Story code: ST-001757
Part 2: The Glass Partition
Julian’s fingers hooked into the thick, rough wool of the charcoal coat just as the brass handle began to turn. He yanked backward with every ounce of his remaining strength.
Arthur stumbled, the heavy cardboard box of MCAT books pitching forward. Julian caught the edge of the box just in time, steadying it against his chest as his paint-stained boots skidded on the concrete.
Arthur spun around, his weathered face flashing first with sharp indignation, then melting instantly into a brilliant, crag-lined smile. “Jules! Good lord, boy, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”
Julian couldn’t breathe. His lungs spasmed, fighting for air in the cold October wind. He leaned heavily against the cardboard box between them, technically hugging his father, but mostly using the older man’s solid frame to keep himself from collapsing onto the stone steps. “Dad. What… what are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t wait for Thanksgiving,” Arthur beamed, patting Julian heavily on the shoulder. His thick hand thumped affectionately against Julian’s collarbone. “Your mother said I was crazy to drive three hours on a Tuesday, but I wanted to surprise you. Brought the Kaplan manuals. The full set. And,” Arthur’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial, deeply proud whisper, “I brought the check for the spring semester.”
Julian’s stomach plummeted into an icy abyss. “The check.”
Arthur tapped the breast pocket of his winter coat. “Certified cashier’s check. Wanted to hand-deliver it to the bursar myself. Figured I’d take care of it right now, then take my future doctor out for a prime rib dinner down in Midtown. How’s that sound?”
“Dad, that’s… you didn’t have to do that.” Julian’s mind spun, frantically searching for an exit. He tried to physically pivot Arthur back toward the campus lawn, pushing gently against the older man’s forearm. “Let’s go get that steak right now. I’m starving. The dining hall food has been terrible.”
Arthur chuckled, planting his feet with the immovable stubbornness of a retired machinist. “Dinner can wait ten minutes. The registrar closes at four, and I am not walking around the city with fifteen grand sitting in my pocket. Come on.”
Arthur turned and grabbed the brass handle again. He pulled the heavy glass door open. A rush of warm, dry air spilled out onto the landing, carrying the distinct institutional scent of floor wax, heated dust, and printer toner.
“Wait!” Julian grabbed his father’s elbow. “Dad, they… they moved the billing office. It’s not here anymore. It’s across campus in the new administrative wing.”
Arthur frowned, looking up at the polished bronze plaque bolted to the brick wall right next to the door. It read: *Office of the Registrar & Student Bursar*. “No they didn’t, Jules. The sign is right here. And I called a nice girl named Brenda yesterday to confirm Window 4 still takes physical out-of-state checks.”
There was no stopping him without causing a physical scene. Arthur stepped over the threshold. Julian followed, his boots squeaking loudly against the polished terrazzo floor. The lobby was vast and echoing, lined with frosted glass partitions. To Julian, the room felt exactly like a mausoleum.
Arthur adjusted the heavy box of textbooks in his arms and scanned the room. “Smells like a hospital in here,” he remarked cheerfully. He leaned a few inches closer to Julian, sniffing the air. “You smell like one too. Solvents? You boys burning the midnight oil in organic chemistry today?”
“Yeah,” Julian choked out, his throat impossibly tight. “Organic chemistry.” The sharp, pungent odor of turpentine clinging to his flannel shirt was suddenly a suffocating weight.
“That’s my boy,” Arthur said, his chest swelling with pride. He nodded toward the far wall. “Look at that. Only two people in line. Must be my lucky day.”
Julian looked at the queue. Two students. That was it. He had maybe three minutes before his entire life exploded. He had to get the check away from Arthur. If Julian held the check, he could pretend to hand it in, or fake a signature error, or do *something* to stop the transaction.
“Here, let me hold the box,” Julian offered, reaching for the heavy cardboard.
“I got it,” Arthur insisted, shifting his weight. He reached into his coat with his free hand and withdrew a crisp, blue bank envelope. He looked down at it, his rough thumb, permanently stained with dark machine grease, tracing the seal. The ambient fluorescent light caught the sudden moisture pooling in Arthur’s eyes.
“Thirty-eight years on the shop floor, Julian,” Arthur said softly, his voice trembling with a quiet, fierce emotion. “Every time my back gave out, every time the union threatened a lockout… I thought about this envelope. Buying your way out of the machine dust. You’re going to wear a white coat. You’re going to work in clean, bright rooms, and people are going to call you Doctor.”
The raw devotion in his father’s voice felt like shattered glass in Julian’s throat. He was a thief. He had taken his father’s blood, sweat, and spine, and traded it for canvas, brushes, and a deposit on a downtown gallery space that Arthur didn’t even know existed. The thirty thousand dollars was gone. All of it.
*Ding.*
The digital bell echoed through the lobby. The red LED display above Window 4 ticked to the number *82*. The student in front of them grabbed his backpack and walked away.
“Next in line, please,” called a bored clerk from behind the thick glass partition.
Arthur stepped forward, leaving the safety of the waiting area.
Panic overrode Julian’s paralysis. He stepped directly in front of his father, blocking the window. “Dad. Please. Let me take the check. The line is meant for students. They get weird about parents doing it.”
Arthur gently but firmly pushed Julian to the side. “Nonsense. I’m paying the bill, I get to hand it over. Stop fussing, Jules. The lady is waiting.”
Arthur reached the counter. He laid the blue envelope on the stainless steel tray and slid it under the glass gap.
“Spring semester balance,” Arthur announced proudly. “For Julian Voss.”
The clerk, an older woman with half-moon glasses, pulled the envelope through. She didn’t look up. “Student ID number?”
Julian stood frozen. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe.
“Don’t need it,” Arthur said with a warm chuckle. “I’ve got his social memorized. Have since he was in diapers.” Arthur rattled off the nine digits without a second of hesitation.
The clerk sighed, her fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard. *Clack, clack, clack.* Julian watched the reflection of the ancient, green-text computer monitor in the glass partition. The system was loading. Searching.
“Julian?”
The sharp, booming voice echoed across the quiet lobby, cutting through the rhythmic clicking of the keyboard.
Julian turned his head. Striding purposefully across the terrazzo floor was Professor Vance, the head of the Fine Arts department. In his left hand, Vance was carrying the wooden palette Julian had dropped in the studio, a massive smear of wet cadmium red paint still dripping down the side.
“You left your palette in Dodge Hall,” Vance said loudly, his voice carrying off the marble walls as he approached the queue. “And I need a word with you, Julian. The gallery owner just called my office. The thirty-thousand-dollar deposit you wired them last week has a hold on it, and if it doesn’t clear by tomorrow, we lose the exhibition space.”
Arthur’s hand slowly slipped off the heavy box of MCAT books. He turned his head, looking at the approaching professor, then down at the blood-red paint dripping from the wooden board, and finally, slowly, back to Julian.
Behind the glass, the clerk hit the final *Enter* key.
“Alright,” she said, looking up at her screen. “Let’s see the account for Julian Voss.”