Time Well Spent

Time Well Spent



“And so, class, if you supplement the ratio of…” The teacher was lecturing, had been for the last hour. Much of the class had a dour look upon their faces; all of them board tiredly by the repetition of the professor’s words. But there was one student, a young man by the name of Clint Sparrow, who had chosen not to listen any longer, and instead turned to his left and looked out the classroom window, where beyond a gray and rainy morning fertilized the earth. He pressed his toes against the inside of his rain-sodden shoes, squishing them against the cushioned soles, his wet socks feeling heavy and uncomfortable; walking to class had been a wet and miserable trip.

The class was two hours long, too long for any sane person—or insane, for that matter. And having already spent nearly an hour enduring it, the prospect of spending yet another hour seemed quite bleak and unbearable. The storm, furious and ill-tempered, had been alive well since early morning, resulting in many students staying home in their beds, where they were most likely still slumbering, wrapped warmly in a cocoon of dry sheets, perhaps dreaming of the previous nights’ events, which maybe had been spent in a throng of drunken debauchery, as were most nights of the less studious college crowd.

Clint, however, had chosen not to partake in such truancy but to involve himself in his academic pursuits, hence his current boredom, though now he regretted doing such a ridiculous thing. He sighed, wiggled his damp and wrinkled toes, and began to discretely busy his pen with hopes of Raphael and dreams of the mad and drunken Poet. He dared not make his doodles obvious, for the professor would surely call him out and take corrective measures. But after the teacher turned his back to the room and began writing upon the blackboard, Clint raised his head, which had been slumped against the support of palm and elbow, and scanned the sparsely populated room with renewed yet controlled interest: here a student, there another—their disinterest strongly evinced.

And so in response to the dank and dreary atmosphere that is the classroom; in response to the professor (the back of his head was grossly bald and his oversized pants hung too low); in response to the rain ticking against the windowpane; and in response to the misery of cold and wet feet, Clint gripped his pen a bit harder now, flipped to a fresh sheet in his notebook and began to write; he focused intently on the prose he was generating, diving deeper and deeper into the realm of literary indulgence. Quickly his mind became a funnel, through which descended a vortex of words that set his mind ablaze with thought. And as his pen stirred busily upon the page, recording his most intimate thought, a sharp yet subtle grin could be seen just where his lips curled up to meet his cheek.

A few minutes later, the blackboard infested with complex formulas and unintelligible data and other arcane script, the teacher turned and hastily pointed to a clumsy-looking fellow who was dozing on the front row, and abruptly said, “You there—Johnson!” He smacked his hands together, jolting the young man, who had a string of drool connecting his mouth to the hand he was resting his head upon. “Are we awake, Mr. Johnson? Now, then—what should the current price of company stock be…if you consider floatation costs?”

Mr. Johnson squinted his eyes stupidly at the question, which he answered with an audible, “ummmm…”

Clint was fortunate to have chosen a seat at the rear of the class. Furthermore he sat behind a large black man, an older fellow, whose name, ironically, was Slim. Before long Clint had scribbled nearly an entire page, and, coming to the end of it, flipped to yet another sheet, the professor all the while oblivious of his “non-academic” endeavor.

As he began filling in the new page with sentences of blue ink, a neighboring student, sitting to his right, in the next row, casually rolled his eyes toward Clint, eventually bringing them down to the yellow notepad steadily filling up with words. From the corner of his eye, Clint could see that his neighbor—Tony was his name— was indeed curious to see what was being written. Tony was an awkward looking fellow: a sharp and crooked nose, black curly hair that hung just above his shoulders and always looked wet... Though he was white, Tony’s hair reminded Clint of Lionel Ritchie. And knowing full well that he was a columnist for the University’s Newspaper, Clint intentionally shielded his notebook, which encouraged the fellow to stretch his neck out a bit farther so that he could see what was being withheld (Tony’s column was quite bigoted and his writing rather pale). Clint thought it quite clever to have teased the interest of the curious columnist. Apparently Tony caught notice of something interesting on the page, but what.

Furthermore, Clint’s writing had apparently excited the notice of the two young women sitting behind him, from whom came soft, fragmented whispers concerning the content on his page; perhaps they were intrigued by his defiance to the professor’s lecture. Halting his pen, Clint focused his peripheral vision, and could see the two girls—vigilant of the professor—carefully extending their malnourished and over-tanned bodies from around their desks, on either side of him. He crowded his paper even more and resumed his writing, whereupon the two girls, in watch for the teacher, cautiously retracted their heads, like a double-headed turtle retreating to the safety of its shell. Clint’s devotion to his notepad contrasted the solemn faces of the other students, whose attention had been seized by the professor’s irritated command toward Mr. Johnson—who, I might add, had been unable to answer the question correctly.

Rain still slapped hard against the window. Somewhere, in the distance, lightening had struck…the ensuing thunder sang with a lonely grumble. Scanning desperately around the classroom, the professor caught notice of Clint, did a double-take, and rested his clenched fists upon his unexercised hips. “You, there—Mr. Sparrow.”

Sparrow answered not.

“Clint Sparrow, I say again. Would you mind regaling us with what you’ve written?” He smacked his hands together, but to no avail. “Look up to me, Clint Sparrow!”

Look up? He did not.

“Put down your pen and acknowledge me at this moment!” The professor demanded.

Discontinue his writing? Acknowledge him? He did not.

The professor’s face turned devilishly red. He pursed his lips and slammed his fist atop the podium; the pencils lying atop it bounced up and seemed to pause for a split-second in mid-air, then fell and plinked delicately against the tile floor. Clint, his eyes drunk with literary amazement, looked up suddenly at the adamant professor, rattled by the sound of fist-on-wood. He was not, however, rattled by the man’s infuriated glare, which seemed to dig unpleasantly in Clint’s glassy eyes. After a moment of silence, the professor’s anger appeared to subside, whereupon a dubious grin relaxed his face. He took a few steps toward the desks.

“Now look hear, everyone,” he pointed at Clint, “Mr. Edgar Allan Poe himself has blessed us with his presence.”

A few of the students tentatively looked at Clint, who was frowning at the professor’s sarcasm.

“Please, Mr. Sparrow,” he paused dramatically, “or is it Raven…Please share with us the latest of your tales, for it evidently seems to you more stimulating than the wonders of advanced calculus.”

What a ridiculously crude and hopeless man, Clint thought. Nevertheless, obliging the geezer-of-a-professor, Clint, firmly grasping his notepad, rose from his desk and stepped into the aisle; his shoes squeaked under the full weight of his body. Standing in the aisle, an encouraging grin radiating from Slim—a good, fellow, he is—Sam looked to his left, out the window. He turned to his right, where Lionel Ritchie was still trying to glimpse the notepad and suddenly turned his head away when Clint’s eyes fell upon him. He then twisted his body around and looked at the two girls, whose ruddy complexions were testament to their patronage at the electric beach—they seemed to be frozen in place: hands in their laps, eyes seized toward the front of the class. Finally Clint faced the professor; his beady eyes were too small for his head and he needed to shave; streaks of white chalk dusted the front of his black slacks. The professor possessed an utterly distasteful quality.

“We are all waiting, Mr. Sparrow. Read to us what is written on that notepad.” He removed his eyes from Clint and look derisively at each student. “I’ll not have anyone daydreaming or engaging in anything other the subject at hand. You will respect my classroom.” His eyes returned to Clint. “There then, continue Mr. Sparrow.”

Clint, hesitant but willing, held the pad out in front of his chest and zoomed in to read the opening line. The professor crossed his arms and waited impatiently. All eyes were focused and adhered anxiously to the lips of Mr. Sparrow. Of them all, Mr. Ritchie appeared the most anxious, looking up with glistening eyes and other features characteristic of a hungry dog. Then…

…Clint Sparrow prepared to spill his words…
Outside, the tempest rose.
…his mouth opened to speak…
The rain clicked against the window. Sounded like nails on glass.
Mr. Ritchie licked his chops and the professor tightened his face.
…and then, reading from the page, this is what Mr. Sparrow said:

“‘And so, class, if you supplement the ratio of…' The teacher was lecturing, had been for the last hour..."