My mind wonders, even knowing of the impending doom, why I fall victim to childlike crushes. Every time they don't turn out how I wish, a wave of depression settles over me. I wonder what could have been, but my better judgment tells me things would have never worked out anyway, and I've simply saved myself a bit of heartache. But then the thought creeps in, ‘Perhaps the pleasure is worth the heartache.’ But has the pleasure to heartache not already occurred? Have I not gone from the high of unrealistic fantasy to the low of rejection? It seems as though crushes are just short distractions my head makes up to keep my heart satisfied.
***
“Here the wisdom begins to flow...” With those indelible first words, he had me. He should have possessed the power to bring the mass to silence, but he didn’t. The room was clamorous as he positioned himself on, not at, his desk. The first time I saw this, I silently laughed at his whimsical nature. His legs didn’t quite reach the ground and he slowly swung them back and forth like an impatient child. His head was shaven with purpose, and his back and shoulders curved forward like someone who knew too much to judge. “Wow,” he said as he pressed his palms against the smooth desk, “I thought the excitement would overcome it, but I’m a little nervous.”
It was his first year teaching at the University. Coincidentally, moments earlier I’d mistaken him for a fellow student as he detained my stare in the hall. I’d flashed him a smile and quickly went back to reading my novel.
He had the look. The look I’ve seen manifest in a many happy middles of my past; the look of someone who’s not bound by trends, someone who carries more than their share of the weight of the world, someone with intelligent eyes. I had hoped to steal a seat next to him in class; I had no idea he’d be instructing it. I often scold myself when I instantly fall for someone based on this look. Inevitably, my mind fills in the blanks and assumes too much. I didn’t want that to be the case with him. I wanted his intellect to match his aesthetic.
I had no moral affliction with liking a teacher, aside from the technical problem of convincing him it would have nothing to do with my grade. I wasn’t one of those girls; I didn’t need to be. I had carefully selected his class based on his chosen anthology. Maybe I take myself too seriously.
Through the mindless chatter, the professor, Ethan Foster, continued his short biography. He was eloquent and latently wry, which was clearly lost on the rest of the class. He thought of himself primarily as a writer, which explained his endearing habit of pausing before adjectives and verbs in order to… select the… ideal one. As the class maundered on unaffected, I sympathized with his position and began to feel slightly guilty about the misconduct.
When he mentioned he was married, I put all unchaste thoughts to rest. I also reminded myself how, in the past, being consumed by a boy always seemed to deteriorate my grades.
That night as I looked over the assigned readings, I found myself making assumption about him based on his selections. I caught myself thinking, ‘Yes, that’s what I would have chosen.’ I quickly suppressed these thoughts; they would not help stifle my little crush. Still, the image of him sitting on that desk, nervously swinging his legs lingered in the foreground of my mind.
The following day before class, I ran into him in the hall. “Hello, how’s your day going, Miss Strand?”
A bit unnerved, I faltered, “It’s going well. How… how did you learn my name after only one day of class?”
He chuckled, “Don’t tell your classmates, but I was more than a little nervous at the start of class. That quickly subsided when I noticed the lack of… well… attention. But you, you seemed to be the only one listening to me blathering on, which I’m sure kept me going far longer than I intended. I figured I should know your name since you may be the only one participating in the discussion.”
I blushed at his admission. Why had he confessed this to me? I reverted back to subconsciously instilled vapid small talk, “I’m sure that’s not true, but I am looking forward to discussing some of the readings you’ve assigned in class.”
His face became serious, “Sycophancy won’t help your grade.”
I fumbled again, “Oh no… sir. That was not my intention at all. I’m an English major. I’m actually interested in this class. I can’t wait until we get to Sartre.”
As I stood there dazed, he began to laugh, “That explains a great deal. I remember being you, taking the world and myself too seriously. Much of what we’ll be reading this semester will affirm that feeling. If you can read and interpret you can pass this class. What I can’t teach you is that life offers you a lot of absurdities and you must either choose to laugh or cry.” I could tell he was completely engrossed in this own thought, “You can be beaten down by life’s futility or learn to see the beauty in it. If you do, please let me know how.”
I felt comfortable studying his face throughout this speech; he was so lost in his own head he wouldn’t have noticed anyway. He was exquisite and intellectual, articulate and poignant. Any attempt to truly define him is futile; poetry could not contain him. As he came back to the present, I simply smiled at him. “Well,” he said, “I’ll see you in class.”
In the following weeks, I found myself constantly staring at him from the back of the class, pretending every word he spoke was some cryptic message for me to decode. I wanted him, denying all circumstances and consequences, I wanted him. After the first day, he’d stopped calling my name during roll, and would simply look up and smile at me when he got to my name. I could barely concentrate. I sat in the back row and fantasized about what I knew he was capable of. I know all the dirty secrets of a brilliant mind; I have my own.
Three months into the semester, I was avoiding studying for finals and ended up at a local coffeehouse. How pompous, I know, but I like being that pretentious writer sitting in the corner and pretending to be unaffected. As I walked through the door to my favorite room, there in my favorite corner with a cigarette clinched between his teeth was Mr. Foster. He was furiously typing out a block of thought.
“Hello Mr. Foster,” he jerked when I spoke his name. “You know those things are bad for you?” I joked as I twirled an unlit cigarette between my fingers. It was lame and unoriginal, but he made me all gushy and cliché.
He humored me and laughed, “Hey, Rachel. Need a light?”
I nodded and he stood up to light my cigarette. He sat back down and gestured to the seat next to him, “Have a seat. What are you up to today?”
“I suppose the same thing you are,” I said as I sat down beside him.
“Trying to beat out lines for something you’ve lost interest in?”
“Yes… isn’t that every writer’s lament?”
He laughed with his eyes, and closed his laptop. “Well, I guess I should find solace in numbers. But I’m glad you interrupted me; I needed a break. It’s funny how eventually even the things you love can become tedious.”
“True. It makes you wonder if Sartre really is right; if the only constants are death and change, how can anyone ever commit to anything?” I realized how oblique my question was only after I’d said it.
“I think that may have been his point. But, fuck, I don’t know.”
I could tell he went down a line of thought he didn’t want to explore. I changed the subject, “So, Mr. Foster, you live around here? Or do you just enjoy being near campus on a Saturday?”
He shifted nervously, “You can call me Ethan, obviously, formalities aren’t necessary around here. And to answer your question, neither really. Sometimes I just can’t get anything done at home. ”
All of a sudden I noticed the dark circles under his eyes and a shaky hand lift his coffee to his mouth. “Why is that… Ethan?” I asked.
Instead of taking a drink, he held the cup in front of his face and studied the dark ring the coffee had left on the lip of the cup. Without looking up he asked, “Why do I feel that every question you ask me has motive behind it? And worse, why do I want to be honest with you?”
“Maybe it’s because we’re similar or maybe it’s because Psych 101 really paid off. ‘And how does that make you feel?’”
He laughed, “It makes me feel like perhaps the line of questioning should be redirected to you. What are you doing here on a Saturday?”
“Avoiding studying for your final, of course.”
“I have a hard time believing that you even need to. You could probably teach the class just as well as I can. I sometimes wonder what I’m doing here. Am I just filling young minds with… outdated archetype?”
“What do you mean?”
“I teach this material the same way my professors taught it to me, and so on; which is a complete contradiction to the way I feel literature should be absorbed. There should be a level of personal experience that plays into each interpretation.”
“I agree.” There was a momentary lull, “So what were you writing about?”
He looked at me with eyes that expressed he wouldn’t say, “Life.”
“Ah,” I said, “Say no more. It’s funny how we wait so long to grow up and then never really stop making the same mistakes.”
He took the final sip from his mug, “Yeah… it definitely seems, as we get older, we just learn how to cope with our bad decisions.”
He set his mug down indiscriminately. I needed a refill as well so I reached for his empty mug. His hand intercepted my hand before he realized what I was reaching for. The stunned look on my face made him realize this immediately. “Oh,” he whispered as he promptly retracted his hand.
There was a long silence. The white noise from the other customers became unbearable.
I tapped my cup and raised an eyebrow, “I’m out also. Do you want a refill?”
“Please… just black.”
I had to walk away before I said something I’d regret. I couldn’t imagine facing him in class if I’d revealed my affection and been shot down by reality. I collected myself as the coffee flowed into the cup. I thought up light questions to ask him: ‘Where did you go to school?’ and ‘How did you know you wanted to write?’ nice things that would leave him at ease.
When I returned to our nook, he was gone. There was a note on the table:
“The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er.”
Had he felt the same insatiable urge to run? Could it have been for the same reason? There could have been a million reasons.
He wasn’t in his office before class the next day or the following two weeks. I kept quiet in class. He stopped randomly calling on me to interpret passages, and he started calling my name again during roll instead of looking up to see if I was there.
It wasn’t until the day before his final I found him poking at the keyboard in his office. “Hey Ethan,” I said as I walked in and sat down in front of his desk.
“Hello, Miss Strand. How can I help you?” He barely looked up from his monitor to find out who had invaded his office.
“Well, nothing really. I guess I just have a question.”
“Oh. Is it about the exam tomorrow? I’m working on the final revision of it now. Actually you probably shouldn’t be in here.”
I laughed, “Yeah… it’s my intention to cheat. The only thing more unbelievable than that would be if I intended to help your class of philistines cheat.”
He finally looked up from the monitor, “You’re not the first person to acutely understand Sartre or Camus or whoever. Don’t think your first brush with existential literature distinguishes you in any way.”
I had no idea how to respond, “I don’t think I’m special, sir. I know everybody is.”
He turned back to the monitor. “Tell me,” he said.
“Yes?”
Looking regretful that he’d just been so disagreeable, “Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I’m sorry for wasting your time,” still upset, I withdrew.
***
That was yesterday. Perhaps for a normal person, that would be closure enough. All though his final I tried to convince myself that was enough. I know there’s no such thing as a happy ending. The most anyone can hope for is a happy middle, and even those unpredictably swell and lull.
Loitering outside his office, I realize I’ve become accustomed to this scene. It’s funny, but I’m sure these are the things that will stick with me. His picture of M.C. Escher’s Hand with Reflecting Sphere, the ‘You, Kant, always get what you want’ poster, and the folder in which to turn in late assignments clearly marked, ‘YOU’RE LATE’. I don’t want to remember him as this novelty store junky. I need some semblance of closure.
Now that the final is over, I’m faced with the terrible decision: do I allow the final also to be the final time I see him, the final time I hear him speak, and the final time I watch him descend from that unstable platform? I’m not sure I could live with that unknowing. So do I confront him and possibly make a fool of myself? It seems like in love, eventually there’s always a fool.
I have to dive in, and if I drown, it won’t be the first time.
From the bench outside his office, I can see down the two major hallways. He walks up slowly from what might have been an excursion to the restroom or perhaps a cigarette break. I capture each step as a snapshot in my mind. He looks drained and ready to abandon the campus for the next three months.
I accidentally drop my pen.
With a start, he looks up and notices me. He picks up the pen and hands it to me. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s tired, but he holds the pen in my hand for an unusually long time.
“Rachel,” he releases the pen then turns to unlock his office. “I have to admit, I was kind of expecting you.”
“And was that negative or positive?” I ask.
“You know better than most, nothing’s ever that black and white,” he counters. “How you do feel you did on the final?” he asks, seeming only to be polite.
As I seat myself in his office I reply, “I think it went well…”
He interrupts me before I can finish, “I want to apologize for what I said to you yesterday. I just feel crushed under many stressful situations, and I took it out on you undeservedly.”
“It’s ok. I didn’t even consider that you’d be just as frazzled as your students during this time of year. My purpose was self-serving, and it should have waited or just been omitted all together.”
“You wanted to know why I ran away from the coffeehouse?” He can barely mutter the words. I’m sure his mind is running ramped with possible answers.
“Yes… No… well,” all of a sudden I can’t find the words. “There’s something that’s been bothering me. I really agree with so much of what Sartre and the other existential thinkers have to say. Logically, it makes sense, but it seems to leave no room for love. I can’t conceive how one might evolve past that need.”
“Ah,” he says, obviously less tense, “I’ve often pondered that same dilemma. Like most philosophies, it’s a bit idealistic. So how do you address emotion overcoming logic? I don’t mean irrational, spur of the moment emotion. I mean those things you just can’t put away, those annoying little thoughts that creep into your head at the most inopportune time. As far as I can tell, those emotions create the essence of a person. It seems like existentialism begs people to apologize for this lapse of reason. But in order not to explode, we can’t apologize for who we are at the core. If this godless world leaves us complete freedom without innate virtue or underlying reason, we must create our own. When emotion wins over logic, that’s your essence – your foundation.”
“I’m in love with you.” It just spills out of me, uncontrollable as a river flowing toward the ocean. We stare at each other with the same look of shock.
Eternity passes, twice.
God, what had I said? What would he say? My instant response is to run, but my legs betray me. “I…” I grapple for an excuse, something to retract what I’ve just said, “I don’t expect… I’m
not…” It doesn’t come.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says. “You’re an incredibly talented writer and exceptional student. You have an ability to interpret unmatched by any of your peers. You have a
philosophic heart.”
“But?” I say it as if I’d expected something else.
“But I’d hate to think that you’ve used that analytical tendency to interpret anything I’ve said to you. I can’t deny that I’m partial to you, but it’s purely academic or at best paternal. Your affection is incredibly flattering, but in my position, it’s not something I can act on.”
A calm floods over me. It seems this often happens in extreme situations. I thrive on the abundance of pure emotion. “I realize all this,” I say. “It’s not something I realistically thought you’d act on. I suppose I just wanted you to know. I know you have moral responsibilities to the university and your wife.”
Seeming only now to remember her, “Yes, my…”
“I suppose there’s nothing left to say,” a shaky hand puts my book into my bag and I begin to leave.
“Wait,” my heart stops as he calls me back in from the doorway. I slowly turn around, and walk with a light step back over to his desk. He takes me by the hand. “In another place or perhaps another time…” he trails off, lost in thought. “You’re beautiful and intelligent far beyond your years. I’m not the last person you’ll feel this way about, and one of them may actually be able to give you what you need.”
I appreciate his attempt to console me, but it doesn’t work. It never does. I smile serenely and put my hand over his. Staring directly into his eyes, I speak my final words to him, “This is not the way I would write it.”
Coolly keeping my composure, I walk out, down the hall, and through the tremendous glass doors for the final time. I settle down on a bench in the shade. I pull out a cigarette and press it to my lips. With one flick of the lighter it’s lit, and I inhale deeply.
And then the tears begin to flow.
