New boss, older memories
Jul 30, 2013 6:38:15 GMT -5
Post by Evan Coleman on Jul 30, 2013 6:38:15 GMT -5
(Post dated to Evan's first day)
The squelch of Evan's shoes had finally settled down, and his clothes had gotten to the point where they might have charitably been considered dry. At least he'd backed his forms up online: the paper copies Mrs. Morgenstern had sent him were irretrievably soaked and likely furnishing the koi with some marvelous edible novelty at that very moment. Hopefully Dr. Neville wouldn't mind if he needed a moment to print them out again.
Dr. Neville. Hoo boy, Dr. Neville.
When Evan had first arrived as a student, Dr. Neville had been a monolithic presence in an incredibly turbulent new world. During the course of their mandated sessions (starting outside, but gradually working towards having the school in range of Evan's abilities), he had cursed at, sobbed on, laughed at, spat on, been indifferent to, shrieked at, and on one very memorable occasion vomited at the shoes of Dr. Neville, who the whole time had managed to maintain a saintly degree of patience and composure. It wasn't just with Evan, either: everyone seemed to have a Dr. Neville story or twenty, and at no point had anyone brought up him losing his temper with a student, or being anything other than patient.
And now, ten years after those sessions, he was coming back to work for the guy. Life was a funny thing.
As he walked through the main building up to the offices, he anxiously tried to recall the exact details of their email exchange. His Hammel cover letter had been just one in a sea of applications he'd sent out over the course of senior year at UChicago, but he seemed to recall being visibly earnest about his desire to come back and gain some work experience at his alma mater. Sean's response had been cordial, promising to look into it, and a week later he'd written back to say that yes, they could swing having an assistant counselor in the budget. The Tonto to his Lone Ranger, or the bumbling movie Watson to his Sherlock, Evan had thought to himself upon reading this. Snark aside, he was thrilled. For a recently graduated senior with three summer's worth of practical experience, this was an absolute godsend.
The only sticking point was, how much did Dr. Neville remember of him? His email hadn't indicated much more than a generalized cordiality, and there was still the question of the extent of his duties at Hammel. Would he be hyper-supervised, or left to his own devices? What would be the process for referring students?
Evan would have likely spent further seconds, minutes, hours worrying, but he'd found it. Dr. Neville's office door, portal to a student's sanity and a recent graduate's new job. Abandon some hope, ye who enter here, but not too much, for ye shall still be receiving thy paycheck from this man. And he can read minds.
I wonder if it's too late to join the circus?
Grinning abashedly to himself, Evan knocked.
"Dr. Neville? It's Evan, the new assistant counselor. May I come in?"
(For telepathy purposes: this is why is clothes are wet: hammelinstitute.proboards.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=pondarchive&thread=19738&page=1)
The squelch of Evan's shoes had finally settled down, and his clothes had gotten to the point where they might have charitably been considered dry. At least he'd backed his forms up online: the paper copies Mrs. Morgenstern had sent him were irretrievably soaked and likely furnishing the koi with some marvelous edible novelty at that very moment. Hopefully Dr. Neville wouldn't mind if he needed a moment to print them out again.
Dr. Neville. Hoo boy, Dr. Neville.
When Evan had first arrived as a student, Dr. Neville had been a monolithic presence in an incredibly turbulent new world. During the course of their mandated sessions (starting outside, but gradually working towards having the school in range of Evan's abilities), he had cursed at, sobbed on, laughed at, spat on, been indifferent to, shrieked at, and on one very memorable occasion vomited at the shoes of Dr. Neville, who the whole time had managed to maintain a saintly degree of patience and composure. It wasn't just with Evan, either: everyone seemed to have a Dr. Neville story or twenty, and at no point had anyone brought up him losing his temper with a student, or being anything other than patient.
And now, ten years after those sessions, he was coming back to work for the guy. Life was a funny thing.
As he walked through the main building up to the offices, he anxiously tried to recall the exact details of their email exchange. His Hammel cover letter had been just one in a sea of applications he'd sent out over the course of senior year at UChicago, but he seemed to recall being visibly earnest about his desire to come back and gain some work experience at his alma mater. Sean's response had been cordial, promising to look into it, and a week later he'd written back to say that yes, they could swing having an assistant counselor in the budget. The Tonto to his Lone Ranger, or the bumbling movie Watson to his Sherlock, Evan had thought to himself upon reading this. Snark aside, he was thrilled. For a recently graduated senior with three summer's worth of practical experience, this was an absolute godsend.
The only sticking point was, how much did Dr. Neville remember of him? His email hadn't indicated much more than a generalized cordiality, and there was still the question of the extent of his duties at Hammel. Would he be hyper-supervised, or left to his own devices? What would be the process for referring students?
Evan would have likely spent further seconds, minutes, hours worrying, but he'd found it. Dr. Neville's office door, portal to a student's sanity and a recent graduate's new job. Abandon some hope, ye who enter here, but not too much, for ye shall still be receiving thy paycheck from this man. And he can read minds.
I wonder if it's too late to join the circus?
Grinning abashedly to himself, Evan knocked.
"Dr. Neville? It's Evan, the new assistant counselor. May I come in?"
(For telepathy purposes: this is why is clothes are wet: hammelinstitute.proboards.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=pondarchive&thread=19738&page=1)
