(approx. 5-minute read)

chapter one: tldr

Alan was so preoccupied with the idea of self-control that his lone indulgence, a blueberry scone with clotted cream, was scheduled and calculated for precisely 3pm each day.

Today, eating in a hurry, he didn’t have the presence of mind to appreciate how the perfect amount of salt brought out the tartness of the blueberry, nor savor the smooth integration of cream and crumbs rolling around his tongue.

A few large bits of scone fell onto Alan’s desk as he let out a sigh over the 252 emails that had arrived in his inbox since that morning alone.

He swept the crumbs off his desk with a flick of his wrist.

He frowned. He hadn’t meant to do that.

The bits of scone fell in slow motion, sprouting Googly Eyes on thin green stems as they hit the floor.

Yes, we’re talking about those Googly Eyes, the kind typically found in kindergarten classrooms: small black plastic circles swirling in between a white backing and a clear plastic shell.

The impossibility of the Googly Eyes would have unsettled Alan a few months — or perhaps years — ago.

He’d have gotten his eyes, and likely also his head, checked before the day was through.

Googly Eyes simply did not sprout from bits of scone.

But was anything precedented anymore? Alan didn’t pause, experienced no concern, no shock, no fear. He grabbed a tissue and gathered the crumbs in it, Googly Eyes and all. Feeling his lower back tighten as he stood, Alan started walking to his trash can, which sat approximately 20 feet from his desk, at the other end of his corner office.

The TLDR for this inconvenient location — Alan’s assistant once explained to him that TLDR stood for Too Long Didn’t Read and was used to indicate a summary statement at the beginning of an arduous email — the TLDR was that Alan’s predecessor, the 14th president of this fine institution of higher learning, had purchased a leather waste basket with crocodile embossing and gold trim for the office.

It was one of the parting gifts that Alan inherited when he became president 26 months ago. Also included: a budget deficit, a board accustomed to micromanaging, and half a dozen coffee-stained university mugs in various sizes and colors.

On Day Three of his presidency, Alan had placed his predecessor’s trash can at the opposite end of the office. Every morning since, he’d hoped the trash can would be where he’d left it the evening before. Without exception, he found himself disappointed, for every night, the overnight cleaning crew moved the trash can, past the sitting area, tea cart, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and back underneath Alan’s desk.

If you’ve ever been immersed in the oddities of bureaucratic life — shaken your fist in the air when told you’d used blue ink instead of black on a form, or rolled your eyes at the unbreakability of silos — this Dance of the Wastebasket might carry a tinge of the familiar.

Perhaps the Facilities team thought it absurd that the University President would need to walk across his office to get to his trash can. Perhaps it wasn’t about Alan at all. For all he knew, the team had a checklist for each office that stipulated the exact number of feet the trash receptacle must reside from the occupant’s desk.

This explanation is longer than a TLDR is supposed to be — and also a non-explanation for Alan’s behavior. 

Alan himself hated TLDRs. He understood the point, of course. Who didn’t appreciate a neat little preface to the hundreds of emails skimmed while waiting at a stoplight or for the next meeting to start or while eating one’s 3pm blueberry scone.

But TLDRs also seemed an unfortunate #signofthetimes. Nuance and discernment replaced by cute talking points.

Surely, Alan could have articulated and enforced his preference for the location of one lone trash can. He was the president! Head of a multi-billion dollar institution! Between students, faculty, administrators, and staff, there were 30,000 individuals in his charge!

A younger version of him might have tried. This version of him — almost 60, feeling like he’d seen it all but also could no longer make sense of anything — picked up the trash can next to his desk every morning, took it some 20-odd feet back across the office, and traversed the same journey each time he needed to throw something away.

Perhaps he was listening to his physician’s advice to enhance his step count. Perhaps he wanted an excuse to get up and look out the window during each micro-walk across the room.

Like his email inbox, Alan’s own motives had been TLDR’d.

***

Two years ago, when Alan had first arrived on campus, he’d loved the view outside his office. Students chatting, lounging, studying, laughing. The classical architecture of the surrounding buildings. Freshly-cut grass, that had also been trampled, lived on. It was everything he cherished about higher ed: how tradition meets exploration of the wild beyond. He loved the feeling of wonder endemic to university campuses.

But now? The view outside Alan’s office was still objectively beautiful, but he didn’t enjoy looking out the window anymore. How could he? All those picturesque scenes of campus life remained, but he no longer registered any of it. Instead, his eyes couldn’t help but land upon the delightful monstrosity now responsible for 65% of the emails in his inbox and at least 72% of the meetings on his calendar.

Here’s the TLDR: several months ago, a gigantic Goldfish Bowl, approximately three stories high, had appeared, like magic, overnight in the middle of the university Quad.

***

It was the Communications Division that raised the most urgent question within minutes of the Goldfish Bowl’s discovery. How would they feed the fish and clean the water? The last thing the university needed was cloudy water or unalived fish to go viral on social media or distract prospective students and their parents on campus tours.

Facilities Management claimed that Food and Dining Services was best equipped to take the lead, and Food and Dining said this was clearly a Facilities job.

While they argued about who would take responsibility, nobody thought to consult any faculty for two-and-a-half days — that’s 60 hours! The Academic Senate Chair sent a scathing op-ed to the school paper, protesting the exclusion of the fish scientists. This raised the thorny question of exactly which fish scientists, since the relevant expertise was scattered across Fish & Wildlife, Environmental Science, and Animal Biology, each of whom had competing opinions about whether the Goldfish Bowl was primarily an organismal problem or an ecological one.

Meanwhile, the Dean of Engineering saw a fundraising opportunity and insisted her faculty design the filtration system. She did not realize, or pretended not to, that these very same faculty were mid-battle over changes to qualifying exam requirements and refused to collaborate on anything. The task fell to their PhD students: perfect timing for the TA union to add another item to collective bargaining negotiations.

Every day, another issue arose over the Goldfish Bowl. Should they recreate the 3D virtual campus tour on their website to highlight this unique architectural feature, or would that make them a target for animal rights activists?

The Academic Senate believed that all matters related to the Goldfish Bowl belonged in the purview of Shared Governance. New bylaws needed to be created, along with committee and sub-committee appointments.

Often, it felt like the meetings on Alan’s Outlook calendar related to the Goldfish Bowl multiplied exponentially each day.

Some mornings, as he passed through the Quad on his walk from the President’s Residence to the Admin Building, he was convinced that the Goldfish Bowl was taller than it had been the day before.

***

That's Chapter One — the rest of Season One is a click away. Listen here or on your favorite podcast player, or download the full transcript.