Leo
I was bored.
And it wasn’t just a short-term, easily fixable type of boredom, something that could be remedied by scheduling some activity, planning some outing, this was chronic, bone-deep, terminal sort of boredom.
My life—which had once been rather interesting, if I do say so myself—had gotten so boring that it was almost unrecognizable to me. Here I was, a college professor, a teacher, a job that I had somehow ended up with because I’d fucked up in my other one.
I was so bored, in fact, that just the other night, I watched an entire soft-core porn on HBO GO, about a college professor who sleeps with one o
f his students. The plot was flimsy, the acting even flimsier, and I might have fallen asleep toward the end, but before I did, I remembered sitting there thinking that if I at least had something like that going on, then maybe I wouldn’t feel like shooting myself every morning before I had to go to work.
Today though, there was at least a little something to look forward to: I always derived some sort of perverse enjoyment when it came to returning assignments, because undoubtedly, there would always be a handful of students who assumed they had done far better than they actually did. These were usually the kids who were used to skating through life, either because they were the smartest kid in their high school (big fish, little pond) or because they’d been born with a silver spoon and had everything handed to them on a fucking platter.
The big fish, little pond students, upon arriving at a much larger pond (as Benton College was), would either take it as a challenge to do better or would take it personally and think that their whole life, up until this point, had been one big lie. The spoiled kids (of which there were many) either acted indignantly or just didn’t give a fuck.
Professor at some private college was not numero uno on my list of career possibilities when I was growing up. Seeing as I fucking hated school, I suppose you could call this turn of events ironic, but I have reached the point where I can just accept that this is the way life works out sometimes. One day, you’re working your way toward editor-in-large at a national magazine, the next, you’re out of a job and blacklisted just about everywhere else because your boss found out you had slept with his wife.
The only reason I had this gig at Benton was because a pal of mine from high school was working here, as a sociology professor. Or was it psychology? I could never remember. The difference between Jack and me, though, was that a teaching position at Benton was probably numero uno on Jack’s list, and he just as likely woke up every morning, thankful for his amazing life that was working out exactly how he hoped it would be.
Glad it was for one of us.
I’d been feeling more and more restless lately. I needed to get the fuck out of here; I needed to do something that didn’t require me to sit in a classroom for four or five hours a day, doing little more than babysitting. Don’t get me wrong—some of my students were eager little beavers, showing up each morning with bright eyes and bushy tails, hanging onto every last word I said. A few of them actually reminded me of myself when I was still young and fresh and thought that the world was ripe for my picking.
But mostly, this whole thing was just a gigantic fucking pain in my ass.
I’d handed out the graded feature articles that my dear students had written, and most of them were pleased with their grades, though there were a few that were surprised, and that surprise went in both directions. Lindsey Porter, for example, had actually written an A article, a feature piece on a medical cannabis clinic that would be going out of business since the legalization of marijuana had been voted in. The doctor she profiled had been a family physician at some hippie compound for decades, and then, only after becoming a grandmother and the medicinal use of cannabis approved by the good people of California, did she decide to reinvent herself as the pot doctor extraordinaire. The story was actually the most interesting one I read, and even my teaching assistant, Kristin, agreed.
I returned to the front of the classroom and gave the class a few moments to read over the comments that either Kristin or I had colored their papers with. Some students, such as Lindsey, weren’t even bothering with it; they were scrolling through their phones, probably checking out how many likes a recent post had gotten. Though Benton had a zero tolerance policy for personal electronic devices in the classroom, I didn’t really give a shit, so long as they weren’t using them when I was talking.
Tessa Donovan, on the other hand, looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Jesus fucking Christ. There were always a handful of those students, too; the sorts that the sun rose and set with how well their GPA was. Tessa was actually probably one of the brightest students I had, though her work in the recent past hadn’t been as good as I’d come to expect. And the moral of that story is not to have any expectations when it comes to students. Kristin had graded her paper, an article about a high-kill animal shelter in Daly City, and had given it a C+. I’d skimmed the article, and though I probably would have given her a B, I let the grade stand. I didn’t feel like getting into some sort of moral debate over it with my goddamn teaching assistant.
After they’d had the chance to take in their grades and read the comments, I opened the discussion, for all those who wanted to participate, about the feedback they’d received on their articles. I knew some teachers preferred to discuss these matters in private, if a student had a specific concern about a grade or a particular comment, but more often than not, the whole class could learn from the questions their classmates asked, even if it didn’t apply directly to the article they had written.
So we spent the majority of class going over their questions. I wanted to tell the students who looked completely crestfallen over their grades to man the fuck up—this wasn’t the end of the world. No one failed, and it’s not like this little feature article assignment was something that even mattered. It wasn’t going to be nominated for a Pulitzer; it wasn’t even going to be published anywhere. That way of thinking, though, directly contradicted the last thing Kristin decided to say to them before we dismissed the class:
“Every single thing you write matters. Dedicate yourself to your work, be willing to go over each word with a fine-tooth comb. If you’re diligent about this, and willing to put in the hard work, you will succeed.”
The students looked at her and nodded collectively, as though she were channeling wisdom from some sort of higher being. It was total bullshit, what she was saying, but I just smiled and nodded and acted like it was absolute fact.
I had a shitty little office that I retreated to in between classes, where I occasionally graded papers or met with students who were concerned about how they were doing. I was sitting in this office, inspecting the dried up ring of coffee in an old mug that I’d found buried under a stack of papers, when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I said, still holding the cup.
It was Carla Douglass, who you could technically call my colleague, as she was the other journalism professor here at Benton. She was older than I was, by at least a decade and a half, and she had worked mainly for newspapers, which was a purer form of journalism than magazines. She hadn’t come out and said that, but I knew she was thinking it.
“Leo, hi,” she said. “Shannon wanted to know if you got the memo about the faculty meeting on Friday. She said you didn’t RSVP.”
“I didn’t realize we were supposed to RSVP.”
“It said RSVP at the bottom. Bold letters. You were cc’d; I saw your name on the list.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” I said. “Looking to make sure I’d been included,” I added, when Carla gave me a blank look. “I’m not really that interested in going to a meeting, especially on a Friday night. Shouldn’t these things be scheduled during the school day?”
“We’re all busy, Leo,” Carla said. “And the meeting is at 6 o’clock. I’m sure we’ll get out in time for you to do whatever it is you have planned for Friday night.”
What I had planned for Friday night was the big fuck all, but I wasn’t about to let Carla in on that.
“I was just about to check my email,” I said. “I’ll be sure to RSVP.”