Professor Dan Deever, MFA (Fiction) Iowa ’83, Redux

There was that night that we thought John Berryman could fly/ but he didn't, so he died.

All I’m saying is this, Cassie. When the most hip literate guys you can think of off-hand are a rock and roll band, you’ve got serious fucking problems.

No, not you personally. Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m saying that as a generation, you’re functionally illiterate. You, plural, is what I’m trying to convey.

No, Bob Dylan is completely different.

No, I’m not just saying that because I like Bob Dylan. Although, yes, he is the poet laureate of the latter half of the twentieth century, and I appreciate that.

Yes, I know that he chose that name because of Dylan Thomas. And because Bob Zimmerman wasn’t any kind of troubadourish name. Bob Zimmerman’s the guy who fits you for orthopedic shoes.

No, that isn’t racist.

No, it isn’t.

I’m well aware that you’re personally intelligent and literate.

No, it isn’t about the money. It’s the point of the thing. It’s inflation. It’s being part of the dilution. If for instance everyone’s getting 4.0′s, then what does it actually mean? Is my question.

No, honey. No. I haven’t been drinking. I’ve been–how to say? I’ve been keeping myself company in this long winter of illiteracy and generational–strike that, cultural–falling away from meaning and reason.

Look. You want to get a–I can’t believe I’m even saying this–a PhD in Creative Writing? It’s bad enough they issue doctorates to anyone who can’t take out your appendix. But Doctor of Creative Writing? Have you considered waiting tables instead? I mean, as a way to weather the job–yes, I’m sure it is bleak out there without tenure–the job market?

Don’t cry, honey. I mean, you didn’t expect to support yourself from getting an MFA, did you?

Well, of course I have. I got an MFA when that meant something. Before the inflation. Before the dilution.

What if I sent you some money? Would that help?

Hello?

Cassie?