Autumn in Prudentia

Cities are never the same at night. There’s always something different about them. Maybe it’s the lights. Maybe it’s the way that the city lights just seem to reach back up into the sky, blotting out the stars. It’s great, in a way, how you can see so clearly the nature of mankind in city lights. We reach up to spread out our arms around as much as we can, denying the power of everything that moves around us. We haven’t taken the time to stop, and look at what’s around us. If we were to look hard enough, we would know. That we’ve reached too far when we can no longer see the stars. There’s nothing wrong with a dark night. Only when it’s dark can you ever see the stars, a whole other world. That’s what it was like when I met her. I realized too late that I had reached too far …1

“Now class, as you read through Mr. Demington’s collection I want you to pick one that appeals to you the most and diagram it for me,” Lowery’s thin, reedy voice was nearly as bad as the assignment…pompous old…2

“Hey, hey buddy,” I heard back behind me and to the left.3

“What is it Joe?” I whispered over my shoulder without looking as Lowery rambled on, thick, heavy moustache hanging from under his long thin nose like a lampshade. It made me smile.4

I heard a grunt before an answer, he was being silly again. I frowned.5

“Call me Is…”6

“No,” I whispered a bit more loudly. I didn’t care if he was Jewish. His name was Joe, not Isaac.7

You can’t just change your name.8

“Me and a couple of the others are going to a movie tonight…”9

The pause was laughable.10

“Y…you wanna come?”11

I nodded. Joe Yitzhak was a bit addled in the brain, an oddball to be sure. He was also my best friend, not to mention the son of the Mayor. When I first met him and found out, I hadn’t really cared. My father was a janitor, Joe’s father was a Mayor. It didn’t make any difference to me. That’s probably why we got along so well. Joe liked being Joe Yitzhak, not the Mayor’s boy. I liked having a friend around.12

As soon as class was over I exchanged a few words with Joe, promising to meet him at the theater at eight. Shaking hands, he with a laugh, we turned and went our separate ways, Joe to some meaningless hobby, pool, or reruns of last week’s game. I had other plans.13

“Ah, Mister McJunkin! Mister McJunkin!” I could almost here the wind through the moustache,” Mister McJunkin, if I could have a word with you?”14

I wanted to tell him that he’d already had fifteen, but I wasn’t in the mood to be facetious. I merely remembered an odd way of saying yes, and just raised my eyebrows at him quite purposefully.15

“Ah, yes, well,” I guess the eyebrows got him a little off center, I always enjoyed doing that to old Lowery…his voice was every so dry, even when he wasn’t lecturing,” Well, you see, I wanted to have a word with you about your grades Mister McJunkin.”16

Holding one’s facial expressions still is quite a feat when faced with unpleasant circumstances. I liked doing such feats often in the face of impending discomfort. What I didn’t like was that moustache. Hideous thing. It didn’t just twitch, it twitched at me. A small bead of sweat moved painstakingly across his high forehead and up against the rim of his glasses, so thick.17

“I suppose,” he had thick glasses.18

“Well, your grade for the class has remained at just below a B thus far this semester and,” I didn’t feel like listening to this for the next ten minutes.19

“Is a C now failing here at Prudentia?” my stomach began to sink as I started to understand where this was going...guilt trips were am unfortunate weak spot Lowery seemed to know all too well.20

“No…no,” he looked down for a moment, studying the floor, as he looked up he pushed his glasses further upon his nose with a finger,” no it is not. But your scholarship here at Prudentia requires you to maintain a 3.5 minimum GPA to retain your eligibility in the Advanced Authorship Program. And I know the money from that scholarship is crucial in keeping you enrolled here.”21

Some of the other classes were getting out now, a light din rising around us. I knew what he was saying was true. Lowery wasn’t such a bad guy. It was just his moustache, and the fact that he had a knack for knowing the truth of things too often for conformability’s sake.22

“Mister McJunkin…Roy. I know you can do better than this. I’ve read some of the work you turned in for Ergman’s Creative Fiction…why aren’t you doing that kind of work in all of your classes?”23

Did I forget to mention that Professor Lowery was my academic advisor? Well, he was. There was something about the man that made me uncomfortable. Maybe it was the fact that he saw things too clearly, or maybe it was my fault. It was probably my fault.24

I held up Arthur Demington’s anthology of poems, aptly titled Footsteps on Falling Leaves: poetry outside the classroom.25

“This is all someone else’s stuff. I like to write for me, because I want to, because I feel inspired…”26

“You can’t do that for me? Or for any of your other classes?”27

“It’s because it’s in a class that I can’t,” I felt bitter, and a little like a liar that doesn’t know he’s lying.28

“Is it can’t? Or won’t?”29

I paused, looked down at my shoe. It was brown, the leather a little faded from consistent wear. I only had one pair of shoes. Remember? My father wasn’t the mayor. Janitor. Cleaning specialist. Whatever.30

“Mister McJunkin…Roy. I don’t want to see this end badly for you. Now I know you don’t need a tutor, but if you ever want to stop by my office and talk shop…to brainstorm on ways to see if we can get you a little more motivated…just let me know.”31

I looked up and stared at him for a moment, lost in thought. I was still lost there but I had the presence of mind to nod my head at the appropriate time. We’d had this conversation before. I’d barely kept my scholarship last semester. Made it by a tenth of a point. Though the way Lowery took such an interest in it all the time I suspected he gave me a little more credit than I had earned. Hadn’t asked him if he did. I had a thing about shame that kept me from wanting to feel it. It was uncomfortable. That moustache.32

He had said farewell, turned and was twenty paces down the hall before I had a chance to snap out of it. I remembered Joe’s invitation. And the look on Lowery’s face. My watch read 2:15. I had time.33

Walking the other way down the hall, I hung a left and went out the old main doors of Noble Hall. Into the warm autumn air. A little studying in the park, some homework before the show and I would be close to on track. Lowery was right. I didn’t want to be a janitor.