HONORS FROM THE SPECIAL

Those beautiful leaves blowing in the wind... I was at my desk in my office, face buried in paperwork, when the phone rang. “Hello,” I said. “Charles Allan, dean of student services.”
The voice that spoke to me was that of a strange and illiterate sounding adult male. “Hello, Mr. Dean! And congratulations!”
A smirk came to my face, but I held back. “What for?”
“Mr. Dean, this is the Team for the Retarded People in America. We elect you–and we see-lect you–for an award in helper of the year for Boston town. You won!” The caller laughed.
Now, I have known some pranksters to call this number when urged to do so by their fraternity brethren; so I decided to put an end to this tasteless joke. “Sir, I have much work to do and I don’t have time to speak right now.”
The fellow on the other line was distraught. “Oh! No, Mr. Dean! No! Please, let us mail you the papers and the prizes.”
This line made me think anew. Any student could access my office mailing address as easily as my phone number: so why ask for it? I rattled it off, purely in the interest of seeing this person’s next move. There was a momentous silence.
“Wait...” my congratulator mumbled. Then once again, “Hold on.” Finally he asked me how to spell everything I just said. I shook my head in secret amusement.
After I had spelled my my address, I asked the gentleman if he would like me to spell my name. “I already have it,” he said without a touch of pretension. His excitement was compelling. I thanked him for the honor, and he thanked me back and said goodbye.
After I hung up the phone, I was filled with something like a very indifferent dread. Was it a joke? I feared I would never know.
Soon, however, the phone rang again. I answered it before the second ring, and gave an energetic greeting. It was only Franklin from the Office of the General Counsel, and I thought he might be looking for lunch company. Instead he told me that he just received something strange in the mail...
“What is it?” I asked.
“It looks like a certificate, handmade by a child. I’ve won the Good Helper award, it seems.”
“Did they call and ask for your address?” I asked him. He laughed and said it was on the Harvard website. Then why did I receive a phone call, I wondered. I had yet to find an excuse to laugh, and it was driving me crazy.
I asked Franklin if he thought this was a joke. “Oh, certainly,” he said. Then he asked if I wanted to meet for lunch. I said yes, and hung up.
The next day, my certificate showed up. No return address. The whole thing was pretty sloppy, but my name was spelled right. I had been named Helper of the Year.