Every department chair (and the term itself, thanks to Best of the Web, sounds like a piece of furniture, which I am, basically) has the One Professor.  The One Professor is the one who calls every hour, on the hour. Her calls are concentrated near the beginning of the semester, precisely when I'm in the mode Michael Douglas adopted in The Wonder Boys: whatever is in front of me I have to deal with, whatever is elsewhere I can ignore.

One Professor removes all doubt by placing herself in front of me, every hour on the hour.  By "in front of me," read, "constant e-mails, constant voice-mails, constant accosting of me in the hallway."

One week before the semester, she called.

"Yeah, Fox, my Multicultural Lit class, it only has five students and maybe it won't go up and maybe I should give it up and move to Comp Two."

"Don't worry," I said.  "We staff six and up."

(Digression.  Six and up?  Yes.  Our President, Herlinda Garces, operates on the theory that the more classes we schedule, the more students we'll have.  And so our college, semester by semester--by Dr. Garces' decree--schedules twice as many classes than our student body could ever fill.  The result is that we are left with nine thousand classes with two students apiece; these, we have to cut--at the very last minute, again by Dr. Garces' decree--and so our students, who had, months earlier, meticulously put together a schedule that accomodated work, day care, the bus schedule, the babysitter, the parole officer, the AA meeting, and the care of an ailing relative (most of our students deal with at least three of the preceding) are told, Sorry, you have seventy-two hours to fix it yourself.  For us, for all the classes we schedule, six students is a lot.)

We return to One Professor:

"But maybe it won't go to six."

"It will."

"But maybe it won't."

"Well, if it doesn't, we'll give you Comp Two."

"But maybe you should cut it now."

"It's one student away from running."

We hang up.  Two hours later, as I attempt to staff forty classes, find teachers willing to come out for eighty dollars per week, and negotiate a dozen students clamoring to test out of this or that, a phone call comes again.

She:  "It's still at five.  It hasn't gone up."

Me: "It will go up."

She: "But what if it doesn't?"

Me: "Then we'll give you Comp Two."

She: "Maybe you should do it now."

Me: "Fine.  I'll give you Comp Two now.  And when Multi Lit goes to six I'll give that to someone else."

She: "But if it went to six I would want it back.  If you give me Comp Two you should cancel Multi Lit."

Me: "I can't cancel Multi Lit.  I'm told not to cancel anything with five."

She: "Well, call the students up.  Tell them you will cancel it, and they'll drop.  Then you can cancel it for real."

Me: "I've no reason to.  It'll make."

She: "But what if it doesn't go to six?"

Me: "It is going to six.  So just keep it."

(Understand the environment here. I sometimes go two hours on the phone without hanging up, just switching back from one insistent line to another.  I have, at this moment, 12 classes without teachers at all.  And I have this one.  My One Professor.)