Each entryway wore the thick letters “A.J. DOYLE HALL” over its threshold. It was the largest building on campus, with doors facing north, south, east, and west. The coliseum style lecture hall had been built by money donated by Mr. A.J. DOYLE himself. He was wealthiest man in the tri-state area and chose to hand deliver a check to the dean when he realized he wanted to fund the masterpiece of architecture. It just so happened A.J. lived on the crest of a hill that overlooked the scenic campus, and from his bedroom window, in his colorful Victorian house, with use his brass antique telescope, he had a perfect view of A.J. DOYLE hall.
A.J. never went to college himself—but over the years he had grown fond of seeing his name on buildings. Well, not just buildings: bridges, street signs, parks overpasses, ornamental boulders, even those bricks in memory gardens would do in a pinch. But there was something especially satisfying about seeing one’s own name on a building. Mr. DOYLE enjoyed driving through campus in his AWD Jeep with the doors off. He only put the doors on on the rainy days, because fresh air was good for one’s constitution. He kept the Jeep in the lower gears as he drove through campus, careful to slow down when the bells chimed the end of a class period. He would wait for the students to come out of A.J. DOYLE Hall, and wait for them to see him driving by. He was quite confident the students looking at him were whispering, “That’s the generous Mr. A.J. DOYLE. Without him we would never have had the chance to attend such a brilliant lecture on astrophysics.” Since A.J. didn’t go to college he didn’t realize the only thing taught in a lecture hall that large were massive flunk out classes, the ones used to weed drunken freshman from those who may actually be able to hold an 8-5 job one day.
One doesn’t become a billionaire by going to college—of that A.J. was certain. Still he enjoyed giving the youth of the world a place to stave off their adult responsibilities a few years longer. And it couldn’t hurt to have your name shown in such a place. He wasn’t so worried about successful people coming out of his hall, because A.J. knew Universities were the last road to success. He often thought that if he taught a class, he would share the true secret of success. Mr. A.J. DOYLE always knew he was on the right path when everyone looked at him as if he had done something wrong.
Like the time he told Miss McKinnon he should like to harvest shed snakeskins for a new type of sausage casing. Miss McKinnon told him the skins were too fragile and the public wouldn’t eat something called Snake Sausage. A.J. shook his head at her declaration and went straight to work pioneering the realm of reptilian foodstuffs—very popular for those who like to live on the dark side of danger.
“Miss McKinnon, people always want to appear brave, especially when all they have to do is nothing. Even better if they can do it while eating.”