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“Running your own errands when you have a TA?” He shakes his head. “I hope you’re not going too easy on Rachel on my account.”
The mere mention of her name makes me choke on my own saliva, and his eyes widen at the grotesque sound while I hack into a fist to gather myself. “No, sir. Definitely not.”
“Good, good. She needs the structure.”
I suck my lips into my mouth. I don’t think there’s anything safe to say here, so the best practice is to say nothing at all.
“Oh!” he says, almost startling himself and holding up a singular finger. “I almost forgot! I have something for you.”
“Something for me, sir?”
He nods, swings his leather briefcase in front of himself, and roots around in the front pocket, eventually coming out with a single page of poetry. He hands it to me, and I study it quickly. It’s Walt Whitman, and it looks really old—like it could be out of a first edition. Holy shit.
“Nate? Is this…is this what I think it is?”
He smiles proudly. “First edition. Brutalized, obviously, evidenced by the fact that I’m handing you a single piece of paper, but I found it in a pawn shop many, many years ago with Nadine, and it just resurfaced in my attic cleanout. I’ve been meaning to give it to you. I know what a fan you are of his work.”
Not to be dramatic, but this whole exchange feels like a collection of all the understatements of the century.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He just chuckles. “A simple Thank you is all that’s needed.”
“Wow.” I nod. “Thank you, Nate.”
He slaps my shoulder with a hearty grin and steps around me to head down the stairs on his original trajectory. “You bet.”
I stand there for several long seconds, poring over the details of the paper—the markings, the weight of it, the words I’ve read thousands and thousands of times. I cannot believe I’m holding an actual single sheet of paper from a first edition of Leaves of Grass.
Engrossed, I stare at it as I move down the rest of the hallway to my office and step inside. Lesson plans forgotten, I drop my notebook on the surface of my desk and round it to the standing shelves behind. I have several newer versions of Whitman’s collection of works on the fifth shelf up. The placement is intentional. I wanted my most prized treasures to sit at exactly eye level.
Carefully, I move one of my book stands to the front of that shelf and unfurl the folds in the paper—I can’t believe this extremely valuable paper is folded and Professor Rose was just carrying it around in his briefcase like a pack of fucking gum—and set it out as gently as possible. It’s not exactly stable, but I do manage to get it to stay enough to be able to see what it is. Long-term, I’ll probably frame it and hang it on the wall just to ensure nothing happens to it, but for now, this will have to work.
When things are finally settled, I glance at the clock on the wall to see I’ve wasted just about all the time leading up to class. I have a little bit of a game plan, but at some point, I’ll have to wing it.
Luckily for me and my class, I’m something of an improvisational specialist.
Time to give them hell.
Oh, and you know, keep shit between Rachel and me completely PG.
No, actually, G. Starting from this day forward, if our relationship is made into a movie, Disney would own the rights and we’d be two fucking cartoon characters.
Strictly professional. I got this…I hope.
I jump up on top of my desk and croon to the rafters, and the class bursts into a cacophony of laughter and chatter. I knew they would, given my antics, but I also know this is the kind of shit that keeps them remembering a lesson forever.
Not many undergrad students get excited about reading a book like Love in the Time of Cholera on their own. But throw in a little drama? Add a little bit of spice, as this generation of TikTokers is saying?
And they go wild for it.
“What I’m doing now, howling at the wind and making a big show of myself? That’s the volume of the symbolism that Marquez manages in this book, but it’s done elegantly.”
I climb down off the desk and find Rachel’s eyes in the front row. She’s watching me avidly enough that I swiftly move my gaze to something else. This lesson doesn’t need any more distractions than it’s already had today.
“Florentino is a man of big talk, but his follow-through could stand some work. I think we can all relate to having the best of intentions sometimes without exactly having the best of execution.”
I glance to Rachel once more. “I sure as hell know I can.”
