Short Story: Teacher’s Pet
Dr. Richard M. Hendricks is a curious man with many profound thoughts but none spoken aloud. He saunters about the grounds of our too-small-to-be-recognized college, perplexing students and fellow professors alike. At least I assume the others are too bewildered by his existence on campus, although they show little to no interest in him. Perhaps I’m so inquisitive that I just believe they feel the same way, for I cannot imagine a life without observation.
I take his Art History class now after years of enrolling in the other courses he offers: Introduction to Humanities, Ethics 101, English Literature, and finally, my favorite, Philosophy. I live by one motto and one motto only, the statement that collectively defines Descartes as a prominent philosopher: Cogito, ergo sum or I think, therefore I am. Why waste precious time falling deep into the restless cycle that the world expects us to slip into, such as building relationships and interacting with earthly materials? More readily, I could spend my days pondering everything that puzzles mankind. I suppose I sound arrogant, but I’d rather be a spectator in this arbitrary game we call life.
In class, I sit in the very back of the echoing room and stadium of desks. You’d guess that I would sit in the front row, but I prefer to think of myself as an omniscient bystander. Dr. Hendricks arrives now, monotonously unloading his belongings from his tattered leather messenger bag. I can’t help but notice that he’s seemed to have conformed to the humdrum routine of ordinary life. All the same, I presume he merely gives off that impression, and on the inside, he is actually a person of augmented meaning and distinctness.
He retrieves his spectacles: crooked golden things that help him to discern the faces in the crowd from blobs of color to individuals. They perch on his straight, slender nose, accentuated by his lanky and angular figure and dark but graying hair. If I could guess, I’d say he’s nearing the tail-end of his forties, although his prevalent intellect and supposed life as a tortured academic makes him appear much older.
Dr. Hendricks teaches with great enthusiasm, the type that his students will try to explain to their children one day when describing their most favored educator. His voice radiates smoke and vices that are enjoyed by nightfall once his day has ended. As I think of it, I even notice a pack of Marlboro cigarettes peeping out from his bag, the pack clearly almost depleted of its contents. I’d imagine that he smokes them negligently while driving a sleek, maybe red, convertible down the road. He carries a photograph with him of a woman, a pretty young thing with bright eyes and a nice smile that I bet his parents deeply approve of and hers the latter. I bet they take long yet relished drives together to chase the sunset with their hair carelessly tousled by the wind.
The bell chimes, signaling our release. I venture to the courtyard adorned with vivacious green leaves yelling out to the world that it’s spring and several park style benches begging you to savor their comfort. As if on command, Dr. Hendricks passes by me with his weathered bag and hands in the pockets of his oversized khaki pants. He has a pencil resting in the crevice between ear and head, and by the looks of it, he’s chewed the eraser to a harsh and jagged shape. I like to think that he sits at his desk late into the night and ponders what to write in a letter to the woman in the photograph. When he is completely out of ideas and utterly exasperated, he must gnaw on his pencil, trying to come up with ways to say I love you without actually saying those words. Yes, that must be it.
Reaching my hand up to my own pencil lying in the exact same position, I run a finger down its glossy exterior and notice its significantly more fatal point. Dr. Hendricks should be walking home now, and I get up from my spot on the park bench and follow after him.
Although I’ve never seen it for myself, I would guess that the professor lives in a quaint, almost cottage-like home just outside of town. I can see it now: a big maple tree out in the front yard dripping leaves everywhere, a fence with its paint peeling off from age, and maybe a bold yellow door.
Dr. Hendricks takes lengthy strides as the park recedes to a downtown plaza. We walk on cobblestone sidewalks, and I stay a good distance away to avoid suspicion. At one point, he stops to look through the windows of a shop filled with typewriters, and he admiringly studies the newest edition. I turn around to make sure I am not spotted and stare up at the movies offered in the cinema to appear inconspicuous. Gregory Peck is starring in the film To Kill A Mockingbird, and I make a mental note to see it sometime. I quite enjoy seeing films, for I like to take a glance into lives that aren’t mine and never will be. There’s something almost invading about it all.
Dr. Hendricks fiddles with something on a chain around his neck, and although my vision is not reliable due to the distance and insufficient angle at which I am standing, I can just barely make out the silver glint and subtle rust of an army dog tag. He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, and for only a second, I am panged with a sadness I cannot quite resonate with, yet there is something artificial about it all. I attribute this sudden unfamiliar feeling to one I could never entirely understand: the loss of a friend. Death is gorgeous in the way that it takes all that we have, and yet for something so full of life, it is rather the absence of it. I suppose Dr. Hendricks lost a friend once, and carries around the only remaining symbol of his legacy around his neck. I try to wring out pity from the depths of myself, but I feel nothing.
We at last reach the home of Dr. Hendricks, a home much contradictory to what I expected, for it seems to be the epitome of the era and not something trapped in time and impervious to development. I stand beside a streetlight across the way from his house, illuminated in an amber hue. I must say, the setting makes the whole scene rather imposing, and I am surprised at the sudden grandeur of it all. For someone who has lived a life in the shadows, I soak up every ounce of time I have in the spotlight. Without a second thought, I stroll across the street, across the sidewalk, across the lawn, and through his front door.
I look to my left and notice the leather messenger bag filled with all of Dr. Hendricks’ personal belongings: the photograph, the cigarettes, his glasses, the pencil, and the dog tag. I fasten the bag to rest on my shoulder as I breathe in the foreign air. This is my favorite part. To truly enjoy taking a life, one must first study it. Notice any irregularities, fixate on all details, and obsess over everything. Life is too authentic, too raw, but death? Death is nothing if not romantic.
I walk over to Dr. Richard M. Hendricks, a curious man with many profound thoughts but none that will ever be able to be spoken aloud, and I pierce my pencil into his neck with great precision and watch as his soul exits his body. I close my eyes, finding it comforting to know that in a world with so little power, I can still create some for myself. I walk away and, closing the door behind me, I lay a hand on the bag that contains the only remaining indicators of who Dr. Hendricks was, and now, who he always will be. To me, at least.
