This is a selection from my first novel Remus College. If you enjoy it, please consider purchasing it from Amazon right here.

Another year, another homecoming week at Remus. All the fun and frolicking of the older alumni making passes at students that could easily be their grandchildren was back in full display, including the incessant barking. I learned from my mistakes last year. I purchased a sturdy set of headphones that kept all the loud outdoor voices muffled to a minute whisper. If I were a better person when it comes to investing money, I would put all my savings into the companies that manufacture those magnificent devices.

Another thing that didn’t change that year was that Duritz had another heart attack. He evidently didn’t learn from last year’s fiasco as I did. At least people recognized that he was having one this time around. In fact, the staff put everyone on high alert a couple of weeks earlier when the administration circulated an email that nobody bothered reading, asking people to “pitch in” to help during the homecoming week festivities. I shouldn’t be surprised that nobody helped Duritz out because, compared to most of the faculty, he was on the younger side at a spry age of 63. Why would the other faculty members risk breaking a hip to help during an event most of them detested? The heaviest lifting some of these people did all semester was picking up their pay stubs every two weeks.

That year’s attack happened on Tuesday, to Duritz’s credit, so he had more time to recover. That didn’t stop him from returning before the week ended, though. While it still scares me to think that he was returning too soon from such a medical episode, it also made plenty of financial sense. One of the new wrinkles for the fall semester was a revised insurance plan that was even worse than the previous year. In recent years, the cost of medical insurance for the faculty at Remus skyrocketed. This cost hike was because all but ten of the faculty were north of 55. Keeping such a markedly older staff around to run the institution guaranteed that premiums for the school would go up. Add in the fact that most of the personnel were living healthy lifestyles full of fried food and cigarette smoking, and you end up with a terrible health insurance plan the school could barely afford.

The insurance plan was so bad that Duritz did everything he could to escape the hospital stay. Against the doctor’s wishes, he returned to campus in less than 36 hours. How he managed to do such a thing seems unfathomable to me. Did Duritz unlock some type of healing factor in between hospital visits? Did he spring up from his hospital bed, adamantium claws spread wide ready to take on the Homecoming season come hell, high water, or Weapon X? Sadly, no. Although if he had figured out a way to heal himself quickly, I would have convinced him to go into business with me as a lower-case “d” daredevil. I would have him jump in front of the trains that would rumble in front of the school just for the spectacle. It could make more money than those guys doing stunts and pranks on television. Duritz could get dismembered by a locomotive and then congeal back together as if nothing happened. There is no way we could lose with such a scheme.

Duritz was still financially recovering from the costs of his first heart attack and wasn’t about to bury himself back into the same debt hole he had just emerged from. The truth was that the school’s health insurance would barely cover half of the medical costs he would accrue in the hospital. So, I suppose he just willed himself to feel well enough to sign the waiver paperwork to get released from the hospital. I don’t know if it was the wisest decision by a business professor, but Duritz only cared that another big hospital bill didn’t destroy his bottom line. Maybe if he was a professor of finance and managed his money more effectively, he might not be in this predicament. However, there is no good way to manage health or put a dollar value on it.

Duritz’s situation was sadly the norm for many faculty members at Remus. People were so afraid to use their insurance for anything substantial that I swear I saw professors walking into classrooms looking like wounded soldiers from the battle of Bunker Hill. People working around campus looked absolutely miserable when they were sick. Since there was a high copay, most faculty members would only go to the doctor if a vital organ was sticking out of their pants pocket. Even then, it was debatable whether to seek medical attention. If they had a dependent, they might as well take out a bank loan to ensure they were covered. As the years went on, the benefits would gradually deteriorate to the point that a moth-eaten blanket would offer better coverage.

Every spring, faculty, and staff would get their proposed plans for the upcoming school year at the adjourning meeting. By the beginning of year three, I kept a graph of how much the new year’s plan was about to raise the deductible. When I arrived at Remus, the cheapest plan had a five-thousand-dollar deductible, with the insurance company covering most of the cost afterward. By the time I left, the proposed plan’s best policy had a ten-thousand-dollar deductible, and the insurance company covered only half of everything after that. Some item benefits like copays were practically a myth. Still, the insurance company would drown you with a metric ton of preventative practices pamphlets that let you know carrots were a great source of vitamin A. Maybe if those brochures were less glossy, we could eat them for the fiber content and improve our bowel issues.

When it came to the medical coverage of the faculty, the last great slap in the face happened at the end of year three after the school decided that there was no longer a need to have a nurse on campus. Instead, a practicing doctor would visit campus twice weekly to treat any and all your ailments from hangnails to hysterectomies – not that any of those crusty old folks would need the latter. The moment this announcement came from the president’s mouth, an audible grumbling emanated from the faculty. The health facility on campus was already laughable. The nurse’s station resided in a tiny old house beside the president’s house. There were no markings or signage denoting that it was a health center. Most students thought it was an abandoned building that the school had yet to demolish. Well, their suspicions weren’t entirely wrong. The inside of the dwelling was a shrine to midcentury living as the walls were wood paneling that had seen better days. The floor had matted shag carpeting with a layer of dusty filth to dull the burnt orange tones of the fabric. A lime green refrigerator constantly uttered its death rattle in the kitchen. The nurse had a dilapidated desk with a complement of safe sex pamphlets from the 1990s placed on the side. Nothing screams “mood killer” like a dude with a flat top telling you to “bag it before you tag it” while lightning bolts and colorful swirls surround him in the background.

While her facility left much to be desired, the nurse served a critical role because she had to oversee the entire student body. Now that she was getting shuffled out, what good would a visiting physician do for the students on the five days they weren’t sitting in the office? After this news hit the faculty’s ears, questions and accusations began to fly toward the president. As President Francis tried to implement damage control and the faculty sharpened their pitchforks, a voice from the crowd spoke up to defend the idea. Professor Farley did his due diligence in supporting the administration’s decisions, even at the cost of his well-being.

He began his admonishment by proclaiming that the doctor selected – Doctor Mallard – was a quality physician with whom he had a good rapport. Farley sang the doctor’s praises and enjoyed quality service from him over the past few months. When he said that, my ears perked up. How does Farley know the doctor already? This part of the new health plan started in January. The administration sent no email informing the faculty or staff of the change; it just happened. Besides, who would have known about the difference anyway? Nobody on the faculty would dare go to the health center for anything medically related. Now, we get to enjoy the benefits of a part-time house doctor who will diagnose us and then tell us to go to the hospital. I failed to see how this benefited the students or us. Next time I plan on breaking a bone, I will be sure to schedule it on a day Doctor Mallard is in so he can pass me off to a more qualified Band-Aid station. The plan was a ripe slice of brilliance.

I was still dumbfounded Farley was not only defending this idea but already actively using it. The faculty knew how profoundly unhealthy this physical education professor was, which is more telling about the quality care of Doctor Mallard. Did this fool prescribe gravy IVs for Farley? Did the quack (pardon the pun) lean on old-timey wisdom and suggest Farley feed the common cold? When the doctor asked Farley about his liver, I bet Farley said he preferred it with marinated sweet onions on top. In light of all this, Farley maintained that Doctor Mallard was a great physician doing good things for himself and his family. A number of the faculty just stared at Farley with wide eyes and mouths agape. Maybe Farley sold his soul to Remus to ensure he had a paycheck in perpetuity? Whatever the case, most of the faculty could not believe their ears.

If the school truly owns Farley’s spirit, he has every right to be concerned about his healthcare. I have more pressing questions if this devilish pact is real. What happens to Farley when he dies? Is his soul kept in a filing cabinet in Old Main? Maybe this is some dodgy form of immortality? So long as the doors of Remus are open, Farley is permitted to roam the Earth. Such a deal would most definitely mean that he must stay bound to the school somehow. I bet the catch is that he must remain within a certain radius of the school, or he will begin to deteriorate like a zombie. What will happen to him if the school closes for financial reasons or the campus gets demolished? Would he still be bound to the campus grounds, or would he die a “second death”? Woah, death for the dead has to be worse than any eternal damnation we mere mortals can imagine. Whether or not black magic was involved, the fact of the matter is that Farley will forever remain attached to Remus, which sounds like Hell.