The economics department at Northeastern University, where I presently enjoy all the benefits of the so-called tenure-track position, is located on the third floor of a rehabilitated pharmaceutical factory, built sometime around the turn of the century. I like this ugly brick building, the enormous and defunct smokestack notwithstanding, at least in comparison with the newer ones erected with a purpose and a misplaced sense of propriety. The elevator in our building is an obvious latecomer. As the stairwell could not be extended, the already narrow stairs had been squeezed to the minimum. Two people can pass each other by only if they walk carefully sideways. A couple of days ago, on my way home, I walked indolently downstairs, when I heard someone running urgently behind me. I paused on a miniature landing and pressed my shoulders against the wall to let a student overtake me. I had not seen him before. When he reached me, he turned his beaming face toward me, in appreciation, and said: “Oh, I’m so happy!” He continued running down the last flight of stairs. “What happened?” I yelled after him. This was an unpremeditated act, for I would have remained silent otherwise. He opened the door that leads to the street, turned around, and grinned: “I got an excellent grade.” His happiness was contagious indeed, and I raised my arms in sympathy: “Great!” He held the door for me, and as I stood in the doorway behind him, both of us facing the street, I heard him utter a rhetorical question: “And what do you do now?” Still in my professional mood, I advised him to be happy pure and simple. “Wow!” he said to himself and trotted away, and I followed him down the street with a stupid but genuine grin. I could feel every muscle in my face and neck. On my way to the bus stop, I saw him again—this time on his bicycle. He did not notice me. The expression on his face had changed, and he now looked like any other bicyclist on the street. I was still grinning, though.