Omelets 101

"Umm, is Mrs. Mariere in?"

The boy's voice betrays him, squeaking in that pre-pubescent way despite his likely eighteen or nineteen years of age. His mispronunciation of my name doesn't bother me; most freshmen at this tiny liberal arts college take a while to acclimate to addressing adults who aren't their parents or teachers they've known since kindergarten.

"Mrs. Mariere—" my assistant correctly enunciates, with a nice, long rolling R, "is on a call. As Dean, she’s a busy woman. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Umm…" I can hear the kid shuffle, the rustling of his backpack and books testing their weight against his tall, scrawny body. Through the crack in the door, I watch as he bites his lip nervously. "It's just… uh, I just came from Mr. Billings's class, and uhm. I'm not really sure…"

Frank Billings is one of my most complained about professors. He's brilliant, leading young minds through the incredibly complex depth of climate change and corporate pollution. Still, his reputation for going from placid to incendiary with the turn of a phrase is legendary. With a sigh, I heave up out of my chair.

Gripping the door's edge, I swing it open.

"How can I help you, Mr…?"

The kid stumbles when he sees me. "Oh, uh. Jacob. I'm Jacob. Umm, I just came from Mr. Billings's class, and I just thought you should know… he's, like, not doing okay. Or, I dunno. It was a weird class."

"What do you mean by a 'weird class'?" Teenagers these days are so dramatic.

"Well…" He hedges, scrambling back a few steps. "You should probably just, like, go and check on him or something."

With that, the little twerp sweeps out of the office. Glancing down at my receptionist, we share a look. She snorts, and then her fingers fly over the keyboard. "Jacob likely just came from… Let's see… Looks like Introduction to Atmospheric Thermodynamics." A few more taps of her keyboard, "Aaand, at 3 pm, Frank's teaching Global Environment and World Politics."

"Okay, thank you, Janice." My phone's out of my pocket before I even get to my desk, but Frank doesn't answer when I call. I debate sending him a text, but I don't want to piss him off by throwing around some vague accusations on the words of a pimply-faced freshman.

He's been on the brink of implosion ever since that idiot tried to pull us out of the Paris Climate Agreement, and every year that passes without real policy change, his eye twitching and outbursts grow more frequent and disconcerting.

Checking the clock, I surmise he's likely long gone from the building, as he typically enjoys a leisurely stroll around the campus between classes to help keep his blood pressure in check. 

The decision to peek in on his next class puts me at ease, and I return to the mountain of work at my desk.

Two hours later, scurrying across campus, I'm twenty minutes late for Frank's next lecture, but I'm not worried. He likely just went off, and it'll be yet another fire to put out, but nothing new. Poor Frank's passed jaded, his edges now so sharp they cut anyone within spitting distance.

Gripping the metal door handle, I do my best to sneak in quietly, planning to audit in the back of the auditorium, quiet and unnoticed. But when I enter the stadium classroom for Global Environment taught by one Frank Billings, my steps falter.

"Now, I recommend using a silicone spatula, but if all you've got on hand is metal, that's fine. However, if there's a choice, select one with these nice slotted holes. This allows for air to circulate…" Frank's voice trails off in a serene mimicry of an NPR podcast host.

My feet stumble down the large steps of their own accord, tripping over backpacks and long legs stretching out beyond the parameters of the packed seating. Frank's somehow captured the attention of the entire classroom, rapt and engaged, the most I've ever seen. Students lean forward, some with glazed-over expressions, others slack-jawed with furrowed brows.

"Now, let's talk about eggs," Frank smiles—an image I've not seen in years, even when he's forcing himself to enjoy the sun on a beautiful day. He holds up three different kinds of eggs and continues, "The large brown and large white egg will yield the most in raw material. Personally, I find the white egg to hold less flavor, but the key really is where you buy your groceries. I suggest a nice, small, free-range egg for your omelet. Shop local, friends! And if you find a speckled egg, all the power to you!" Frank laughs, the sound so unused it clogs in his throat, but he powers through.

There's a hot plate he must have brought from home plugged into the side of his desk. His typically messy workspace is free of papers, books, and red-lined newspaper articles, all evidence of his inner turmoil—his standard teaching toolkit. Instead, he's set up for a makeshift wannabe cooking show.

"Uh, Frank," shaking my head, I clear my voice, interrupting his soliloquy. "Frank," I say a little louder when he continues to describe how best to cook a fresh omelet.

"If you want to elevate the dish, might I suggest fresh chives—"

"Frank!"

"Ah, Theresa, good of you to join us. Please, have a seat. You can be my taste tester," he winks, pointing to an empty chair behind his desk. I'm still somewhat stunned into silence, so somehow, inexplicably, I do as he says.

And, somehow, inexplicably, I proceed to listen to an entire lecture by one of the greatest minds of our generation on global warming waste a full two hours discussing the benefits of French-style vs. American egg-based breakfasts.

What's worse is I don't think a single student in the classroom seems at all bothered that their seventy-thousand-dollar-a-year education is being wasted at this moment. 

When class ends, Frank waves animatedly to the entire room, and—somehow, inexplicably—I only just now realize that Frank's possibly unwell.

"Frank, what is this?"

Once the room is cleared of students, he packs up the ingredients, stuffs them into his reusable bags, cleans off the hot plate, and pops that into another grocery bag. Gone is his signature, leathery brown briefcase holding his life's work. 

"You planned this? Did you premeditatedly bring a hot plate to work? Frank, what is this, what do you think you're doing?"

Frank sighs and turns away from me, facing the vast, empty classroom. I watched from behind as his shoulders sagged, head tilting down dejectedly, brown tweed slumped forward like a turtle falling into his shell.

"I'm done, Theresa," he says quietly.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm done talking about climate change. Every day, I scream that the world is on fire. People stopped listening long ago."

"Frank," I get up, coming to the opposite side of his desk, placing my hands flat on the surface, "you had an entire classroom full of people willing to listen just now. Who pay to be here, to listen to you. Every day, in fact. They're listening. The work you do is important. So important."

I want to slam my hand on the desk in frustration, but I recognize this for what it is. I've seen it over the years, from teachers especially.

Frank's lost the pot. Lost his marbles. Lost his shit. Gone over the deep end, fighting a losing battle. His will to wake up each day, drudge to class, and keep going was fading so much I had no idea the flame lit inside was flickering out.

"And do you know what most of them do the entirety of most of my lectures? They play on their phones. Fall asleep. Flirt and wink at each other, giggling and talking over me. Giving hand jobs, trying to hide in the back of the classroom like no one's going to notice. I'm done, Theresa."

"So that's it? No. You can't quit. You have a contract. Look… maybe you just… Why don't we go back to my office and talk about this? I think maybe you should take a few days off and rest."

Frank smiles, and I'm struck by how awkward it looks on him. His near-balding head, frown lines deeply embedded into his broad forehead and around the sloping shape of his mouth war against the unnatural lift of his lips at the corners, making his grin more like a grimace.

"Frank…"

"Pollution. Disease. Heatwaves, fires, floods, hurricanes, tropical storms—"

"Frank—"

"Water scarcity, temperatures rising, ice caps melting, climate change is the single biggest threat to humanity, and no one is doing anything about it!" Frank shouts.

"That is not true! That's why we're all here!" I wave my arms around the room, shouting right back. "The work you do is important because of all that. You can't give up. What even is this? You're just going to cook omelets now? How does that solve anything?"

Frank smiles again. "I enjoyed class today. I think I'll do it again tomorrow."

Frank picks up his grocery bags and leisurely strolls out the door. I watch him go, and when the door slams shut behind him and echoes through the now-empty room, I pull out my phone and text Frank's ex-wife.

The following day, I wait impatiently in my office for Frank's first class to start. When the clock strikes eight, I rush into his building and, with less finesse than yesterday, swing open his classroom door.

And then proceed to sit through a two-hour lecture on buttercream frosting, the many techniques involved in the choice of palette knives, and what to do if the cream is too runny or too thick. Frank came prepared with three finished cakes and demonstrated his favorite frosting application techniques.

I'm even more surprised at how full the class is—word must have gotten out how Mr. Billings has decided to abandon his life's work for his best Julia Childs impression—students call out excitedly, asking questions and advice about baking in their dorm rooms or on their limited budgets. He indulges them kindly and without hesitation.

When class ends, and the room clears, Frank slides a slice of cake my way. I slump down in his chair behind his desk and take the piece, shoveling the frosted dessert into my mouth, one confused and exhausted bite at a time.

"Frank," I start, but he just smiles.

"You can't keep doing this. Whatever this is," I wave my fork toward the room.

Frank carefully packs away all the day's ingredients while we talk, just as he did yesterday. "Trash islands. Fish and wildlife consuming microscopic plastics, which end up in our food supply. Insects and bees dying off. Gas emissions—"

"Frank. This is why your work is so important!"

Frank’s placid smile doesn’t waver.

The following day, and every class for a week, Frank cooks. He doesn't talk about the world on fire or global politics as it relates to warming core temperatures. He doesn't talk about the imminent threat to our lives, the lives of all animals and plants on earth, or the lives of generations to come and what the world will look like for them. Frank doesn't raise his voice or get angry or shout—an hourly occurrence before all of this, whatever this is.

By the end of the week, I have a decision to make. Frank's ex-wife got back to me, equally concerned, but could not share any real insight into his state of mind. She offered to come over if I needed her help escorting Frank off campus, if I had to fire him or put him on leave, and he refused to go. There's no telling what Frank would do at this point, but I didn't think it would get that far. 

But the following Monday morning, Frank arrived with his aged brown leather briefcase—minus the hot plate and eggs and buttercream frosting—just as he had every day for years.

I sat in the back of the classroom, overwhelmed with sadness. 

Frank didn't smile. He didn't hold anyone's attention when he dove into the state of our world and began writing out statistics on the whiteboard about temperature changes and food scarcity and the impact it had on the poor and working class.

When class ended, the room emptied of students, which had somehow grown in number—whether that was because there was a high number of young people wanting to learn how to make a perfect poached egg or, more likely, with their phones at the ready, prepared and waiting for the sad, old professor to really lose it and do something trend or viral-worthy. Who knows.

"When Maria left me, I was relieved," Frank shrugs once I meander down the steps and sit in the chair next to his desk. He looked more melancholy than before, older than he'd ever seemed.

My eyebrows lift in surprise. I was under the impression when his ex-wife took off, it devastated him. At my look of surprise, he elaborates, "After the second failed round of IVF, I knew I didn't have it in me to make her happy. I never wanted kids. I didn't want to bring anyone else into this world. I was relieved we were done trying."

He glances up at me, glassy-eyed and tired. 

"Frank…"

"See you tomorrow, Theresa," Frank sighs and heads out the door. 

The click of the metal echoes, and I'm alone, and for a moment, I think, I'd really like to listen to him talk about baking a cake.

Frank didn't teach his students the basics of cooking again, except one day every year, April 22nd, Earth Day. It became a legend in the college, and more people attended that class than any other, students and teachers alike.

He put away the charts and the statistics. He stopped talking about how our world was going to shit and how no matter how loud we yelled about it, nothing changed because the real movement had to happen culturally, in our reliance on corporate greed; however disgusted we may have pretended to be with it, we still clung to the instant gratification it offered with both hands. Frank didn't talk about how those cloying hands would never pry free of our lives, not in our generation, and I think he'd given up, in a way. 

But every year, on Earth Day, Frank would smile and bake a cake.