Day 1000 of our non-careers, coffee in the autumn sun up by the station. We speculate, as ever, about jobs. There’s a job coming up at X. There may be something at Y., but not for a couple of years. And isn’t there a research post at Z.? And the ongoing decline of our kind of philosophy. ‘Basically, we’re fucked’. And those who work around us in our department become like gods. What do they expect from us? What do they want? What are they thinking? And we’re getting older. ‘I’m 35 for fuck’s sake’.
Caffeine in the bloodstream, new hope. But you’ve got that article coming out, haven’t you? Why don’t you try and get something in sociology? I’m publishing in religious studies. I’ve got something coming out in cultural theory. We should got to a sociology conference. Who’s paying for coffee? I am. No, I am. Who of us can afford anything, let alone coffee? Small rebellion against the state of things: I’ll pay. Small potlatch.
Who of us in a position to understand whether we’ll be hired or not this coming year. If A. gets a sabbatical, then … If B. gets research leave, then … Autumn sun. The year is turning towards the new term. Who of us will get hired, and if so, for what? The sun falls equally on each of us. But who does the department favour? They might give the teaching to D., she’s just finished her Ph.D. No, they’ll probably give it to E., it’s his turn to get teaching experience. Yes, but F.’s very close to the head of department.
Then there are the wild cards, roving bands of part-timers who pass locust-like from university to university. They are pared down, hungry, hyper-efficient, the shock-troops of the new contractualism. They see a chink in the department and they are there, enlivening the research forums, attending the colloquia, joshing with the head of department in the corridor. Damn it, F.’s from Oxford, as well.
New term comes. F. hoovers up the hours. I’m given one hour a week’s teaching. One hour. F. is given several hours. The Head of Department, ‘He’s more experienced than you’. ‘He’s got more publications than you’. I’m going to write a letter to the Head of Department I tell my friend in the sun. Will I write it? The sun falls equally on each, but we are not all equally favoured. If I write a letter, what then? Will the department look upon me less favourably?
In truth, by this time next year, the Head of Department will have forgotten everything. It will begin again, all over again. For this year, F. is teaching in our place. F. who buys his own white board markers, his own chalk. F. who makes his own handouts. As part-timers, we are given neither white board markers nor printing privileges. The secretaries and administrators know we are scum. We know we are scum. In we drift and out we drift, like scum on the tide. But F. has bought a packet of new white board markers in several colours. F. has a packet of coloured chalk and a packet of white chalk. Damn it, F. even has transparencies.
Where did he get them from? I ask my friend in the autumn sunlight. Then we hear he is bringing in videos and arranging screenings. He wants to start up a philosophy and film society. He wants to get the students involved. How does he do it? He teaches – what – 8 hours a term. 8 hours for 20 weeks a year. How does he live on it? Independent means. They all have independent means. He’s come down from Oxford with his independent means. And then he has the Oxford manner. A bit of tweed.
He really does wear tweed. He wears tweed and what do we wear? We look like scum, we dress like scum. Dress for the job you want. What job do we want? We are scum on the tide, drifting in and out. The trouble is, we know we’re scum. How is it F. doesn’t know? He has the right attitude. He’s dressed for the job he wants. Here he comes with his briefcase. Don’t talk to him. He comes up to us, all friendly. Shall we kill him? God, he’s pleased with himself. In he goes with his briefcase full of transparencies, videos, coloured markers and coloured chalks. He’s got it all, the bastard.
Of course he gets a job elsewhere a few weeks into term. Of course he’s lined up a job somewhere else, he’s off. In a year a volume of The New X. has appeared, which he’s co-edited. In another year, he’s edited a special edition of a journal. Meanwhile, the department has rung us. Do you want to split F.’s hours between you. F.’s hours! Of course! We divide them between us. Coffee in the autumn sun, a few weeks into term, you have five hours teaching and so do I. It’s all turned out pretty well.
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