Systematic Rebel

Aisles of pupil-searing fluorescent light define each row. The tables, straight, connected, and orderly, discourage any thought of eating or talking. Below, desaturated titles hold what little dreams these soundless feet can carry. People file in with bag-heavy eyes and stiff hair. Raspy whispers and mucus-dripping sniffs chime synchronously like birds chirping one another. Believe it or not, I’m expected to learn something here. 

Our Commander in Chief marches down to her post a minute before the bell. At her hip loosely taunts a Rolodex of keys. Why is it that as people get older they feel the need to keep and carry everything? I mean, look at dads and their wallets. Most are jammed enough with old grocery receipts and canceled gym cards that they could choke a horse. From wallets to keys, even reading glasses, they unnecessarily hoard. If I buy cargo shorts, it will only be a civic duty to face public execution. 

The auditorium naturally silences as she plugs in her laptop and begins her presentation. I appreciate the direct start, it’s not like anyone would say good morning back. 

“Continuing our discussion…”

I always thought discussions required two active voices. 

“On duration and convexity of bond yields…”

In these next 75 minutes, Dr. Lugin will simply read aloud what is on her PowerPoint. She might attempt an example on the dry board, if the markers aren’t dry yet, and then log out. I’m not at Harvard but this is a reputable university. One that taxpayers fund as well as clueless 18 to 22-year-olds. I’d assume, given she has a doctorate and was a CFO at JP Morgan, the neurons in my brain would be tangling themselves in all things about fixed-income securities. Well, confused I am about many things, I know this class is merely a formality. She receives her ego boost for the day, looking like the Goddess of Finance, while I one day receive a paper as proof I learned something. Aristotle, the ancients, there is no way they had this in mind when they invented school. 

“Short interest rates are more volatile than long rates…”

I only have myself to blame. It’s not like anyone forced me to be here, but what else am I supposed to do? It doesn’t matter if it’s construction, the police force, or a legit UPS factory worker. In the end, I’ll still lose my back, pride, and suffer the replacement of a robot that some college graduate built. 

Dr. Lugin waddles to the dry board, “Okay, I’m not an artist….”

It looks like a bear attempting to play chess.

“In this model….”

This is a model? Oh, I am so behind in this class. Looking around, I invade the privacy of all my colleagues. One girl types out a novel to her, what I assume was her high school boyfriend, about his outgoing behavior around other girls. Another girl, obviously a perfectionist, races down all of Dr. Lugin’s comments in a seizure-like fashion. Two rows below, a guy is simply asleep with a fountain of drool forming. Five seats over, two backward-hat frat bros snicker and giggle as they try to grab a downright gorgeous brunette's attention. She, enticingly stoic, does not give them an inch or reason to interact. In the front, idle more sheep who herd towards note taking rather than individuality. God, just give us the cubicles, men’s league games, and cooler talk already. 

The clock blinks to 9:15, commencing an instant rumbling of zippers zipping, papers shuffling, and growing voices. Right as it reaches the crescendo, Dr. Lugin tosses a hand-grenade to these already Zoloft-popping degenerates, “See you all on Friday for the midterm.”

“MIDTERM!” I scream. No one notices for I am too a nothing drone. 

Where the fuck did that come from? I don’t even have the goddamn book yet!

------------------------------

Out in the quads, the uniform march of more ants stains the natural sun glimmer and cardinal red foliage. I couldn’t appreciate anything for the moment. Not even seeing the most uncoordinated fall of one kid trying to tightrope between two trees— This class! There is no way I’m taking another year. I’d rather barista in my $40,000 debt than dare spend another earth rotation here. I’m not getting got again! 

The library is one actual safe space for me. Though I’d argue historic aesthetics get confused with outdatedness, I spare no insult here. 6th floor, right of the philosophy section, third table from last with a window and outlet, I decide to get my life together. 

This is supposed to be the quiet floor but speech here has been decriminalized. I don’t have to hear the kid with a 10-year-old’s peach fuzz bit into his bread-plastic sub. Nor should I have to smell the Macy’s perfume department five tables away. Yet here I am. 

“Okay. Go to U-Portal— what class— Securities….”

So maybe, just maybe, I was wrong — no, rather self-inflictedly uninformed. The midterm was always a thing. I simply didn’t want to know. 

I download Dr. Lugin’s presentations to only witness a graffiti of mathematical hieroglyphics. 

“Nope,” I click out of the window and promptly shut my laptop, “We are going to outside methods, Vinny.” 

My brain untangles potential strategies. Dr. Lugin has been teaching here for eight years. I can hear her now, monologuing with very few fillers. She talks to the class as though she has said every word before. The midterm will happen in two days. Two to study — two days to write the test? No way! The test has to have been written by now. If not written, typed at the minimum on her laptop. 

“Office hours.”

-----------------------

Thursday, midterm’s eve. After two classes of corporate programming, my day is free at 12:05 pm. My lunch consists of a Chipotle steak burrito bowl, water, and 45 mg of prescription IR Adderall. By the time I walk into Dr. Lugin’s office, I have devised two philosophical theories, won four games of chess, called grade school friend Jared Winoka (our first conversation since 8th grade, he studies rocks and seems to be doing well), and cleared out both personal and professional email boxes. 

I greet affably, “How’s life Dr. Lugin?” pulling up a chair to her desk, “I hope this isn’t a bad look given the test is tomorrow.

“Better now than never. I saw your email. What would you like to go over?”

My internal clock ticks as I ramble out a question, “The discounting cash flows are something to start.” 

I show her an embarrassment of note-taking scribbles. Mouth in fist, she calculates how dumb I am but refrains from showing any work, “Well,” she croaks, “Actually here let me show you something.”

The plan is officially in motion as she logs into her laptop. Dr. Lugin barely types in her password before the vertebrates in my spin realign. I told the dumbass to wait until 3:11 pm! 

Two pounding knocks nearly break the door, “ARE YOU DR. LUGIN?” 

“W-why — yes, I am,” She looks like she got out of chemotherapy. 

“DO YOU DRIVE A BMW?” Why does he talk so loud — no don’t wink at me!

“I do!” 

“A bunch of kids from the art school are filming a music video with derogatory language and revealing clothing. I saw them dancing on the hood of a re-wh-BLUE BMW.”

I said don’t mention the fucking color! I re-enter the catholic church, praying that the Big Guy is as forgiving as his son says. Lugin’s eyes tighten before blooming an explosive alertness, “Blue BMW?”

“Er-YES!” the Lincoln logs for brains answers.

I mumble inaudibly, “Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive….” 

A corny snap and Lugin uncharacteristically vents, “Those damn deviants! Why does the school even let people like those in!” she looks at me, “I mean get a real freakin’ degree!” 

I shrug.

Shaking her head, scoffing many more times, Lugin snags her Rolodex of keys, “Sorry Vinny,” her tone is now motherly, “I’ll be right back.” On her way out she shakes Fetti’s hand, “I’m glad this school still has some respectful kids.” The door shuts.

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT WORKED!” celebrates my brute of a friend. 

“I TOLD YOU TO WAIT! TO FUCKING WAIT!”

“I’m sorry I got excited,” Fetti jumps with joy, “I’ve never been a part of a heist —”

“If she didn’t log in we would be fucked!” 

“But she did, didn’t she?” the mischievous mullet-wearing m-fer smiles.

“Shut the fuck up. We have maybe five minutes before she realizes it’s just Justin humping the front window.”

“Right, right!” 

Fetti takes the bookshelves and filing cabinets while I invade yet another laptop. 

“What a hideous family.”

“I’m not seeing anything but books.”

“Go straight to the file cabinets. Look for words: Fixed Income Securities.”

“Man this is some killer Adderall!” my fingers click away like some Anonymous hacker. 30th reunion photos, nope. 2004 taxes, nope. 2005 taxes, nope. Warranties, nope. Diary logs? No, but if flash drives were still a thing that would be something to get as well. 

“Practice problems?” I might be on something, “Nevermind.”

“You would think if you spent all this time on studying rather than scheming a —”

“Shut the fuck.”

Dr. Lugin’s momentary arrival combined 45 mg of amphetamines, nearly gang-jump my heart into cardiac arrest. 

“There’s nothing in the cabinets!”

“Did you check?”

“YES! The only thing I found was in this small one behind the shelf.”

“W-w-what? Small what?” I look up to see Fetti holding a safe, “You mean a safe? What are we supposed to do with that?”

“Open it,” he suggests. I don’t even process his response. 

“Damnit! What should I look up?”

“What have you tried?”

“Fixed Income Securities, tests, finals, midterms, worksheets, problems, answers, finance, business –”

“Click on that.”

“Document 1? The default title for a draft.”

“Well, if I didn’t want students breaking into my laptop and searching for exams, I would never label it so obviously.”

Good point, “You’re an idiot, but I’ll give it up try.”

One double click and Fetti and I cannot move. 

“Dude,” even Fetti can somewhat read, “We found way more than the test.”

“Put that safe back the way you found it.”

“WHAT? DUDE, DO YOU REALIZE —”

“YES! Yes, Fetti I fucking realize but we don’t have the key. We can’t walk out of here either! There are cameras out the ass and you can’t chance running into her.”

Fetti concurs, placing it back exactly the way he found it. I quickly copy Document 1, email it directly to me, and delete any history of it being sent. Fetti leaves accordingly and I go back to my original position. A minute later, Dr. Lugin arrives and for the next 30 minutes, I listen to her explain the discounting cash flows formula. As she spoke through her stained teeth, cheap dress,  and dreamless eyes, I couldn’t comprehend what she was actually doing. Not only did we find the test, we found every test, every test from many established U.S Universities in a cross-connected network. A stock exchange of information is now in my hand. That’s not normal. Two corner-cutting students, one named fucking Fetti and another an adderall-fueled asshole, have stumbled into a conspiracy equivalent to Enron, 9/11, and the CIA selling crack. 

Outside, I cut across the quad’s grass and take in the rats’ race, “All those books and you still know nothing.” 

Once I’m through with this work, there will be no track for anyone to follow.