Ouroboros

The problem with planning your future is that eventually, it becomes the present. And you have to be prepared to live in that present when it comes. Walter was wallowing in that present, presently. Mountains of papers spread out before him in a wave of mediocrity. This year's students were particularly mundane. Months of terrible reports had ground his once meticulous grading system into a rudimentary three-step process. Step one was checking for name accuracy. He had wasted hours on poorly written slogs of academic heresy from papers with spellings such as; Napeleon, Hilter, and memorably, George W. Busch. That paper had been about the end of the Cold War. It was both the wrong Busch and the wrong Bush. A failure so impressive that he had framed it on his office wall. Back when levity was still a possibility.

Step two was simply dates. Very standard for history papers, but under normal circumstances it was the checking of a source or a mistake of a year or two. Walter had found himself docking points for students writing that 9/11 was in 2011. Several had inconceivably switched WW1 and WW2. At first glance, you would think that they were just dumb. But Walter knew better. He had seen their impressively creative attempts at cheating. They had once gone so far as to hack into his computer. No, the students were not dumb. That would have been easier to accept. They simply did not care. And at this point, neither did Walter.

These first two steps were usually painless. Walter could eradicate the most egregious failures in no more than fifteen minutes. The most painful step, the one he sat staring at right now, was quality. He had to read each paper and grade students based on their understanding of the material. Any other tenured professor may have just sped through this process but a small spark of hope would not allow it. He had to find that diamond in the rough. Some years it was just one paper and others it was upwards of six. A paper that showed understanding, effort, or a kernel of insight. It was his reason to keep going. The insane ouroboros called Academia required that he find a subject for its terrible experiments. Another young mind like his once was. A fresh chalice to pour his knowledge into and then send out into the world. He had to justify his years of work somehow. They usually came back after a year or so, fresh-faced and excited about some master's program or doctorate they had been accepted into. He would smile and congratulate them, fully aware that that was the last time he would see them in person. All other correspondence came by email. A very well-written thank you note that had to be emailed because they “just didn’t have the time to visit”. He didn’t want to see them anyway. He couldn’t bear to see that dead, drained look on their faces. The look he saw in the mirror every morning.

He imagined it was the look he had on his face right now. The first paper he picked up was about Socrates and the introductory paragraph had been a veritable thesaurus of flowery words and phrases that were about as impactful as a pillow hitting a building. He plodded through the pages like a prisoner walking the green mile until he reached a conclusion that was certainly written at four in the morning. It simply stated, “This is why, in my opinion, Socrates was a pretty chill dude.” A chill dude. Ten pages of facts and plagiarized “sources”, to arrive at that conclusion. He sat back and stared at his hands. How much does a janitor make? Mom and Dad have passed so it’s impossible to disappoint them. He didn’t know if he could allow himself to leave after all the years and effort. The old gambler's fallacy at work. He sighed and put the Socrates paper in the “D” pile. The next disaster lay before him, titled “Joseph Stalin: The Man Behind the Mustache.” The man was responsible for the deaths of millions and it’s titled like a puff piece in Vogue? Well, I’ll give points for originality. This was not a history paper, this was satire.

A soft knock at the office door interrupted his mental waterboarding. He steadied himself and hastily sorted the piles of papers into something resembling order.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open and a very cheery, bespectacled woman entered his office. She had a visitor badge on her coat and a wrapped box in her hands. She rushed over to Walter and placed the gift on his desk. He caught a glimpse of the name tag. Jennifer. Jennifer Watson? It had to be her. The overly enthusiastic smile, the hyperinterested stare, the ever-bouncing feet. She had been his best student in years. Class of 08’. Almost a decade now. Good lord how things have changed. He mustered a smile and stuck his hand out.

“Jennifer, it’s lovely to see you-”

His handshake was pushed aside by a forceful hug. Ah, yes. She always was a hugger.

“It’s so, so, so good to see you Dr. Moorstead.” She pulled back from the hug. “I got you a little something. As a thank you gift.”

“Thank you for what?” 

Walter clumsily unwrapped the box to reveal a very expensive bottle of scotch. This will help more than she knows.

 “Thank you very much, Jennifer.” His smile was genuine this time. “But I still don’t know what I’ve done?”

Jennifer straightened up proudly and stepped back with her arms wide.

“You helped bring another Doctor into the world.” She pointed to a small prefix that he had missed before. “It’s Doctor Jennifer Watson now. I couldn’t have done it without you. Your love for history showed me what a proper teacher could be. I wanted to come by and say thank you. Maybe sit in on a class for old time's sake?”

Walter stared at her, dumbfounded. She looked so happy. He sat back against his desk and tried to remember the last time he’d had that kind of smile.

“Oooh, are those final papers?” Jennifer ran around to inspect the pile. “What’s the topic?”

“Great figures of the world. I supposed that an open-ended prompt would allow the students to find or explore their personal favorite parts of history.” Walter smirked. “I was wrong to unshackle the mob.”

Jennifer picked up the Stalin paper and raised an eyebrow. “They have certainly gotten more creative than I remember.”

“It’s all a mess, Jennifer.” Walter walked around and slumped into his seat. “No one cares anymore. I can barely look at the papers. I dread class. I’m sorry to say that I’ve lost the spark.”

Jennifer kneeled down in front of him and grabbed his hand.

“Dr. Moorstead, you were the best teacher I’ve ever had. I came all this way to tell you that. Thank you for inspiring me. I’m sure things have been tough but all it takes is that one student. Teaching is a noble practice and it’s not always easy but if you can inspire even one person then you have made the world that much better.”

Walter looked into her hopeful, innocent eyes. She really believes that. A spark of motivation ignited in his mind. Yes, these students need inspiration. They need a guide. Someone who will fight for them and not despair. He smiled wide and leaped to his feet.

“You’re right Jennifer. Life is too short for me to spend it worrying about the students who have no desire to learn. I just need to help the few that do. Do you have your teaching license?”

“What? Yeah, I do, why?”

Walter grabbed his coat and the bottle of scotch.

“Because I’m leaving. You were my best student Jennifer. I will never do better. My life's work is in you. Those slack-jawed idiots out there will never amount to anything. I’ve been mining for diamonds in an empty quarry. I will send an email to the dean tonight recommending you for my position. She owes me several favors, so she won’t say no. You’re welcome to read those papers if you want. I’d rather look at used toilet paper.”

He wrapped Jennifer up in a big hug and skipped out the open office door. He stopped in the hall and looked back. Jennifer stood frozen in the office.

“I’ll be sure to send a postcard from wherever I end up. You can visit if you want. Although I don’t know if you’ll have time.” He giggled like a madman. “Good luck!”

“What the fuck?”

The door slammed shut and Walter zipped down the hall into the welcoming light of an extremely early retirement.