Tom Potenski felt his future closing in on him like the gates of a medieval castle slamming shut on invading armies. He faced the uncertainty of very limited prospects without a clue or a plan.

        He had managed to claw his way to decent grades at St. Anselm’s High School, particularly in English and history, but the idea of standing in front of a classroom trying to jam some knowledge into the brains of ungrateful, pimply-faced teenagers with no ambition had zero appeal.

     Now he faced a situation that could bring peril even to his already-shaky future.

      Stanley “Stash” Bilesky, his English teacher and homeroom moderator, had assigned his class to do reports on books they read outside class.

      Only Stash didn’t trust the literary chops–or lack thereof–of his students. So he assigned a specific piece of reading material to each of those studying under him.

      Now Tom, not a big fan of the cultural scene, had no taste at all for classical music.  His idea of a classic ran to “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones rather than “Beethoven’s Fifth.”

       So it was the unlucky roll of the dice that left this aficionado plodding through The Autobiography of Leonard Bernstein thanks to Mr. Bilesky.

       Potenski was nobody’s sap–or so he thought–he had more important things to do–like shooting one-on-one in the Seventh Ward Playground.

      So Tom consulted his playground and class literary advisors. Like them, he decided to take the easy way around the book report. He copied the summary of his assigned reading from the inside cover and turned it in as his report.

      He dutifully turned in his assignment and waited anxiously for the “A” in English that surely would be the first step in his journey to the local college.

      Self-satisfaction transformed into fear when all of Tom’s classmates received their corrected book reports back from Stash but the teacher didn’t return his.

       Rather than happily complimenting the budding author on a sterling effort, the instructor summoned him to a meeting in his office after school a week later.

      “Mr. Potenski, we have something serious to discuss,” he said.

       Tom had heard some pretty severe penalties could follow plagiarism, even for a poor high school senior with only a part-time job at the local drugstore.

        Had Stash pulled back the curtain on his little scheme? Would this smash the student’s dream of a shot at a somewhat promising career? Would he be trading university classes for driving a Jeep around a rice paddy in Southeast Asia? Would he be wearing a striped prison uniform instead of the latest Ivy League fashions?

      For the first time in his God-forsaken life it looked like Lady Luck had shined her light on this budding Hemingway.

       “This, like much of your past submissions in my classes,” is an excellent piece of work,” the teacher exclaimed. “It shows much insight into the subject matter and a thorough understanding of this great composer and his brilliant career. I had no idea you had such an appreciation of classical music in addition to a writing talent which should pave a way to a career in journalism or authorship.”

         A lump sprung up in the young man’s throat as he struggled to speak. His sweaty palms shook as he took back his paper and viewed the large “A+” written on the top of the piece.

        He left in a hurry and returned home with a huge smile spread across his face.

        The happiness was fleeting as his guilty conscience put a grip on his subconscious and refused to let him get even a moment of sleep.

        “I thought I lucked out,” Tom’s inner voice said to him. “Looks like Stash didn’t have time to pick up the Bernstein book jacket and compare its contents to what I have passed off as my work. This can’t last forever. Sooner or later he will find out. Maybe if I confess he’ll go easy on me.”

        The next day, just as he prepared himself for the harsh punishment Stash would levy, the English teacher stopped him after the homeroom period.

       Staring down on him was not a congratulatory smile but the stern look of a judge about to sentence a condemned man.

       “I had some interesting reading last evening,” Bilesky said. “The Autobiography of Leonard Bernstein.”  Turns out your writing talent even rivals that of many professionals in the publishing industry. In fact, you managed to produce a piece of writing identical to the experts who marketed the promotional material for the autobiography.  Copying another person’s written work could put a big black mark on your record that would stay with you for the rest of your life. What do you think I should do?”

      Tom turned bright red as sweat seemed to pour from every pore in his body.

      “I probably deserve the worst penalty you can think of,” the student said. “But I would appreciate some mercy. I can assure you I have never done anything like this and I never will do it again.”

       Just as he prepared for the guillotine to fall on any hopes he had for the future, a smile replaced the look of anger on his teacher’s face.

       “You will, of course, have to write another report. To make sure it contains your original work, you will have to work on it during several detention sessions after school. I cannot, however, allow the obvious talent you have shown in your other writing to go undeveloped. I will work with you to hone your authorship skills and do my best to guide you into a college journalism program that is worthy of you.  In return for this, no mention of your adventure into the seedy side of the written word must ever escape from either of us.”

      Tom Potenski went on to Rutgers University, where he graduated with honors in journalism. He also further advanced his appreciation for every facet of culture, especially music, and became a renowned music critic for The New York Times.

         He never forgot the teacher who showed him that, looking deep within yourself, you can find real potential rather than relying on phony shortcuts to fame often forced upon you by taking the quick way out.