More people entered the elevator on every floor. By the time it reached the fourth, I could have told you what most of them had eaten for lunch. Mercifully, at the sixth floor all but one of them got off.

I glanced at my fellow survivor. "Sarah?"

She turned her head. "Professor Theophilus! I was just coming to see you."

"What has it been — a year? I thought you'd graduated."

"No, but this is the year I do my practicum. It keeps me pretty busy." The door opened. We got out and turned left down the hall.

"What did you want to see me about?"

"Well, I — oh, thanks," she said, entering my office.

I'd set the timer before going off to teach class, so the coffee was all ready to pour. She accepted a cup and took a chair. "Where were we?"

"You were telling me the reason for your visit."

"Right. It's about that column you write for Groundless Webzine."

"Not Groundless. Nounless."

"Sorry. Anyway, I have an assignment for you."

"You have an assignment for me?" I filled my old chipped mug and sat down.

"Maybe that's not the best way to put it. But I do have a column idea for you, and I hope you accept it. It sure would help me out if you did."

"How would it help you out?"

She asked, "Can I tell you the column idea first? Do you remember that Lunch Lecture you gave once at the Student Union — the one about popular culture?"

"That was two and a half years ago. You have a good memory."

"Has it been that long? Well, you should put some of that stuff in a Ground — in a Nounless column. About how the word 'culture' is related to the word 'cultivation.' About how what we read and sing and hear and watch and talk about and laugh at shapes our souls. When you gave your Lunch Lecture you applied all that to literature, but I've been thinking: You could apply it to rock and hip-hop lyrics."

"It's been done, Sarah. Not a week goes by without some writer moaning about the what's wrong with popular music. There's nothing new to say about the subject. It bores most people stiff."

"But it's so necessary."

"For my audience, I'm not convinced that it is. Nounless is aimed mainly at Christian college students. Don't you think they know those things already?"

"You wouldn't say that if you knew my roommate."

I smiled. "Is this where you tell me how my writing such a column would 'help you out?' "

"Well, yes. See, my roommate and I have a schedule. Tuesday and Thursday nights are reserved for her friends to come over and hang out, and Monday and Wednesday are reserved for mine."

"Sounds like a good plan."

"It is. But hers get together to listen to music, and you don't know what kind of music they listen to. Horrible stuff."

"Do you mean the language or the musicianship?"

"Some of the language is foul, but the main thing is the creepy themes. Songs about drugs. Songs about jumping off roofs. Songs about having sex with strangers. The refrain of one song goes 'I'm a loser, why don't you kill me?' In another, this girl is mixed up in something wrong, and she asks 'Why does it have to be this way?' But then she says 'kinda I want to,' 'maybe God will cover up his eyes,' and 'we can pretend it's all right.' There's another song with 'kinda want to' in it — I remember now. It goes 'I kinda want to hate you.'"

"Go on."

"And then there's the guy who brings his Enema albums. Those are the worst. On one track Enema talks trash about his sister. On another he says he can't wait for his mother to rot in hell. Then there's the one where he screams that his wife is a whore and makes it sound like he's killing her. From there on it just gets worse."

"Why do you listen to it?"

"At first I didn't have any choice."

"Have you tried talking with her?"

"Oh, sure. She was very understanding. Now they keep the volume down low. If I go into my room and shut the door, I can't even hear the music."

"Then why —"

"It's not me that I'm worried about, Professor T. I'm concerned about what she's doing to herself."

"Of course you are. But what does all this have to do with my column? Sure, I could do one on the subject, but it's not the sort of thing your roommate would be likely to read."

"But she does. She reads your column every month. She thinks you're cool. I didn't tell you — Marcy's a Christian."

"A Christian?"

"Yes."

"Not the Marcy who heads the Speakers Program for

your —"

Sarah nodded her head vigorously, several times. I leaned back in my swivel chair and tried to take the strange thought in. When I found my voice I asked, "Have you challenged her about the junk? Can the two of you talk frankly about things like this?"

"That's what I was telling you. I can talk with her frankly about anything. And she can with me. In fact, we're accountability partners. She tells me when she thinks something is bad for me, and I've already told her why I think this junk is bad for her."

"How did she reply?"

"She said, 'If you don't take the lyrics too seriously, the music is actually quite entertaining. And I don't, so what's the harm?' "

"When she says that, you answer —"

"I answer 'That's just what worries me — the fact that you can take them not-seriously.'"

"What does she say then?"

An odd expression passed over Sarah's face, then disappeared. "Oh, she just changes the subject."

"If you're firm, that's not so easy to do. How does she change the subject?"

"It's really not important."

"Maybe it is. How does she change it?"

"She uses a tu quoque fallacy. That's a fallacy of distraction, like —"

"I remember. I'm the one who taught you about it."

"Oh, right. Do you still teach that course?"

"Sarah, the tu quoque is the 'You Too" fallacy."

"I don't think I've ever told you how much I learned from that course. Even though I was only a freshman, I —"

"The fallacy occurs when one person says 'You shouldn't do that,' and the other dodges the ball by saying 'You do it too.' What are you doing too?"

"I don't do it too."

"What does she say you're doing too?"

"Oh, it's too ridiculous for words."

I smiled. "Try."

"Well — she says that what I do with my friends on Monday and Wednesday nights is just the same as what she does with her friends on Tuesday and Thursday nights."

"What do you do with your friends on Monday and Wednesday nights?"

"We hang out, eat popcorn, and watch TV. Now you probably think TV is a waste of time —"

"What is it that you watch with them?"

Sarah was twirling her hair with a finger. Her eyes roved over my bookshelf. "You know. Reality shows."

"I don't know. What reality shows?"

"Nothing much. Max Megabucks on Monday nights and The Vixenette on Wednesdays."

I swiveled through a quarter-turn of the chair, pursing my lips to hide a grin. "I think I see why your accountability partner isn't taking your concern for her very seriously."

Sarah flushed. "And why shouldn't she?"

"I didn't say she shouldn't. I said I see why she doesn't."

"What's wrong with Max Megabucks and The Vix — The Vixen —" All at once she dissolved into helpless laughter. "I can't say the word," she said breathlessly. "But Prof, it's all so harmless! If you don't take it too seee — too seee-reee —"

"Are you trying to say 'seriously'?"

That only made the fit worse. "I was trying to sa-ay —" she quavered and stopped. Taking a deep breath, she began again. "I'm sorry. I was trying to say that if you don't take it too seriously, it's actually quite — quite entertai-aining." Strange sounds like deep-underground explosions were coming from her.

"Obviously so," I said.

"Well, it is," she gasped.

I tried again. "Where have I heard that line before?"

"What line?"

"About not taking it too seriously?"

She was trying to control herself. "I know that Marcy — Marcy said it — but Professor Theophilus —"

"Yes?"

"How can you even think this is anything like that? Enema and those other 'artists' are depraved and obscene. Max Megabucks and The Vixenette are just moronic and sleazy."

"Weren't you telling me just a few minutes ago that what we watch, talk about and laugh at shapes our souls?"

"Prof, you look so serious! You don't really think I'm going to take these shows as my model for relationships with the opposite sex, do you? Dating 25 men at a time — in front of 18 million people — make-out comparison sessions — gold-digging — all those lies — sure, that's just how I'm going to find my covenant partner! Believe me, I look down on these people. They're so trashy, they're funny." She was smirking, but her breathing was under control again.

"I do believe you."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Haven't you listened to what you've been telling me?"

"What have I been telling you?"

"First, you've been telling me that the moronic and the sleazy are good fun."

"Well, yes. But only to watch." Her smirk wavered.

"Second, you've been telling me that despising people is wonderfully entertaining."

She hesitated, then nodded. The smirk continued to retreat.

"Finally, you've been telling me that so long as you despise the sleazy morons that you're peeping at, you don't have to feel sleazy or moronic for doing it."

"The way you put it, it sounds sick." She paused. "But it sounded OK the way I described it."

"If you can't decide which description is right, then let me ask a different question. Could you bring Jesus to one of your Monday or Wednesday night soirées?"

She began to speak, but stopped.

"Remember," I added, "this was the man who saved drunkards and made saints out of prostitutes. There will be more repentant sleazy morons than Pharisees in heaven."

Slowly, Sarah said, "No, I couldn't bring Him. If He were in the room, it would all seem different. Sordid. I couldn't even bring myself to suggest one of those programs with Him around."

"Do you want Him around?"

"Yes, but I thought I wanted my Monday and Wednesday night soirées too."

"Why don't you bring Him, but do something different?"

"I suppose I could do that." Her voice was glum.

"Sarah."

"What?"

I smiled. "You're not thinking that the Son of Man is dull, are you?"

She gave a little laugh. "Touché. That was pretty stupid, wasn't it? I guess I'm finished now." As she began to gather up her things, I could see that she was struggling with herself.

At the door, instead of saying good-bye, she turned with a woebegone look and announced, "We've forgotten the most important thing."

"How so?"

"I came here to ask your help with Marcy's problem. You pushed that all aside."

"Well, you called her your accountability partner, didn't you?"

"Uh huh."

"Isn't it about time to do a bit of accountability partnering?"

Her eyes widened. "Do you mean —"

"Sure. Offer her a deal."

"How would I do that?"

"Thank her for her honesty. Tell her you've been a hypocrite, but repented. Ask for her support in giving up your trash. Offer her your support if she gives up hers."

The grin came back, and her shoulders quivered with little explosions of laughter. "That'll get her," she said.