Pascal's Wager Read Online Free PDF Page B

coffee. Why I ever discussed anything with the man was beyond me. I’d have been content to sit in the office in total silence, actually getting work done, since I was teaching a course on my own that quarter
and
getting pressure from the department to organize a teaching seminar for the other graduate students
and
being available to see students three hours a week
and
trying to finish my dissertation
and
getting it together to apply for post-doc positions. But Jacoboni never seemed to have much to do except talk in that educated Southern accent that sounded phony to me—although who would
want
to put that on was a question I couldn’t answer.
    â€œHow does a child like that get into Stanford in the first place?” he said.
    â€œHigh school grades. Test scores,” I said.
    â€œAnd she’s flunking out?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œGood luck, darlin’.”
    He smiled for no apparent reason, the way he did at the end of almost every sentence, and then propped up his feet, legs clad in cargo shorts, on his desk. As usual, he was wearing sandals, inspite of the fact that his feet were gargoyle-bony. It was his macho pose, one he had adopted early on when he’d discovered that he was the best-looking graduate student among the males in the math department. Math guys tended to be on the geeky side, so the fact that Alan was somewhat hip and played up his basic attractiveness made him look like Leonardo DiCaprio in a room full of Woody Aliens.
    I personally didn’t think he was all that handsome. He kept his generically brown, curly hair cut close to his head so it didn’t go wild on him, and he was going to be fighting the proverbial battle of the bulge someday if he didn’t stop living on beer and Cheetos. At twenty-eight, it was about time. Okay, so when he was dressed in nice slacks and a sport shirt and loafers he looked relatively attractive, but he usually schlepped around in shorts and T-shirts when he wasn’t teaching, and he didn’t do “sloppy-casual” well. He tended to just look sloppy.
    He was still leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, checking me out with his eyes, as if he hadn’t been looking at me every day for the last four years.
    â€œWhat?” I said coolly.
    â€œDarlin’, I bet it’s days like this you wish you were already out there knocking down the big bucks instead of in here tutoring pathetic little airheads.”
    â€œI’m not crazy about the pathetic little airheads,’” I said. “But I’m not here to learn how to make big bucks.”
    â€œOh, bilge! We all are. What really burns my biscuits is when I get an e-mail from one of my fraternity brothers telling me he’s going to Cancun for a week. He’s got a bachelor’s in business and he’s already making six figures a year. I’ve got twice the education and I’m still living like a pauper.” He lifted a foot so I could see the large hole in the sole of his sandal.
    â€œNice,” I said.
    â€œYou can’t tell me that doesn’t bother you,” Jacoboni said.
    â€œIt doesn’t bother me.” I made a huge deal out of opening afile folder and studying it intently, pencil behind my ear. He didn’t pick up the clue that, for me, the conversation was over.
    â€œIt bothers
me
. But not for long. Once I’m out of here, I’m heading straight for industry. Then I’ll be flying to Cancun for the
weekend
—in my private jet. Oh, yeah, baby.”
    Since he was obviously not going to shut up, I turned and surveyed him with one of my I-see-through-you-pal stares.
    â€œIf you want to work in industry,” I said, “why did you come here? We have less applied math than almost any other school.”
    â€œBecause it’s
Stanford
, honey. All I have to do is say the name and CEOs drop their dentures.”
    â€œOh,” I said. The stare wasn’t working. I