A Matter of Conscience

A Matter of Conscience

The middle child, often struggling for the table scraps of left-over attention lavished on the more accomplished older brother and the oh-so-cute little sister.

Average height.

Average weight.

Average looks.

Straight C’s on every report card from First Grade through his Sophomore year in high school, a feat that should have garnered some notice in and of itself but didn’t.

Last kid on the bench in every team he ever played on.

Even Christened with the most ordinary of names- Bob- frontward and backward the same.

Junior year in high school, and Bob had not done a single thing in his life that would warrant praise, applause, congratulations, or even a moment of passing attention. Had all the people on this planet been evaluated on every measure of the human condition, Bob would have been solidly entrenched as the mean data point, smack dab in the middle of all things possible.

As Bob’s ambition quotient was also average, his status in life never bothered him too much. He shuffled through every day as though it was just that, another day. Bob might have remained unwittingly content with his life had not the fortunes of fate thrown him a curve with the seemingly unrelated job promotion offered to one Fredrick Miller, father of Felix Miller, the whiz-kid of Central High.

Fredrick assuming the position of Chair of the Rutgers Mathematics Department required the Miller family to bid a hasty adieu to Plainfield and move to the big city life of New Brunswick, New Jersey. Felix hardly had time to pack.

“Bob, Felix left a few books in his locker. Could you go to B-27 and return the books to the appropriate classroom?”

“Certainly, Mr. Taylor.”

Advanced this, advanced that, Bob had never even seen these books. A college-level chemistry notebook and a few musical compositions Felix had been working on. A couple of pens, a pocket calendar, and one winter glove. And then the cursed crumpled sheets of paper that would throw a troublesome speed bump into Bob’s otherwise uncomplicated life.

“Time to Imagine”, an Essay by Felix Miller. For reasons unknown even to himself, Bob perused the pages left at the bottom of the locker. It was a vision of the future, a world so infested with technological innovation that the human spirit slowly withered and faded away per the warnings of Erich Fromm. Masterfully written with great imagination, Felix had penned a frighteningly sad prognostication for the world. Bob delivered the books but pocketed the essay.

The intersection of two lines of Bob’s personal history. Miss Brandt addressed her Junior year English class.

“And don’t forget that if you want to enter this year’s Charles Dickens Young Writers Contest, your essay must be submitted by next Friday. Our winning paper will be passed on to Regionals, and those winners will be passed on to State.”

These ships didn’t pass in the night. They collided head-on. Essay contest and Bob possessing an essay written by the smartest kid to ever grace the halls of Central High. Even Bob could put the two circumstances together.

And then that little tug of conscience, the good angel on his right shoulder, and the pesky visitor from the dark side finding firm footing on the left.

“Bob! You can’t submit someone else’s paper. That’s cheating.”

“That little nerd Felix is a thousand miles away. No one will ever know. This is your one chance to be somebody.”

“Don’t listen to him! You will know. It’s a matter of personal integrity.”

“Bob…buddy, that paper is a winner. And don’t forget the $500 1^st Prize. And $5,000 at State. Who could write a better paper than that brainiac Felix? You could get a car with all the loot you’d win!”

“Bob, it’s real simple. Remember the lessons you learned at St. Bruno’s. WWJD?”

“Jesus never needed a car, Bob. You’d be somebody. Your name would be in the paper. A car, Bob. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. With a set of wheels, you could even ask a girl out.”

The battle waged on for days. In the end, it wasn’t the money or the car. It was the chance to be noticed, to be somebody.

“Here’s my entry for the writing contest, Miss Brandt.”

Miss Brandt stood motionless, arms at her side. She would have put the odds of Bob submitting an entry in the Dickens Young Writers’ Contest at absolute zero.

“Miss Brandt, my entry.”

“Yes, of course, Bobby. I’m glad to see that you…”

The loss for words took over as the bewildered teacher took the paper from Bob’s hand.

Fortunately for Bob, the judges for this year’s Charles Dickens Young Writers Contest had never met him nor seen any of his previous efforts. It wasn’t even close. This year’s winner: “A Time to Imagine” by Bob Barnes.

The school secretary could hardly get the words out as she made the morning announcements over the P.A.

“And I am happy to announce that this year’s winner at Regionals in the Charles Dickens Young Writers Contest is our very own…”

Uncomfortable pause. Press the mute button. A quick aside.

“Principal Marshall, this can’t be right.”

“What’s that?”

“This says the winner of the prestigious Charles Dickens writing contest is Bob Barnes.”

“Who?”

“Bob Barnes, the goofy red-haired kid who hasn’t done a thing since he got here.”

“Oh, yeah, him. He won what?”

“The Charles Dickens Young Writers Contest.”

“No way.”

“Way. Read it yourself.”

And the announcement was made. Those who knew Bob sat in stunned disbelief. Miss Brandt nearly keeled over as the news sunk in. Bobby Barnes, her student who likely never had a creative thought in his life and who could rarely pen a sentence longer than six words was an award-winning writer. She could hardly wait to see him in her 3^rd-hour English class.

“Congratulations, Robert. You should be very proud.”

Bob smiled broadly… for a moment. The comment, “You should be so proud”, triggered an uncomfortable feeling. The Good Angel’s message was revisiting our award winner.

“Proud? Really? Do you feel proud of what you have done? You have nothing to be proud of. Fritz Miller wrote that paper. You need to fess up immediately.”

“Shut up, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes. A win is a win, Bob. And fess up now? Oh, my God, you’d be the laughingstock of the whole town. Take the five hundred bucks and buy yourself something nice.”

Bob’s parents were so proud, his little sister was oblivious, and his older brother was skeptical. Mom and Dad were downright giddy when a reporter from the local paper arrived to do a story on Bob and his award-winning essay.

“So, Bob, tell me. What was the inspiration for your amazing story?”

Bob hadn’t thought this through.

“Uh… well… I’ve always had this special ability to imagine the unimaginable. You might say it’s a gift.”

Mom and Dad continued to smile, little sister wandered off somewhere, and older brother was looking for a barf bag.

“And the Gravity-Defying Thought InducedTeleporter, how in the world did you come up with that?”

“Uh… well… I’ve always had thoughts and gravity is all around us… and moving stuff around always interested me… so, I just put it all together.”

“I… see.”

Bob couldn’t sleep. It seemed like a harmless thing to do at the moment. Fritz left town without entering the contest. He would be unaffected. And it was about time he got noticed for something. The brainless, arrogant jocks sucked up all the attention, not to mention all the hot babes. He deserved a little time in the spotlight. Maybe he’d give a little of his prize money to the church… say $10.

But conscience never clocks out.

“Ten dollars! Do you think that is going to wipe away your guilt? And what about the boy who came in second? He deserved that award. Shame on you, Robert.”

And the Evil One never sleeps.

“The runner-up is a real dweeb, Bob. He’d probably spend the prize money on violin lessons, a book of Robert Burnes poems, and pocket protectors. You’ll put the money to much better use, Bob. What’s done is done. Relax and bask in the limelight. And put together a list of all the cool stuff you can get for $500.”

Rationalization and compromise. Bob accepted the $500 but decided he wouldn’t spend it… yet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you think by not spending your ill-gotten gains you’re up for some kind of award for high ethical standards? Tell the truth and give back the award and the money. People will admire your courage. It’s never too late to do the right thing.”

“Don’t listen to that harp-plucking moran, Bobby. Everyone cuts the corners, and cheats a little bit. Look what your old man did on his taxes last year. It’s the American way. When are you going to get another chance to put five hundred big ones in your pocket?

The answer was there was no answer, and the status quo reigned. Walking to school, sitting in class, between bites at the dinner table, and especially as he lay in bed at night, he felt himself sinking further into the hole he had dug for himself. Occasionally he would study the $500 deposit entry in the bank account his Dad had opened for him, and he could feel the angry eyes of Fritz Miller peering over his shoulder.

Miss Brandt remained suspicious. She scoured the Internet in search of possible evidence of plagiarism but came up with nothing. Maybe it was one of those near-supernatural events that allow a person to transcend their normal capabilities like a mother lifting a car to save her child or Beamon’s jump in the ’68 Mexico City Olympics. Perhaps Milton’s heavenly muse settled upon Bob just for a long enough time for him to crank out his masterpiece. Or, with a smile, she considered the possibility that she was an even better teacher than she had imagined.

Weeks passed, the notoriety faded, and his level of guilt settled at an acceptable level. But ominous clouds were gathering on the horizon. Judging at the State competition would soon begin.

It was the Black Sox of the world of literature. Bob was rooting against himself. He even contacted the Competition Committee to see if he could possibly make any self-destructive edits to his essay. He figured, with some degree of justification, that if he could just insert one of his own sentences, the essay would crash and burn. Not possible, of course.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Under the fading glow of the setting sun, Bob appeared at the massive front doors of St. Mary’s. Prayer might be his salvation.

“Good for you Bobby! Now you are on the right track. Enter the House of the Lord, and God will show you the way.”

“House of the Lord my butt. You mean the Temple of the Collection Plate and the gold-plated chalice. The church is raking in its share, Bob. Take yours!”

“Shut up, Beelzboob.”

Bob took a seat in the front pew. He prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything. He always knew the right thing to do. Now he was seeking the requisite courage to do it.

It all circled around in his mind. What if Fritz hadn’t left the essay in his locker? What if Mr. Taylor hadn’t asked him to clean out Fritz’s locker? What if he hadn’t taken the time to read the darn thing? What if Charles Dickens had been a flop and there never would have been a contest in his name?

“Oh, Robert, don’t forget, what if you had done the right thing from the outset?”

“Nag, nag, nag. All you ever do is nag. Let the poor kid make up his own mind. Did you know that every time a bell rings, an angel is nagging someone somewhere?”

“That’s when angels get their wings, bozo.”

“Whatever. It’s gone too far, Bobby. Let it go. You come clean now, and you’d have to transfer to a different school. And your poor parents. They’d be humiliated. Stand pat. Whatever happens at the next level was meant to be. Relax and enjoy life. That $500 should help.”

Bob’s deliberations were interrupted by the familiar sound of a creaking door coming from behind the altar. Bob knew the source of the sound from his years of serving at Mass during his time at St. Mary’s. In a moment Father John appeared, and both were shocked to see the other.

Oh, no. Bob feared Father John would have to think he was there seeking absolution for committing some horrible sin. It would have to be a mortal sin.

“Hello, Father. I’m not here because I did something bad.”

“I didn’t think you did, Bob.”

Bob saw a path. Maybe God sent him a man of the cloth at this critical moment to offer badly needed guidance.

“Father, would it be a sin to take credit for something that someone else did?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, let’s say some guy hit a home run but I ran around the bases and celebrated at home plate with my teammates.”

“It’s a little hard to imagine that happening, but yes, I would say that wouldn’t be right.”

“A sin?”

“I guess that would violate the Eighth Commandment. Saying you did something you didn’t do would be a lie.”

"Told you!”

“Just a tiny little sin, Bob. Why do you think it’s way down there at number Eight?”

The warring factions on his shoulders moved inside his head. The battle between right and wrong had become entrenched deep within his soul, a relentless tug and pull nearing the breaking point.

“There is but one answer for you, Robert. The truth will set you free.”

“The truth will put a ‘Kick Me’ sign on your back for the rest of your life. Don’t be a fool.”

Right vs. wrong in a spiritual ping-pong match in Bob’s head. It was like being on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the County Fair. Leaning in the right direction for a time, and then quickly swinging back in the opposite direction, leaving Bob’s moral compass spinning wildly.

Tomorrow always comes. The winner of the State contest would be announced in two days. The walls were closing in. Bob hadn’t asked his parents for advice since the time he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be Batman or Superman for Halloween.

“Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Talk? Write it down, son. A great writer like you should communicate on paper. And I might be able to sell whatever you write on E-Bay someday!”

Dad was only kidding, maybe half kidding, but the message discouraged further conversation.

“Mom, there’s something I want to…”

“Bobby! Grandma got you a new laptop to help you with your writing career!”

Bob would be facing his inner conflicts alone.

Statistics. Bob broke it all down employing a method only he could understand. He put the chance his wrongful deed would be discovered at a meager 10%. Then he applied the multiplier effect of the severity of the consequences and came up with a score of 172. Flipping the script, 90% X the severity of the consequences for revealing the truth resulted in a score of 172, a remarkable consequence that failed to move the ball in either direction. The battle of conscience intensified.

Bob could only hope the phone didn’t ring at his house the night of the judging. Too bad, so sad, it rang.

“Congratulations, Bob! You are the winner of this year’s Charles Dickens Young Writers Contest. The award will be presented at our gala Wisconsin Writers Banquet. And of course, we’ll want you to say a few words.

High anxiety jumped up a few notches. Bob was now in a state of debilitating stress. How could he possibly have gotten himself into this mess? He recalculated the pluses and minus of the two alternatives. He could taste the money, but those nagging lessons leaned back at St. Bruno’s kept strafing his brain.

His parent bought him a sports coat, tie, and new shoes for the big event.

“Are you ok, Bob? You seem a little down. You should be excited about your award.”

“I’m fine, Dad. Maybe just a little nervous about my acceptance speech.”

Fine? Far from it. Bob was about to crack. He was hoping for an earthquake or a tornado, or some kind of power outage. No such luck.

“And this winner of the prestigious Charles Dickens Young Writers Award… Robert Barnes!”

Bob slow shuffles to the stage, a man heading for the gallows. All the time and energy he spent on his dilemma had not produced an answer.

Trophy in hand, Bob walked to the lectern.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

“Tell them the truth, Bob! You’ll be remembered as a real hero, in the likes of Patrick Henry, Braveheart, and Colonel Travis.”

“Yeah, you’ll be remembered alright, but more like Benedict Arnold, Ephialtes, and Bill Buckner.”

“… I’ve thought about what to say tonight for a long time… and…I speak straight from my heart. I hope my message will serve as an important lesson, especially for all the young writers.”

Bob looked around the room and caught the beaming smile of his parents.

“The message is… hard work pays off. Thank you.”

“Aah!”

“That’s my boy!”