My supervisor is strange.

Brilliant, but strange.

And it seems to be an inside joke with just about anybody in the math department.

“Who’s supervising you?”, they’d ask.

I’d reply.

Then they’d kind of half-gurgle, half-muffle a snicker. And say something totally ambiguous, like, “Oh, he’s quite the character, that one.”

What the hell does that mean?

So this afternoon…

I walked into his office.

“Hey,” I said casually, “I just realized I have a class tomorrow at eleven, so I may be a bit late for our meeting at twelve”.

“Phil, c’mere,” he said, gesturing.

I walked over to his desk.

On the desk — among the stacks of papers and mess of notebooks were, what appeared to be: two (2) steel magnum revolvers (replicas?), a bottle of vodka, and a large beer mug.

He picked up one of the revolvers and fingered it. Menacingly.

“Phil, this,” he gestured towards the revolver with his free hand, “is what we use when grad students get tensed up about silly issues like that.”

“Fair enough,” I croaked.

Then I scurried out, tail between my legs, trying furiously not to trip. Or sniffle.