wasn’t dumb. Collins had quietly observed the firing of six directors over the course of eight years and learned what drove Goodwin’s expectations and triggered his anger. Alistair Goodwin was born holding a first-class ticket and thought it put him first in succession to command the ship. Collins understood this and found ways to make him feel like a captain. They had a symbiotic relationship like that of a suckerfish and a shark. Goodwin had money and connections, and Collins fed off those things; Collins attached himself and cleared the parasites that ate away at Goodwin’s ego.

4

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 2007

PETERSBURG, ALASKA

Collins’ urgent calls went to voicemail as Peter sat on the bed of his 9x4–foot cabin reading Grizzly Maze, by Nick Jans. The ferry was a few hours out from Petersburg, so just as far outside of potential cell range. Even if the calls got through, the ship was two days from Bellingham, which is 225 miles from Portland. There was no faster route.

The Alaska state ferries are old, sturdy, and devoid of luxuries, but the views are priceless. Peter woke early and spent a lot of time walking the broadside decks. The bow cutting through waves created a cool, salty mist that collected on Peter’s face, stung his eyes, and made him feel like an adventurer. His favorite ferry activity, though, was reading under the heat lamps of the solarium deck. The covered deck with open sides allowed Peter to be warm and dry while still breathing the regenerative sea air. Some travelers pitched their tents and camped on the deck during their Alaska treks. Talking with these hearty souls helped shorten voyages and create joyful memories. For many travelers, it was their once-in-a-lifetime trip, and they spoke with the excitement of having discovered something new. He loved hearing their stories. His second-favorite activity was attempting to find the bottom of the bottomless coffee jug in the galley.

With negligible cell coverage along the route and the promise of solitude ahead, Peter’s chest became tight, and he felt weakness sap his legs and arms. He struggled to catch his breath and the back of his neck got tense and sore. Peter would come to learn these as symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder, but in this moment, he only knew them as harbingers of panic attacks that led to bouts of depression. If he couldn’t call his children soon, his mind would spin with horrific thoughts. He checked his phone again for service as the ship began its long approach to the dock. No bars. Despair.

Being a father was Peter’s greatest joy,