No Free Lunch

In the autumn of 1988, I was enjoying what was to be my final year living stateside. No longer commuting from Stanford, I was living in Berkeley and focusing on my doctoral research after some four years of knocking about intellectually. During that time of searching, I must have audited about every undergraduate history course that Berkeley offered, along with a few in sociology, religious studies, political science, and whatnot. I had finally stumbled across an idea on John's Gospel and Gnosticism, and that had given me direction.

To support my studies, I worked at two jobs. One was as a Teaching Assistant for a course with the odd title "Subject A." Informally, it was known as "Bonehead English," which was not quite politically correct but also not really accurate, either. I taught freshman students how to compose essays that argued for an explicitly stated thesis using basic logic and supportive evidence. This was my real job.

My other job was a sinecure. Near the top of Stephens Hall was a large lounge with a high ceiling, perhaps 25 feet up, from which hung two enormous chandeliers that would sway threateningly at the slightest Bay Area quake. We called the place Stephens Lounge, and two or three other graduate students and I were employed to keep it stocked with cookies, tea, and coffee -- at a price. No free lunch, remember? Anyone wanting cookies and a drink had to drop some small change into a styrofoam cup. We didn't police our patrons carefully, but most people must have been honest, for we always had enough money to purchase more supplies.

I loved the job. I needed only show up, make coffee, and settle down with my books for peaceful hours of study. As I said, a sinecure.

One of my co-workers was John Gerring, who now teaches at Boston University. I no longer recall if he or I had the idea, but we decided to pretend that the lounge was short on funds and now needed to charge for its various services, not just for the cookies and drinks.

But what services? There were none.

There was, however, the enormous, well-thumbed Webster's Dictionary positioned on its own proud podium and used by about everyone.

We decided to charge for words. I made a sign showing the prices. Nouns were more expensive than verbs, and abstract nouns were the most expensive. If I recall correctly, a verb was 10 cents, a noun 15 cents, and an abstract noun 30 cents, but you could get two non-abstract nouns for 25 cents.

We taped our sign and waited . . .

Nothing happened. We received some smiles but no extra small change.

Time passed. The sign was forgotten. Peace reigned supreme.

Until one day, late in the afternoon, as I sat in the lounge grading midterm essays . . . . So intent was I on my reading and marking that only gradually did it dawn on me that something was odd in the room.

I looked up, my pen still in my hand, uncapped, hovering over some unfortunate student's essay. Immediately to my left, and pacing to and fro, was a very filthy, very disturbed young man. The entire lounge had stopped all activity, attention focused on him. With all eyes following his movements, he briskly strode over to the dictionary and there began paging quickly through it, flipping great chunks of pages over as if they were blocks, letting them plop down again as though into mud, a few of the pages splashing up from the impact.

A young man asleep in the couch next to me awoke disturbed, rubbed his eyes, looked at the crazy from the street, then stared at me in astonishment. The insane fellow at the dictionary continued his research, mumbling audibly, incoherently . . . threateningly? By now, all eyes had turned to me, imploring that I do something, something please to get rid of this guy.

Not violently, you understand, for this was Berkeley -- no physical force allowed! At Berkeley, we'd much rather ignore, hoping that our problem would recognize that it is a problem -- holding ourselves indefinitely in this subjunctive mood.

But this problem insisted on remaining, and everyone realized it. I had to do something. But what?

Then, I smiled, remembering the sign. I got up, walked over to the gentleman, and -- pointing to our sign -- softly explained: "Um . . . excuse me, but if you're going to use our dictionary, you have to pay."

He glanced at me briefly, nodded, then returned to his preoccupation.

Unrelenting, I continued, "You see -- it's 10 cents per verb and 15 cents for a noun, but there's a special on two basic nouns for a quarter."

He looked up, concentrating now upon the notice.

"And," I added, "abstractions cost 30 cents each, no reductions or discounts on those."

He now looked directly at me, as though trying to gauge my honesty. I half-expected him to blurt out -- "But that's crazy!"

Instead, he asked, "Where do I pay?"

I turned, pointing across the room, and explained, "At the coffee machine -- there's a styrofoam cup with change. The honor system."

He walked over to the coffee table, stared at the cup for a moment, then looked at me again. "Does the coffee also cost money?"

"Yes," I said, "The tea and cookies, too."

He ruminated upon all this for a few moments, then turned to leave, apparently dissatisfied with our selection.

"Sure that you don't want any words?" I asked softly, as he walked away.

He didn't hear, though, but simply vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared . . .