Meet the New Scott, Same as the Old Scott

I tried to file today.  Woke up early.  Did one last read-through.  Handed it into the printer by 10:00 a.m.  Specified paper weight and margin width.  They said give them half an hour.

I walk across the bridge to campus with my signature page.  Try to get Second Reader to sign it.  He won't sign it until my chair signs it.

I email my my chair.  He says he can't sign it until he arrives home at 4:00 p.m.  Says I should drive up to his place and he'll sign it.  I say I'll see him then.  Third Reader's signatures are in the mail but didn't arrive with it.

The department secretary immediately phones Third Reader.  He assures her he'd sent it UPS.  Not campus mail.  Not FedEx.

The library archives—housed in that library—close at 5:00 p.m.

It is now 12:00 p.m.

I walk back across the bridge to the printer.  They handed me two copies of my dissertation in boxes.  The boxes say "Copy Paper" on them.  The woman behind the counter rings me up.  My total comes to $41.00.

Or approximately nine fewer dollars than the cost of a box of the specified 20-lb 100 percent cotton bond.

I open one box.  It is my dissertation.  Yay!  Printed on copy paper.  Boo!  I mention the error.  Show the woman my copy of the order.  She needs to talk to her manager.  He is exasperated.  Says to do my order again.  Says this order will come out of her next paycheck.  She says it will be about half an hour.

It is now 1:00 p.m.

I return to the department and check the mail.  Nothing from Third Reader.  Department secretary says not to worry.  The UPS guy arrives late.  I don't worry much.  I still have four hours.  I double-check my paper-work.

I FORGOT TO PRINT OUT MY EXIT QUESTIONNAIRE!  IT IS ALL OVER!

Department secretary says not to worry.  Says I can walk to Graduate Studies and print it out.  I do.  I can.  I return to the department.  Still no mail.

Wait a minute—we still may have mail.

No!

It is now 2:00 p.m.  I return to the printer.  I am handed two boxes.  They say 20-lb 100 percent cotton bond on them.  I open one up.  It is my dissertation.  Yay!  Printed on the proper paper.  Yay!  With new margins.  Boo!  I mention the error.  The woman denies it.

I show her my table of contents.  Show her where it says CHAPTER TWO begins on page 81.  Pull out the first page of CHAPTER TWO.  Point to the page number at the bottom.  Ask her whether 76 and 81 are the same number.  She needs to talk to her manager.  He is exasperated.  She is exasperated.  She is told to be exasperated at home.  The manager apologizes.  Explains he charged her for the mistake.  That she must have widened the margins to keep down her costs.  Says I still need to pay for the paper.

I laugh at his hilarious joke.  He is exasperated.  Says I still need to pay for the paper.  I laugh again at his hilarious joke.  He is exasperated.  Says I must pay for the paper.  Says he would rather not call security.  Reminds me he has my home address.

I make eye contact with the other man behind the counter.  He looks at the manager then back at me.  His eyes say the manager is a prick who will do this.  His eyes express sympathy.  I look at the clock.

It is now 2:45 p.m.

I politely inform him where to insert his precious boxes of 20-lb 100 percent cotton bond with my dissertation in them.  He says he would rather not call security.  His eyes say he rather would.  I pay him $140.  I tell him I know lawyers.  He laughs.

It is now 2:50 p.m.

I walk back across the bridge to the department.  Still no mail.  Tell the department secretary what happened.  She offers to let me use her printer if I can find the appropriate paper.  I bolt across a different bridge to the campus bookstore.  I bolt back to the department.  I print my dissertation on the proper paper with the correct margins.  I look at the clock.

It is now 3:35 p.m.

I run back across the bridge.  I pass the printer and scowl at its tinted windows.  I jump in my car and head up to the house of my chair.  I am about to turn when I hear a sharp whoop.  I check my mirror and see that the whooper is a motorcycle police.  He asks me if I know why he pulled me over.  I say I do.  I show him the paperwork from the DMV indicating that I have paid my registration.  He walks back to his motorcycle and shoots shit with dispatch.

It is now 3:55 p.m.

He writes me a ticket to appear in court before December.  I say that is nice of him.  It is.  He says he hates the DMV.  Hates the lines.  Hates how they make his life hard for him.  How people like me who pay their registration spend weeks waiting to receive their stickers.  I agree.  He tells me to have a nice day.  I slam on the gas and arrive at the house of my chair.

It is now 4:05 p.m.

I hand him my Ph.D. II form.  He signs it.  I hand him one signature page.  He signs it.  I hand him my ticket.  He says there is nothing he can do about that.  I say I wanted him to know how hard this was.  No I don't.  I say my mistake and hand him my other signature page.  He says congratulations I think.

I was already sprinting back to my car.  I park near the library.  I run to the department.  There may be mail.

THERE IS MAIL!  Papers are signed.  I return to my Second Reader.  He is reluctant to sign it.  He says he never saw the final versions of my chapters.  I am confused.  I had been led to believe that Second and Third Readers read drafts and make suggestions.  Revisions are made and submitted to the chair.  He either approves or disapproves of them.  I say as much.

He says how does he know what he is signing off on.  Says I am very unprofessional.  I stare a stare of exhaustion and confusion.  I have run across bridges for hours.  I say I had revised my chapters in accordance with his criticisms and that my chair had read and approved the revisions.  I said I was revising until yesterday.  He says a professional would have submitted those revisions to his Second and Third Readers.  That a professional would have submitted the revisions I made yesterday to his entire committee.

I try to say but even if I had I would still have been revising until the last minute but he cuts me off and says I should stop digging.

He signs the paper.  He says good luck but his tone tells me not to submit any future revisions to him.  I try to explain but he turns back to his computer.

It is now 4:30 p.m.

I am escorted downstairs by the department secretary.  The Dean signs his name and congratulates me.  I say thank you.  He says something about the license plate of the truck that hit me and the department secretary visibly winces.  She tells me to run upstairs and I hear her explain her wincing.

As I climb the stairs my right shoe almost slips off.  I look down.  I am no longer Oedipus.  I am dehydrated.  Dehydration does wonders for swelling.  I have no time to appreciate those wonders.  I flop flop flop up the stairs and grab my dissertation.  I flop flop flop across campus to the library.

It is now 4:45 p.m.

I see a friend of mine reading new fiction in front of the elevators.  I consider stopping to chat but dart into the elevator instead.  I enter a purgatory of sluggish ascension.  I am between the first and second floor.  Hours pass.  I am between the first and second floor.  I slump against the wall and pass out.  I wake to find apes in charge.  They throw me into an office in which undergraduates once copulated.  I begin to weep when I hear a shrill ding.  I am on the roof of the library.

It is now 4:50 p.m.

I sprint across the roof and into the archives.  I am met by a smiling man.  He says I just made it.  Tells me to sit down and take deep breaths.  Assures me we can finish this.  I hand him cash money for my fees.  He says the library likes cash money.  I say I know.  He looks at me and smiles.  Says it looks like you had a hard day doctor and offers me his hand.

This time the tears come.

Comments

[The Little Womedievalist]

You rock, Dr. Husband! (Beaming with pride, I am...)

[Timothy Burke]

Awesome. Congratulations.

I had some last minute hassles a bit like this with my submission, I remember.

But holy crap, you are a magnet for bad juju of various kinds. It's like a superpower.

[ncprosecutor]

Seriously, you are teh shit. Congrats.

[Brian]

Congratulations, Scott. Take a moment, soak it up, revel in your accomplishment. You now belong to a relatively small and rarified group of people, who, through their commitment to intellectual rigor and achievement, have earned the honor of hearing the words, "so you're not a real doctor, then?"

[zunguzungu]

Good lord. I'm exhausted just reading that. But, you have persevered! Congrats! Now go drink.

[Mandy]

Congratulations!

[Ahistoricality]

Fantastic!

[Megan]

Oh congratulations!! What an amazing and impressive thing you have done, DR. SEK.

[Rich Puchalsky]

Aw, congratulations. Luckily the malign supernatural power that generally looks out for you wasted its efforts in scattershot this time.

[Flavia]

Damn, son. Just reading this was so harrowing that I need a drink.

Raising it in a generally westward direction, and with all congratulations.

[Jonathan]

I bet it wasn't as hot there at least as it was in Gainesville when I had to walk about to various offices.

[Jason]

So what's the deal now...MD?

[Sisyphus]

Congratulations, Dr. Kaufman!

You make my waiting games seem a mere nuisance in comparison.

Relax, revel in the feeling --- go out and have a drink!

[tomemos]

Very many congratulations, sir.

Just out of curiosity: did it have to be done today? (Or whatever day this all takes place?)

[Rob_in_Hawaii]

No, you will never look back on the horrors of this day and laugh. Not once. But now you're in the club. Congratulations!

Just so you'll know you are not alone, let me tell you my dissertation printing horror story. After I had hand delivered copies of my my diss to my committee, I walked across campus, climbed atop a bar stool at the local dive, and ordered a double Jack Daniels on the rocks. I felt the need to celebrate my awesomeness, I guess. As I began to sip the cool brown liquid, I pulled out of the printer's box the copy I had made for myself -- you know, just to glance one more time at the manuscript that I had spent all those years writing. I was feeling pretty damned good about getting it done and congratulating myself for having spent the extra bucks to have it printed out at Kinko's on a quality machine, using good paper.

That's when I saw it. Every superscript of every endnote in the entire 350 page manuscript had been changed from the 1,2,3 sequence I had typed into Roman numerals. I'll never forget the feeling of both horror and emptiness I felt at that moment.

The next day was a blur as I scrambled to get the whole thing redone. But at least I ended that horrible day without getting a ticket and without having my foot swell up to twice its size.

I hope you still have the strength to celebrate. You've earned it.

[Naadir Jeewa]

Congratulations!

However, I'm worried you filed on the same day the LHC was switched on. Did the vortex of misfortune and the monopole soup cancel each other out?

[Matt]

Congrats!

[J J Cohen]

Wow, that brought a tear to my eye! CONGRATULATIONS.

[Martin G.]

Congratulations! That's fantastic. You know, I don't know a single person who have handed in their MA thesis without some amount of drama on the very last day. It's part of the rite of passage, I think. Me, I accidentally sent the wrong file to the printer - the pre-proofread one. So my thesis is just full of these lousy, nagging little mistakes, and at least one paragraph which just trails off into nothing mid-sentence.

[Karl Steel]

Congrats, and Good lord. Do let us know how the struggle with the printer turns out.