Making it Right

Nothing had been working for me. I waited tables. I freelanced for some newspapers. I interviewed for some “Marketing” jobs that were nothing more than door-to-door sales jobs. I hated those. I had to walk around neighborhoods with these other guys. Phony. Always smiling. Starting conversations with bad jokes. Give me a break. I noticed we were getting dangerously close to my neighborhood. I really didn’t want to be seen in this situation by people I know. I thanked them for the opportunity after an hour and split.

I signed up for a vocational school in my 20’s. It was one of those schools that promised to have you trained in weeks and ready to work. I finished in weeks. I got great grades and glowing comments from my instructors. I should be able to find a job. Right? Wrong. I sent out resumés. I was willing to start anywhere and do anything. I had my certificate. I though I was finally on my way. No one called me back. No one responded. I went back to the school. Job Assistance? What Job Assistance? I was on my own.

No problem, I thought. I have the education. I have the tools. I know I’m good at this. If only the people I was applying to work for knew it. I went everywhere armed with my resumés and my know-how. Nothing. My parents wanted me to go back to school. Go back to college. Get a degree. I didn’t want to. Why should I? I went to school. I have a certificate. I graduated. I’M A GRADUATE, FOR GOD’S SAKE! Why should I have to go to school? I FINISHED SCHOOL, ALREADY!

It got bad. I took a job working nights. I worked late into the night. The middle of the night. Later than that. I hated it. The work was honest. The pay? Far from honest.

I worked with people who didn’t care. Guys with criminal records. Guys who showed up and waited for someone to say it was time to go home. There were some good people there. There were people like me who just couldn’t catch a break. There were immigrants who were studying for their citizenship tests. I helped them with that. Some guys, people who ran with gangs or still did, would hear me talk and listen. I explained the citizen test questions to the aspiring citizens and anyone else who would listen. Some had questions. I answered them as best as I could. I explained World War I by using gangs and cities instead of countries. Suddenly, people who had never understood what they were taught in high school got it. I enjoyed doing it. Then again, almost anything was better than lugging and hauling stuff into trucks all night.

I brought a newspaper to work. I read. I did the crossword puzzles. It passed the time between trucks. Sometimes, we would get out early. Guys could hang around after finishing work so they could get paid for eight hours. It was after midnight. What else were they going to do?

Sometimes I would bring a book to kill time after the last truck. People saw me reading. They started to call me “Professor”. Now I’m heading into my 30’s. Broke. Dead end job. Waking up in the middle of the morning with precious hours before I have to get changed and pack food for another eight (if I’m lucky) hours of back-breaking work. Load a truck. Load another truck. Wait for another truck. Wait some more.

One morning I woke up. Half the morning has already passed me by again. I make some coffee and take a shower. The coffee is done when I head to my bedroom to get dressed. It’s another glorious day in my life. I’m 30 years old now, living with my parents. Broke as Hell and praying to the Blessed Mother of Acceleration every time I drive somewhere. My car has over 100,000 miles. You name it and it had needed it repaired. This job isn’t working out. I’ve looked for other jobs. I’ve even looked beyond my field of study. Nothing. Impressive resumé, but not impressive enough to merit being hired. Story of my life. People like me but only so much.

 I’m still not sure why I did it, but I am glad I did. I got in my car and took a drive. I drove to my old school. Not the one I graduated from. I drove to the school I went to before that. A four-year college that I went to for two years or so. My last semester there was less then satisfactory. I was working a full-time job and going to school full-time. I didn’t like the job, but the money was okay. More than I was ever making in my life. I went to school during the day and worked at night. Sometimes I was at work when I should have been at school. Work was paying me. School wasn’t. That was my justification. Sometimes I was at school when I should have been at work. I didn’t have much of an explanation to work when that happened.

I didn’t last very long at that job. My work left something to be desired. We parted on terms as amicable as they can be when you’re terminated. I left school. I had bills that required a full-time job and I didn’t want school to get in the way of that. I took a full-time job. While I was working full-time, I went to a vocational school. Not a “trade school”. A vocational school. I got my training. I got my certificate. I thought I was set.

 Again, I wasn’t. And now, I was driving back to my college. I walked into the Administration Building and grabbed a course booklet. I went back to my car and flipped through the pages. My parents had been on my case about going back to school. I didn’t want to. I wanted to go to work. I wanted to work in a field I actually liked and be able to support myself. That’s what I was promised where I graduated from the voke. Oh well. Maybe there’s something here that can help me. I can go home, look at the booklet, and see if there’s anything I can take to help me improve my situation.

Wait a minute! I’m already here! Why go home just to come back? I can go inside and sign up for courses now. Right? Why not? I walk back to the Administration Building. I see one of my old teachers, Professor Bach as I am walking. I don’t think she saw me. Even if she did, I was in her class years ago. She had lots of students when I had her and I’m sure she’s had a lot of students since I left. Even if I did say something to her, I’m not sure she’d recognize me.

I enter the building. There’s someone behind the counter. I walk up to the counter and ask them about registering. No problem. I needed to fill out some paperwork. It had been seven years since the last time I was a student. Finishing my degree would take a while. I had changed majors when I was in school before. My minor could be my old major and that could be wrapped up with a course or two. No problem. I just need to get permission from the department chair.

“The chairperson is Professor Calderon?” I asked.

“No,” the lady at the counter said. “It’s not him anymore. It’s Professor Brewster.”

I was shocked. Professor Brewster? I knew him. I hoped he had forgotten about me. Professor Brewster was my advisor when I studied English. After I left the English Department, I signed up to take a class he was teaching. I was working and going to school, like a lot of other students.

Unlike the other students, I wasn’t able to balance work and school. I was punchy. I was tired. Professor Brewster didn’t like my work. There was one time when I went to see him. I didn’t get much sleep the night before, so you can imagine how my mood was that day. Professor Brewster, like a lot of college professors, had worked in the real world in addition to teaching. He took the assignment I had come to discuss and put it in front of me. Did I really think this would be acceptable? Is this college-level work? He certainly didn’t think so. This looks like something thrown together at the last minute. It was. I couldn’t dispute that. My work had been subpar all semester. Again, not untrue. Maybe I should consider withdrawing from the course. He doesn’t see how he can pass me.

Whatever. He’s not the only professor on campus to teach this class. I don’t need him. I don’t need that from anybody. I said things I shouldn’t have. I told him he could try to be a little more constructive with his criticism. I didn’t pay money to be torn apart like that. I’m making an effort. He may not see it but I am. Suddenly, an advising session regarding an assignment turned into an argument. He was in no mood to argue and I could leave. I did. I went straight to the Registrar’s Office and withdrew from his class. Why put myself through more grief and judgement?

That was it. That day. That argument was the last time we had spoken to each other. I regretted that day. I was exhausted going into the meeting and he was right. I hadn’t been giving it an honest effort. I was sliding by and Professor Brewster knew it. He knew what I was capable of. He knew it from talking to me during my freshman year and hearing about my classes. I told him what I worked on. I told him my ideas. I told him what I wanted to do after college. I had gone from a diligent, ambitious college student to a burnt-out slacker. He wanted to know why I wasn’t putting in the effort and all I did was give him smart wisecracks. He wanted to help and when he saw I wasn’t listening, he told me to leave. I still felt bad about that day. I thought about it all the time, from the day I withdrew from his class to that very morning when I decided to go back to school.

I went to the English Department. I needed his permission anyway. I might as well go see the man and talk to him. What’s the worst that could happen? He doesn’t say anything to me, signs my slip, and I leave his office. We never have to talk to each other again.

I walked into the office. I see the secretary behind her desk. I’m not sure if she recognizes me. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’d like to see Professor Brewster, please. I don’t have an appointment. I’m sure he’s busy but it would only be a minute.”

“He’s with someone right now,” the secretary said. “I’m not sure how long they’ll be. You can have a seat and wait, or you can come back.”

“I’ll wait. Thank you,” I say. I go to a chair and sit down. I look around the office. I don’t know how long it’s going to be. I look around the office. I’m thinking about what I’m going to say to him. What is he going to say to me? What’s going to happen. We didn’t part on the best of terms. I know that. He knows that. I’m still embarrassed over how I acted. The more time I spend waiting to see him, the more I think about what happened. The more I think, the worse I feel.

The door to his office opens. A teacher walks out and says, “Thank you, Bob,” as she leaves. I hear Professor Brewster say, “Anytime,” as he follows her through the door. He’s about to hand something to the secretary as he sees me. “Kevin!” he says in a slightly animated voice. “How are you?”

I stand up and shake his hand. “Fine, Professor. How are you?”

“I’m good,” Professor Brewster says. “Come on in.”

I follow him into his office. I see things that I remember seeing in his cubicle years before. It’s like going to see someone after they move and you notice things you saw all the time just in different places.

I feel slightly relieved at how we met after all these years. He’s warm and affable. He walks behind his desk and motions to a chair. “Have a seat,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” I say. “I’m coming back to finish my degree.”

“I heard,” Professor Brewster said. “Professor Bach told me she saw you earlier today.”

“I thought I saw her. Anyway, I’m hoping to minor in English and they told me at the Administration Building that I needed the Chair’s approval for the minor.”

“Did you get the paper when you were there?”

“Yes,” I said. “I grabbed it on my way out.”

“Let me see that,” he said as he reached out toward me.

I gave him the paper. He took out a pen and he signed it.

“You’re all set,” he said as he handed it back to me. “How’s everything else going?”

“It’s going good,” I say. It’s a lie, but we haven’t seen each other in years, and I want to make our first conversation a pleasant one, not a pity party. We talk about school and the advice he has for older students who return to finish their degree. Teaches tend to like older students because they take the classes more serious than the 18-and-19-year-olds who are just out of high school. He asks me about my life outside of going back to school. I tell him about my job. He asks if I’m still writing. I am. “Good,” he says. “You’ve always been a good writer.”

I need to go. I have some other things I need to do before I have to go to work, like shower. That and I don’t want to keep Professor Brewster. He was seeing me between people who had scheduled appointments to see him. I thank him for seeing me and for signing the paperwork I need for the minor.

“My pleasure, Kevin,” he says. “You’re going to do great. I know it.”

I walk out of the office. I say goodbye to the secretary and walk back to my car. I look in all directions as I walk. Most things look the same. There are small changes here and there, but everything is basically the same: the buildings, the signs around campus. There are some signs for groups and clubs and the meetings they are having from last semester that are still up. The tape has come off on a corner or two of some. They’re flapping in the light breeze.

I’m feeling good. I’m going to start classes in the fall. Get me degree. Get a better job. Get my life on track.

Most important of all, I got to see Professor Brewster again. I was able to talk to him and repair a relationship with a teacher I had respected and looked up to. I had a chance to make things right with him. Now I have a chance to get things right in school.