“What, then, is the purpose for our being? …the point of our existence?” he asked, shoulders slightly shrugged, palms turned up.

His posture spoke louder than his words, saying, “You don’t know, do you? I know. I have the answer. Yep, that’s right, and guess what, I got this t-shirt at Goodwill because fashion is of no importance to me.”

I saw the exact same t-shirt at the mall for $29.

It was “Physics for Non-Math Majors”. I had successfully completed over 3 years of advanced calculus, but needed a couple elective credits to graduate. Me taking this course was like Michelangelo completing a connect-the-dots after finishing the Sistine Chapel. It is me, and seven soon to be elementary school teachers.

Prof. Wade is a recent grad with a masters in Ecology. Nicely put, he is a pompous hippie activist who regularly competes in Scrabble tournaments across the state. The only open job this year was this physics class, so he took it, fully knowing he would seize every opportunity to ignore physics and covertly implant his proactive peace plan into the curriculum.

He dressed the part, but often overlooked facade fundamentals. For example, I would imagine asking him, “If you REALLY don’t care what you look like, why so much product in your hair to maintain the messy look?” To which he would reply, still in my imagination, “Oh! Well, umm…actually it’s…” at which point I do one of the following; turn my back and walk away with a sorority girl under each arm, or slug him with a right hook to the jaw. Sometimes both, the latter first.

We get extra credit on our tests if we can list words that start and end with the same vowel, or have three dotted letters in a row, every test, more BS bonus questions. He may as well just say, “I exist on an intellectual level several steps above your own. I am inviting you to step up one rung, but you’ll need to hold my hand because it’s dangerous up here. Oh, and, I have a ’84 used Porsche that I drive everywhere, except to school, because a rusty 10-speed better fits my image.”

Oh and, “hijinks” has three dotted letters in a row, you arrogant prick.

Today, we had over an hour to calculate the velocity of a marble rolling down a wooden incline. We were split into teams of three, plus one team of two, nice division, jackass. We were given a digital stopwatch and a xerox of the necessary physics equations involving velocity and acceleration. Every team finished in under 10 minutes, but sat around and acted busy while Sir Green Peace pretended to read, fully knowing we had all completed the assignment. If he knew that I knew that he knew that we were done with the task, his miserable attempt to insult our intelligence had failed. In turn, he increased the amount of time spent behind his book, a strategic move in our intellectual pissing contest. Strategic, but far from optimal.

He knows I have him figured out. I know he knows because he can’t maintain eye contact with me. When he lectures, he shifts his stare from one girl to the next, stressing random prepositions to further convolute his already muddled lesson. When his stare reaches mine, I make the quick shift from stare to glare, with an ever-so-slight rotation of my head, so I am peering at him more with my left eye than my right. He can’t handle it and looks away immediately.

If I’m really on my game that day, I’ll cause a brief pause in his lecture as he loses his train of thought. Once, he stopped completely and returned my glare with a hesitant look, subconsciously asking “Why the glare? Do you know about my Porsche?” I look back down to the pad I pretend to take notes on, while doodling my name in graffiti letters, or cars.

This is me saying, “Yeah, I know all about you, but I don’t care.”

I don’t care. Really, I don’t. Scratch that. I do. I wish I didn’t. I try not to care, but for the above-mentioned pissing contest, I have to care but appear not to.

Sometimes, when he’s lecturing, or talking down to us, or whatever, I daydream about global domination. I, of course, am the leader of the civilized Western world, and have only to conquer the born-again Nazi’s to win the game, or complete the whole global domination thing, or whatever. I lead my troops into the fallen city, still a Nazi stronghold. Its kind of like Braveheart, dropped on the set of Saving Private Ryan, but not in leather skirts. The dust ahead clears, and there is Adolph Wade, with his scrabble playing Nazi’s lined up behind him. Oh, he doesn’t have the Hitler mustache though, I’ve tried that before, but it detracts from the seriousness of the situation, and usually ends up with me pulling it off, because it’s obviously fake.

Anyways, back to the scene. He charges me, but his troops remain still. This is how he wants it, one on one, him against me. He knows that this is the only way to win. His charge continues, but this is where I remember, we are standing on a known fault line that has shown recent seismic activity due to over-stuffed garbage landfills in neighboring countries. Most of the garbage could have been recycled, but we were too lazy.

The ground opens up directly in front of the charging Wade and his momentum (mass * (distance/time)) is too great, rendering his attempt to stop me useless.