I worked on my presentation for the better part of the next week. A few days before I was scheduled to leave, I got a phone call from Dean.
        "You find someone to ride with you yet?" Dean always was good at seeing through my bullshit. I thought about lying for a moment. Instead, I said, "No."
        There was a short hesitation on the phone, as though Dean were reluctant to say what was on his mind.
        "In that case, I wondered if you could do me a favor, Les?"
        "I thought I was already doing you a favor."
        "Not exactly. It's more like your doing the President a favor. Not even that; you're paying penance. But this is a personal favor, for me."
        There was a pleading in his tone, so I closed my eyes and asked, "What is it?"
        "You know Mark." Yes, I knew Mark. Mark was Dean's 19-year-old son. He was a liberal arts major, so I didn't see much of him; in fact, I'd only really spoken to him on social occasions at Dean's home. Over the last couple of years, Mark had developed something of a reputation as...well, not a troublemaker, but he made people nervous. He had pierced his head (and perhaps other parts) in several places and had begun pulling practical jokes around campus. Not unscrew-the-salt-shaker-lid jokes. Things like tossing flaming paper airplanes at people from the rooftops of buildings. He had once lived for a week in the computer drop-in center, curling up in a sleeping bag beneath the desk at night. He looked like one of those skateboard kids who try to knock you over on the sidewalk. But I had always seen him with kids I knew to be part of the Goth crowd, always looking slightly out of place in his knit cap and olive-green army jacket among their overlong black shirts, black jeans, spray-painted black sneakers, and black-dyed hair. The place I saw him the most was the library. I'd find him sitting cross-legged in the aisles deep into some book on his lap. I don't know if he ever checked anything out, or if he just read them there. Appearances and friends aside, the kid wasn't illiterate, and he continued to get good grades. Nonetheless, his father was very concerned about his evolving personality.
        "Mark has gotten himself into a bit of trouble," Dean continued.
        "Oh, yeah. The mouse incident." The mouse incident. Mark had borrowed, lifted, or somehow obtained a card key which accessed the veterinary studies building. Managing to elude the security guard, he removed many, many mice from their cages and stuffed them into the colorfully-striped hemp-woven sachel which he carried with him everywhere. It turns out that you can stuff approximately three-hundred mice into one of those things. He then proceeded to one of the girls' dormitories, chosen apparently because it is the oldest of the girls' dorms, having been built around 1880. Everything inside is still original; original woodwork, original crown molding, original brass light fixtures--original vent grates. Mark released all three-hundred mice into the ventilation system from the uppermost floor, and chaos quickly spread top-down as the tiny brown mice filtered downward, emerging into the girls' rooms through the wide-mouthed grates. Unfortunately, many of the mice did not survive, and most of them being specially-bred mice, it represented a great financial loss for the university. Whoever pulled the stunt was in hot water. Despite evading the security guard, Mark had not evaded the security camera. The black-and-white images did not show a clear face, but his sachel was unmistakable. He denied having any part in the incident, claiming that someone either stole his sachel or that it was another similar to his own. The administration was hell-bent for proof of Mark's involvement, and his future at the school was in serious jeopardy if they could produce some. And now Dean was asking me, already on bad standing with the President, to do a favor regarding this self-same kid.
        "I'm almost afraid to ask, Dean. What can I do for you?"
        "Mark needs... Hell, I don't know _what_ he needs, but he needs to have some sense knocked into him. I think getting out of here for a time might be good for him, get some exposure to new ideas. Grown-up stuff."
        "Like strip clubs?" I asked unhelpfully, grinning into the phone.
        "No! You know what I mean. He needs to get away from here, from whatever is causing him to behave this way, and get some adult influence."
        I didn't want to tell Dean that what was making Mark behave this way was probably what he perceived as crushing repression by his parents.
        "And you want to send him packing with me."
        "Aw, I wouldn't put it that way, Les. You need someone to come with you. He needs to spend time around a mature person." Mature person. That sounded like a phrase they use in retirement homes.
        "Yeah, I'm a shining example of maturity, Dean."
        "Please? I'll assign an extra TA to you, cut your workload in half."
        "Is that supposed to help or hinder me?" I thought for a moment. "Tell you what. Hire yourself a temp secretary, and assign Susan as my TA. Then I'll do it."
        There was a long silence. "You know I can't give up Susan. The office would collapse without her."
        "That's too bad. Gee, I hope they don't find mouse droppings at the bottom of Mark's bag."
        "Les!"
        "Listen, I've got a lot left to do here before my trip. I'd better go."
        "Wait! Wait. Okay, Susan's assigned to you. But Mark had better come back reformed."
        "That's up to him," I said. I hung up the phone with a pang of guilt. I could not help but feel that somehow my bargaining had done irreparable damage to our friendship. A small nick, but something that would always be there whenever we talked from now on. The way I saw it, though, Dean had pushed me into a corner, not the other way around. Somehow, that weak rationalization didn't make me feel any better.