Senior Class Spirit

Agray and dreary rain was falling on Cambridge last night when the knock came at my door. Putting my textbook aside, I leapt to my feet and opened the door. "Yes?" I said.

A young woman stood in the hallway "Excuse me, I represent the class gift..."

"No," I said.

She did not bat an eyelid. "Can I talk to you about how even a one-dollar donation would improve class spirit?"

"No thanks," I said, and closed the door.

Strangely, though no other person was in the room, I did not feel alone. It was almost as though a ghostly spirit remained, an unearthly presence some-how connected psychically through ethereal vibrations produced by my callous dismissal of Harvard's financial needs. Almost as though a portal to the next world had somehow been wrenched open, permitting the spirits of the dead to pass through to this plane of existence. Somewhere, lightning crashed.

I thought nothing of it, however, and decided to lie down and take a nap.

I began to dream. I was in a final exam and I was naked and the professor--except it wasn't really a professor, it was a talking dog--never mind. Anyway, it was over soon.

Suddenly, my room was torn by an enormous explosion. The smell of death filled the room. The floorboards broke open, and from the steaming earth rose a looming, ominous form.

"Rutger?" I said. "Rutger Fury?"

"Yes, it is I, Rutger Fury, your former close personal friend and one-time literary editor of the National Enquirer, recently deceased," said the dead man. "I have been awakened from my eternal slumber--well, it was supposed to be eternal--by your unnatural refusal to give generously to the class gift."

"Really? I didn't know that Harvard's influence extended that far," I said.

"You're kidding. Hadn't you heard that JFK '40 had close links to the underworld?" came the raspy reply of my undead ex-pal. "But seriously. I have come back to this world to help you rectify your mistake before it is"--thunder boomed--"too late."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't hear all of what you said because of the booming thunder."

He sighed. "I said I have to help you rectify your mistake before it is over-whelmingly obvious to everyone that you're a skinflint, and I want to get done by 11, so let's hurry up before it gets too late."

HE grasped my hand in a bony grip, and magically we were whisked into the air. "We are taking a trip through time and space to show you how money is made and why Harvard needs all of it," he said, anticipating my question. Instantaneously we appeared in the printing room of the U.S. mint.

"Your dollar begins here..."

"I know, I know," I said. "I thought you said you wanted to finish early."

"Just bear with me," he said. "Your dollar starts here. Right now, it's of no use to anyone, because it hasn't been spent yet. But the government moves quickly to rectify that situation"--magically we appeared on the pitching deck of a naval vessel--"by giving your dollar to defense contractors to build war materiel."

Next we appeared in a steaming jungle. "The defense contractor then gives your dollar to the leader of a banana republic, as part of a bribe to get him to buy the contractor's armored personnel carriers. The president of the banana republic then gives the dollar as part of a kickback to the local drug king, who gives it to help pay a drug courier, who spends it to buy a Coke when it gets to the United States. But the cashier drops it on the street and you find it." By now we were back in my room.

"That's fascinating," I said. "What does it have to do with the class gift?"

"Not much," he confessed. "I just thought I'd try out some of that supernatural gimmickry on you. I'm just getting the hang of it myself. Anyway, we're not done yet. I still have to show why you need to donate that dollar instead of spending it. You see, if you donate it, Harvard will be able to invest it here"--we reappeared on the pitching deck of the ship--"by buying stock in the defense contracting firm. If, on the other hand, you choose to spend it, your dollar will wind up here"--we reappeared in the steamy jungle--"in the hands of the drug king."

"Wait," I protested. "First of all, Harvard doesn't need my money. It has assets in excess of $4 billion. I can't even use the automatic teller without getting into negative numbers."

"It ain't the size of your balance, it's how you use it. Harvard uses its money well, to support the activities of the free world. If it took its money away, the global economy would be bankrupt. You, on the other hand, support only people who make sandwiches. Which is more important--the whole world, or sandwich makers?"

"To me, sandwich makers," I said. "But it really doesn't matter. I don't want to give up my dollar. I--or rather, my parents--have already spent the better part of a hundred G's keeping me here, and frankly, I think I've done my part to keep Harvard in spending money."

He opened his mouth for rebuttal, but at that moment the clock struck 11. "Wow, The Late Show's on now, on Fox Network," he said, and even as he spoke his ethereal form began to waver. "So long, and think about what I said." And with that he was gone.

Poof! I woke up. It was just a dream. Relieved, I ran to my desk and pulled out my wallet, checking its contents. Yep. Just enough for a big chicken salad jumbo.

I knew I was doing the right thing.