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Diary Entry: December 6, 2024

It was that suspended season in Urbana-Champaign, drifting somewhere between the heavy heat of late summer and the crisp edge of early autumn. Professor Pigou was in his chauffeuring phase, insisting on picking me up in his car to whisk me away to fine restaurants, where we would dissect the finer points of bankruptcy over dinner.

Our communication, however, remained a comedy of errors. I stubbornly refused to acquire an American number, and he stubbornly refused to acknowledge that an SMS sent to my old Georgian “Yakuza” phone was a legitimate form of contact.

I remember the day clearly. I was at the McKinley Health Center, attending to the maintenance of my body, when the Yakuza phone buzzed. Professor Pigou. Wassap yo! I’m thinking of course.

— “When are we going to meet?”

My mind raced faster than his text. I was stuck at the clinic; the appointment was dragging on. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. Should I ask him to collect me here? No, he detested that; he adhered to the ritual of picking me up from home.

I needed time to travel. Luckily, I had my bicycle — my wings. But then, the dread set in. The air outside was thick and humid. How would my pores react to a frantic sprint? I could not present myself to Professor Pigou dripping in sweat, a biological disaster.

I made the decision to risk my life for punctuality. I pedaled furiously, a blur crossing streets, overtaking cars, executing dangerous maneuvers that defied traffic laws. I arrived home breathless, muscles burning, and parked the bike in a frenzy.

I ran inside. Clothes off. I gambled it all on a gamble against the clock: the two-minute shower. I scrubbed, rinsed, and dried off in a panic. Just as I stepped out, clean but heart pounding, the phone lit up again.

— “Leo, I am outside the house.”

Mercifully, the message had arrived two or three minutes prior. I composed myself, threw on clothes, and burst out the door, jumping into his passenger seat.

— “Hello, Leo.”

— “Good day, Professor.”

— “How are you? How you doing today?”

— “I am very good, thank you, Professor. How are you?”

— “Good, good. Shall we get going?”

— “Yes.”

He paused, looking at me.

— “You just came out?”

— “Yes, I saw your SMS just now.”

— “Oh, you received my SMS?”

— “Yes.”

— “Ok… I was thinking maybe you needed to take a shower or something?”

My heart stopped.

— “No, no, I’m good.”

— “It must have been very hot outside coming from the Health Center.”

— “Yes.”

I offered an awkward smile, trying not to look damp.

— “So, if you need time, we can wait further.”

— “No, no, I already had a shower. I’m good.”

— “Oh, you already had a shower? Okay then, let’s get going.”

And now, how do I explain the current situation to the Dean? Does she even require these sordid details? A full week has bled away since the email went out to Professor Pigou, proposing the collaboration for the Cornell paper. I could just tell her plain and simple: it’s been a week since I wrote to Professor Pigou, and he hasn’t replied. Did he miss it? I doubt it. Maybe he’s too busy. Honestly, I don’t really care. Maybe he simply lacks the knowledge of Public International Law and Philosophy to guide me into this conference? A distinct possibility. But to offer no reply at all?

Okay, let me change the strategy. What if I approach the Dean with a request to help me secure some other faculty member instead?