The train squeals to a stop at 14th Street, and I gather my stuff, making my way to the door. It’s another fucking day, the start of another fucking week on this treadmill that I call a life. There’s nothing to do, really, except to get on with it.
***
Tuesday
The ocean is angry, a mess of whitecaps, surf pounding over the sand as the rain drives in almost sideways. A great bolt of lighting splits the sky in two, and I know I should get off the beach, that it’s dangerous to be out here. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I need to find, that I’ve lost something precious, something that’s just out of reach —
“Ezra!”
The voice is familiar but I can’t place it, barely audibleover the crash of the waves and the insistent howling of the wind. I try to answer it, reaching out of the sea, but I’m falling — falling — dragged by the undertow as the steel-gray water closes over my head —
“Nnnnhhh — what?”
I wake with a start, catching myself just before my face crashes into the keyboard. I sit up and blink, taking stock of my tiny apartment. There’s the kitchenette along one wall, the countertop that can barely accommodate a single cutting board. The door to the bathroom, where I can hardly turn around in the shower without falling out of it. My shelves, overflowing with books. And my bed in the corner, which serves me for sleeping, fucking, eating dinner, watching TV — except when I’m sitting at my desk, of course, where one hour merges into the next as I hunch over my work.
I rub the sleep out of my eyes as I stare at my computer screen, trying to get my bearings. It’s early afternoon on the one day of the week that I don’t have to head into Manhattan until late, to teach my evening seminar on the labor movement in the United States. So that means it’s my day to catch up with my online courses, to check out the activity on the message boards and grade the weekly papers. It’s fucking deadly.
My phone buzzes, and I jump about a mile. It’s Seth, and I hurry to pick it up and answer it.
“Hey, is everything okay?” I tuck the phone againstmy shoulder.
Seth’s laugh is a warm crackle through the line. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
“I just thought, you know, since you’re under the age of seventy-five, that you would text me if you had something to say. Like a normal person.”
“Yeah, well —” Seth sighs. “Bree just said I should check on you, that you might need something. I dunno, something about crystals or colors or — you know she’s spent too much time around Hollywood people. But she said it had to be a phone call, and I love her, so — hi, I guess.”
“Huh.” I cast about for something to say. “Um, I mean, I forgot to eat lunch. So maybe I need pizza?”
“Want me to order you one?” Seth chuckles.
“I think I can handle it.” We’re both quiet for a beat, and honestly, I’m kind of thrown, because Seth usually doesn’t hover over me like this. But it’s sort of touching, I guess, so I decide to throw him a bone. “Hey, you’re the programmer, right? Do you think you could — I dunno, make an AI to replace me?”
“Why would you wantthat?” Seth asks incredulously.
“Because I’m grading these papers, right? And I don’t think my students actually wrote any of them. So I’m thinking — why am I, a human, spending my time trying to correct papers that were written by robots? Couldn’t I get a robot to do that for me? Then none ofus would have to do anything, and the students and I could go sit on the beach.”
“I don’t know if it’s supposed to work that way.” Even though I can’t see him, I can tell Seth is shaking his head.
“Well, maybe it should.” I take off my glasses, polishing the lenses on the hem of my T-shirt before sliding them back on. “But hey — nice talking to you? And thanks for checking on me.”
“Any time, little brother.”
Huh. When I put the phone back on the desk, I stare at it for a minute, drumming my fingers on my knee. Then I stand up and stretch, crossing the floor to the kitchen to make something to eat. I guess taking care of myself once in a while isn’t such a terrible idea.
***
Wednesday
“I’m sorry, Professor Callahan, I know I haven’t handed in two papers and I know I’m going to fail, and I deserve it, but it’s just been a lot and I can’t —”
Alyssa, a student in one of my Intro to World History sections, breaks off to bury her face in her hands. I nudge the box of tissues across my desk in her direction, hoping that the walls will cave in at any minute, crushing us all instantly and getting us out of this situation.
“Look, Alyssa —” I begin, and she raises her head, raccoon tracks of mascara starting down her cheeks. I would gladly be literally anywhere else. “Would you like to take an incomplete for the semester? That would give you until the middle of the summer to get everything done.”
Alyssa sniffs deeply. “You woulddothat?”
“Yeah, I mean —” I know what you’re thinking, and I amnotdoing this just to get her out of my office. Well, not entirely. “Your attendance has been good and you’ve been participating, so I know you’re invested in this class. If more time would help, I don’t mind giving it to you.”
