The Plagiarism

Mr. Aaron Connor, having been instructed to enter the Dean's office by his black-haired slim secretary, entered the Dean's office expecting to see the Dean sitting behind the great dark desk that, as it turned out, was the room's sole authoritative marker, for the room was conspicuously lacking the one thing that would have made it significantly different from any other room in the great college: namely, the Dean himself. Mr. Connor had been in the room only once before, three months prior, when he had gladly signed five checks for his son, four for lodging and one for tuition. He walked to the desk and looked over the objects upon it, noting especially once again the metal model Volkswagen, and he was able then to look it over with more attention than he'd been able to three months before. The model was packed with some colourful things such that there appeared to be zero empty space within. He picked it up and saw inside it some faces looking out: little model people of some sort. He carefully opened the driver-side door, noting that the model was quite sturdily built, and as he opened it a plastic figure fell out onto the desk: it was a model of a clown in an almost impossible pose, though smiling widely. Something else unusual, though: the clown was wearing a red armband. With a swastika on it. He looked inside again: yes, it was packed with clowns in a very clever arrangement, all, seemingly, wearing swastika armbands. He counted the faces looking out the windows and counted twenty. Twenty little clowns stuffed in a little Volkswagen. Mr. Connor had never seen anything quite so ingenious.

He was still holding the model plaything when a door to his left--a door he'd not noticed before--opened, and in came the Dean of the college. The Dean was wearing a dark blue suit, a pleated white shirt, and a tie patterned with red, blue, and green balloons on a beige background. The Dean himself was about fifty-five years of age, or so he appeared. He could have been a decade older for all that Mr. Cooper knew. (By the way, Mr. Cooper himself was dressed in a suit too. A charcoal grey suit: his office-wear at the plastics factory. He had come straight from there to the college when he'd been summoned, an hour and a half earlier.)

The Dean said in a tenor used to obedience, "That's a very delicate object; please put it down."

Mr. Cooper gently set the car down. "One of the, ah, clowns fell out." He picked up the clown and exhibited it as if the Dean had never seen it before.

The Dean took the clown and the car of clowns and, as he re-placed the errant clown he said, "It was made in Germany seventy years ago. It's been with the college since its foundation."

"Like a mascot."

"Yes. It's one of our mascots. We have two others."

"They're all Nazi clowns in that car, you know."

"It's something of its time. Our establishment is entirely non-political." The Dean sat down and gently placed the car on his desk. "Please, have a seat."

Mr. Cooper sat down. It was then that he noticed the Dean had a manila folder. "I'll try to be brief. I know you're a busy man."

"Yes. In fact I have an important meeting in an hour and a half."

The Dean smiled. "Then I'll be brief. I'm sure you've guessed this concerns your son, Bob."

"Yes, I guessed that. Is something wrong? Has he been injured?"

"No, he hasn't been injured. He's perfectly fine."

"Oh," said Mr. Cooper as a nervous warmth climbed up his back. "Then I suppose ... he's in trouble somehow."

The Dean opened the folder and said, "Your son, Bob, I'm sure you're aware we took him on here as a tribute to your creative work."

"Yes."

"Your work has benefited our college immensely, right from the start of your career, with your graduate paper, I believe that was in 1975."

"Yes. Gaussian Topographies in the Manufacture of Red Rubber Nose Polymers."

"Magnificent work. We took on your son because of your work. We ignored his decidedly mediocre artistic record and accepted him."

"How is he doing, anyway?"

The Dean sighed and took from the folder, holding it from a corner as if it was a smelly sport-sock, a six-page assignment and shoved it quickly across the desk. "See for yourself."

Mr. Cooper looked over the document. It was a school assignment. Something mathematical called, "Solution of the Single Solid State Problem in Boson Density." Mr. Cooper could not make head nor tail of it, but he did notice that his son's name was at the top of it and that on the last place was written in red: See me.

Mr. Cooper said, "This looks brilliant."

"It is brilliant. Too brilliant."

Mr. Cooper thought for a moment then said, "I suppose so."

The Dean shook his head slowly. "Yes, too brilliant for your son. Especially considering this." The Dean took another paper from the folder and held it forth with pride. Mr. Cooper took it and saw that it was almost exactly the same as his son's paper except for its authorship--one Stanley Clange--and the last page's mark: A++!!!

Mr. Cooper cried irrationally, "This can't be right, what the implication is."

"It's meaning is crystal clear to me," said the Dean forcefully. "Stanley Clange is truly one of our prize students. He's a marvel. He's first in maquillage, he's first in dégringole, he's a marvel at le ballon--though the grades are not in I expect him coming first for I have seen his marvellous giraffes--and he's second only to Smythe in fleur des eau. When this 'incident' came to light, I was completely in agreement with their grader, Floobly the Brain."

Mr. Cooper was still looking over the papers. "But, excuse me, but, what course are these from?"

"Introduction to Particle Physics."

"That seems a very odd course for a clown college to offer."

"It's a STEM course. By including it in the curriculum we qualify. For federal funding, you see."

"I see."

"It's tailored to be a 'bird' course."

"Yes."

"But some, like Stanley, apply themselves and show extraordinary talent."

"It certainly looks that way."

"While your son Bob is a stupid plagiarist."

Mr. Cooper was dumbfounded for a moment. "That's a very bold statement."

The Dean leaned back lordily. "I can't express it much otherwise. A plagiarist stupid enough to think we wouldn't see right through it."

"Have you confronted him?"

"I thought it best to talk to you first. You see, expulsion is a serious punishment, and there's no punishment for plagiarism but expulsion."

Mr. Cooper put two and two together. "Is it that you want me present for his expulsion?"

The Dean smiled. "It gets it all over with at once. I certainly don't want the poor dunce to take his own life. You'll be here for him."

"So you want me to just sit here?"

"We'll see what happens." He picked up the telephone and pressed four buttons. "Yes, Jingles, could you please locate Bob Cooper and have him come to my office asap. Thank you." He hung up and took the two documents from Mr. Cooper. "So, do you have any wonders coming our way out of you R&D? Any new red noses?"

Mr. Cooper was relieved to not have to think about his son's sin. "We think we've pretty much exhausted red nose technologies for the present. However, I can tell you about something we're pretty excited about."

"Do tell."

"We're working on gigantic shoes."

"Really?"

"We're working on a nanotech application that would allow the shoe to form itself around the foot and temporarily harden, allowing a perfect fit every time."

"How wonderful! You wouldn't believe the problems we have with proper clown shoes here. They're included in the tuition so naturally we have to have dozens and dozens on hand at all times, and we always have eight or nine pair left over, plus we always have to special order one or two pair, from Venezuela of all places."

"I suppose Venezuela needs more clown shoes per capita. Because everyone's busy emulating Chavez."

The Dean frowned. "A clown college doesn't approve the mockery of great statesmen."

"Oh, sorry. It's just that--" and the conversation would have delved into ideological territory had not the door gone knock-knock.

The Dean called out, "Come in."

The door opened and in came Bob Cooper. Bob Cooper was eighteen years old, of medium stature and medium weight. His face was covered quite splotchily with white greatpaint and his left eye was encircled with running mascara. He was wearing one of his father's patented clown noses, the apple of his daddy's eye. He saw the scene: the Dean, and his father. He pulled the red rubber globe from his nose and stuffed it in his pocket. He said, with proper clown college protocol, "You wanted to see me, Dean? Hello, father."

Mr. Cooper said, "Hello, son."

The Dean said, "Come in, lad. Come in and relax."

Bob moved his feet apart and put his hands behind his back like he'd seen in military movies.

"No, lad, I mean it. Come in, have a seat. We need to clear up something, something we're all quite puzzled about."

Bob crept catlike to a chair beside his father--moving it away slightly, in proximal politesse--and sat down, alert.

The Dean said, "This is about your elective in particle physics."

Bob started sweating.

The Dean continued, "Here, look. How can you explain this?"

Bob took the two papers offered to him and appeared to examine them. He was sweating more. Finally he put them down and said, "They do seem quite similar."

The Dean raised his voice gently to be clear. "Similar? They're almost exactly the same! Even down to the way the formulas are laid out. Can you give us an explanation that's not the obvious one, the obvious one being that you took Stanley's paper--or you bribed Stanley in some way, possibly an indecent way--and copied it with some slight alterations? Can you give us some other explanation for this one-in-a-million coincidence?"

Bob sat rigidly. "I cannot."

"So by that are you saying that the natural, normal explanation for things is the correct explanation?"

"I'm not saying that at all, because it's not true."

The Dean wiped his face. "Bob, please, help us here. How did they come to be so similar?"

"I cannot tell you that."

"Well, do you know of someone who can? It's just us here in this room, and apparently the explanation lies somewhere beyond it. Who can help us with this?"

Bob gulped. So much sweat, it was positively disgusting. He was trying to say something. He opened his mouth, than closed it again. His eyes closed, and he gasped out, "Stanley."

The Dean asked, "What about Stanley?"

Bob answered, "He's the only one who can tell you anything." He looked utterly deflated. Really.

The Dean picked up the phone and said, "Jingles, find Stanley Clange and send him in here," and hung up quickly. To Bob he said, "So, Stanley can tell us something?"

Bob said, "Maybe. It's up to him. Hello, Dad."

Mr. Cooper touched his son's shoulder gently. "Hello, Son. Don't be afraid. Things might still work out."

Bob's tears--for little tears there were--were making a mess of his maquillage in excess of the complete mess his lousy appliqué technique had caused in the first place. He smiled wanly and quietly said, "Yeah."

The Dean said, "Boy, I want you to know that when I expel you, that is to say in the next couple minutes, I want you to know that it doesn't mean the end of you. You have only wasted a few months of your life after all. There's other professions."

Bob managed to say, "Yes, but ... this was my dream."

"Well, so much for that. You'll have to go in for something else."

"My dream. My dream."

A knock at the door interrupted this tender shattered-dream scene and the Dean called out, "Come in."

The door flew open and crashed against the wall and in came something dynamic, comical, and exciting, yet possessed of sympathy and pathos. He was wearing a battered black hat and a dingy black cotton cloak and torn trousers and his face was made up 'sad-clown' and he danced into the room, his partner being a sad, wilted daisy. The Dean, Mr. Cooper, and Bob all thought they could hear a violin strain weeping though the performance was entirely silent. The clown swept his hand gently over the flower as if to revive it, but it didn't revive, and he sank into a corner sadly and tableaux.

Mr. Cooper applauded quietly.

The clown--Stanley Clange, of course--stood quickly and bowed graciously.

The Dean flatly said, "Master Clange, I want to ask you about your sub-atomic physics paper."

Stanley broke character and got up and bowed professionally. He smiled so sweetly.

The Dean said, "Your physics paper."

At that point Stanley became a normal person just like you and me. He said, "My physics paper?"

"Particle physics. You got a magnificent mark. Your teacher says it beyond anything he's ever read."

"That's good," said Stanley flatly. "So what's the matter?"

"It's quite simple. Cooper here stole it from you almost word for word."

Bob was looking down. The expression he presented to the floor was shame.

Stanley laughed. "Oh boy, you got it all wrong!"

The Dean leaned back. "What do you mean?"

Stanley laughed again, so professionally that everyone in the room--even Bob--had to smile. "He didn't steal it from me."

"No?"

"No! I took his paper, mixed up some of the words, and handed it in! Ha-ha-ha!"

The Dean chuckled. "You can't do something like that, my boy. It's against every academic code since, well, since for a very long time."

"Really? That makes no sense to me. It's not the same words, is it?"

"No; but it's not your ideas either."

"Does that matter?"

"Yes it does. You're being a thief."

"So what? Do you think I make up my routines? I'm imitating others. Those who've come before me. It's known as artistic tradition."

(Remember, everyone is smiling here.)

The Dean said, "It's just not done in academic courses."

"Hey, daddy-o, it's just some bird course, you know."

"Maybe so."

"Bosons for Bozos, we all call it."

"I've heard that. But no, you can't do it. I'm going to have to reduce your mark. I'm going to give you ... a sixty-five."

"What?"

"Sixty-six."

"But it's just science! It's just, like, not creative! You know, this ... scientifistical stuff, it's a bad thing!"

"Enough."

"We're taught that every day in all the other courses!"

"I said enough."

Stanley threw two left fingers under his nose, made a Roman salute with his left arm, and cried, "Yah vole!"

The Dean laughed until tears came to his eyes. "Okay, my boy, enough is enough! get back to class, get out of here, you knucklehead!"

Stanley turned smartly and goose-stepped out.

The Dean got a grip on himself. "Isn't he just too Chaplineque? Brilliant, brilliant!"

Mr. Cooper said, "Let me get this straight. You're not going to expel him?"

"Of course I'm not! I told you, he's one of our best students. It wouldn't be fair."

"Fair, to whom?"

"Don't bother me with details. Just let it be know that in addition to being brilliant, he's a member of the Negaw-zaaga'igani Nitam-Anishinaabe tribe, he's ambidextrous, and I understand he's starting to recover memories. For federal funding, you see. It simply wouldn't be fair, and that should be enough for you." Then he turned to Bob. "You, on the other hand, are most definitely expelled."

Bob cried, "Me? Why me?"

The Dean said, "It's because you're not good enough in your other classes, and because I say so."

Mr. Cooper said, "Now that's not fair, not fair at all."

"Fairness is what I say it is. Pack your things and leave. I'll refund you your tuition and the balance of your room and board. Good afternoon."

"I think you're making a mistake."

"I am not. Look at it this way. Your son belongs with ... scientists. Not with us. I know it's humiliating, but facts are facts. Good day."

Mr. Cooper and his downtrodden son left the Dean's office and went to the latter's dorm where they packed up all his belongings.

Mr. Cooper said, "I think this is for the best. I mean, it appears you're a brilliant physicist."

Bob sighed. "I know, I know. But still."

Everything was packed in the boxes they'd come in. All was ready to go.

"Son, you're going into science now. I know you're disappointed, but there are opportunities there, too."

"You think so?"

"Look at me. I rose from the working class because of my engineering skills. Now I am rich, and free."

"Money doesn't buy freedom."

Mr. Cooper took his son by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

"Yes, it does."

Bob pulled away and looked at the dorm walls. Harlequin posters, old Lautrec pictures, Chaplin. Mr. Cooper said, "You want to create happiness in the world? Build something someone wants."

Bob shrugged. "Let me think it over. I'm not at all clear on any of this. Goodbye, clowns!"

"Let's go get something to eat. Maybe some ice cream."

"Oh God that sounds horrible. Well, I'll tag along anyway. Who knows?"