Room 132

“Okay!  Read chapter nine for Wednesday, and remember, the final is in two weeks.  Have a good afternoon!”  David ended his 10:00 am lecture cheerfully, in a last attempt to stir some life out of his students.  One by one, they filed out of the classroom, chatting amongst themselves quietly.  He sighed.  The sun shone brightly through the windows, as a breeze gently sailed through the room.  Rows of old desks crowded the large classroom, facing an old chalkboard and a projection screen.  The smell of stale chalk filled the air, floating on the late spring humidity.  Although the weather boasted high spirits, the musty aroma inside suffocated the soul.  David took one more glance around the room as he swiftly stuffed the attendance sheet into his briefcase.  Grabbing his jacket, he walked out of the room, locking the door behind him. 
         His walk home took him on a tour of Leave It to Beaver.  White picket fences outlined the yards of spotless lawns.  Dogs barked playfully as their owners threw frisbees in the park.  Kids playing stickball in the streets after school could be heard blocks away.  Reminiscent of 4th of July, the smell of barbecue floated a faint breeze.  How many years had he made this trip home from room 132?  Sometimes it seemed an eternity.
         David walked through the subdivision to the outskirts of town.  He made his way up the stairs of an old, run down building.  Unlocking the door at the top, he entered a small, one-bedroom apartment.  The smell of mildew saturated the air, in spite of active fans in front of open window.  When he went into the kitchen, he found that the fridge had broken down again, and as a result, half of his food was wasted.  Sighing, he filled a glass with lukewarm tap water and sat down in front of the TV.
         For countless years, this had been his routine.  Wake up, teach a tiresome class to a group of uninterested students, return home and watch TV.  He would spend his days alone, living out his monotonous punishment, day by day.  Standing up, he heard the springs creak in the worn out pink loveseat.  The hardwood floor groaned as he wound his way between clean and dirty laundry to the bathroom.  Turning on the cold water, he splashed his face, and stared deep into his own eyes.  He was in Hell, and it hadn’t always been this way.
         David had been the top in his class after he graduated high school.  Going to a small town community college was not his idea of a grand education.  But his parents never made much money and he hadn’t secured scholarships in time for the fall semester.  Fate deemed that he would spend his first year in the intellectual mud that isn’t quite considered an education.  Hours wasted listening to the droning of underpaid professors tortured his brain daily.   
         Chemistry 101 had been particularly painful.  Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, David sat second row, third from the back, in room 132.  The professor, Mr. Lindbergh, was a decrepit, unhappy old man who could never hope to relate to his students.  Wild white hair gave the impression of an upside-down tree, which thick glasses and a bowtie did nothing to diminsh.  His pants always fell too short, displaying at least two inches of plaid socks, covered with ratty, faded penny loafers.  He stuttered and tended to have a spot of drool in the left corner of his mouth.  Every day, David attempted to pay attention in class, to no avail.  Lectures derived directly from the book failed to interest a student who had actually done the reading.  Students came to class for attendance points, instead of higher learning.
         “If you look on page 316, you will see an example of the proper usage of Avagadro’s Number… David, are you paying attention?”  Mr. Lindbergh stopped at his desk, tapping him on the shoulder.  He jumped, having dozed off in boredom.  Irritated, he yawned loudly.
         “Hmmm?  I’m sorry, did you say something?”  Stretching, he smirked quietly as the class tittered.  “I could teach this class better than you,” he mumbled, almost inaudibly.  Mr. Lindbergh turned suddenly, looking into the eyes of the delinquent pupil.  David felt a tiny knot of fear begin to grow in his stomach. 
         “No, no, by all means, continue your nap.  I was just going over the test material, if you are interested.”  The teacher moved slowly back towards the blackboard.  David relaxed, but decided to pay attention anyway. 
         All the way home that night, Mr. Lindbergh haunted him.  The old man’s eyes, and that twisted smile played in slow motion in the back of his head.  But the more he pondered, the less he worried.  By the time he reached the sidewalk to his house, fear had been replaced with resentment and anger.  By the time he got to the dinner table, he was furious. 
         “So how was your day, David?” his mother asked.
         “It was fine.  Went to school, it was easy.”  The tone in his voice implied miserable boredom.
         “I’m glad.  I’m so proud that you’re doing well,” commented his father.  Upon hearing this, David exploded.
         “Doing well?  Dad, of course I’m doing well!  This stuff is easier than high school was!  I don’t belong there and you know it.  Why the hell can’t we afford to send me to a university, where there’s an actual challenge?”  David stood up angrily, knocking over his glass of water.  His mother instantly appeared beside him with a towel.  Never looking up, she silently cleaned the mess.  Glaring at his father, he stalked up to his room. 
         When he woke up the next morning, he was in the one-bedroom apartment.  Startled, he sat bolt upright in bed.  Mr. Lindbergh sat opposite him in a shabby leather recliner, grinning.  His eyes were bright with an energy that had been missing from class.
         “So you can teach the class better than me?  I guess we’re about to find out.  I suppose I should be thanking you.  You’ve released me from my prison, poor fool.  Thanks to you, I will now be able to return to my former life; the life I had before that classroom.  At least, I think that’s what happens next.  Come to think of it, I’m really not sure.”
         “Wait, wait,” David interjected, still trying to grasp his surroundings.  “I don’t understand- where am I?
          “Here’s the deal.  I was like you, once.  Sat in the classroom, listened to a musty old man and had the audacity to say those magic words.  Do you know how much audacity it takes to say something like that to a professor?  Props, my man, you’ve got balls.  See where it gets you.”
         “But…” David attempted to interrupt again, but Mr. Lindbergh waved his hand, silencing him.
         “Okay, rules are: you have to try, you have to attend, you have to grade.  You have to get one of them to say the magic words.  They say they’re better than you, you’re free.  Okay, that’s it, I’m done.”  The professor’s body began to glow with a pure white radiance.  David shielded his eyes from the light’s intensity.  When he lowered his arms, Mr. Lindbergh had vanished.
         As time passed, the old man’s words rang all too true.  Every day David went to room 132 to teach Chemistry 101.  He attended class religiously, and taught with enthusiasm.  But the students could not see his efforts.  They only saw the burned out exterior of an old man with white hair.  He also watched the students carefully, making notes in the attendance roster of each one’s personality and intelligence.  There had been a few candidates over the years, but none bold enough to say the correct phrase.
         So, Friday morning, David was in the classroom and waiting by the time the early students began straggling in.  After taking attendance, he turned to the chalkboard and wrote out a formula from the homework.  As he hurriedly marked up numbers, the chalk broke.  An earsplitting squeak caused the class to cringe. 
“Aren’t the lectures bad enough?”
         David looked up suddenly.  “Who was that?  Who said that?”  Looking around, he could not place the voice.  His eyes wide with excitement, he searched every face before him, but none admitted guilt.  Making a split decision, he barked “Class dismissed.  Go home.”
         An audible gasp, followed by excited whispers, floated around the room.  Not once, in his entire tenure, had he ever dismissed a class early.  Slowly, the students gathered their things and filed out of the class.  He paid special attention to the first students to leave the room.  Who seemed to be in the biggest hurry to leave?  Who hated the classroom the most?
         Finally sitting alone in the empty classroom, he pulled the attendance sheet out of his worn, leather briefcase.  Reviewing the notes carefully, he began eliminating names.  Finally, he narrowed it down to three: Eloise Cramer, Hector Sims, and Valerie Walters.  They had the highest grades in class, and had exactly the permitted number of absences.  Although never voluntarily active in class, these students had the correct answer whenever called on. 
         That next morning in class, David began his lecture as usual.  But this time, while demonstrating a simple problem, he arrived at the wrong answer.  Before too long, a familiar voice came from somewhere near the back of the classroom.
         “Don’t you mean sixteen-point-five?”  Turning around quickly, he again missed who had spoken. 
         “No, it’s not.  That’s the correct answer.”  He looked around, waiting for someone to argue, but not one spoke up.  Finally, at 10:45, he took attendance.
         “Eloise, Hector and Valerie, I want you to stay after class for a minute.”  He saw the three students exchange glances.  “Class dismissed.”  All of the students save the three he designated left.  He looked into the eyes of each one in turn.  Then he pointed at the chalkboard. 
         “Is this the right answer?”  The three looked at each other.  They all slowly shook their heads, negative.
         “I’m going to ask you again.  Is this the right answer?”  The tone in his voice implied that it obviously was.  Eloise started nodding her head.  He looked sternly at the other two.  Slowly, Hector nodded his head as well.  Only Valerie kept shaking her head, getting more frustrated by the moment. 
      “Hector, Eloise, you two can go home.  Valerie, you stay.”  He could see the frustration in her eyes.  The other two students left quickly, clearly bewildered by the whole incident. 
      “Valerie, I am only going to tell you this once.  That is the correct answer to the problem.”  Valerie met his gaze and again shook her head. 
      “No, it’s not.  I know where the mistake is, and that answer is wrong.”
      “You think you know it all?  Fine, prove it.”  He looked at her smugly.  She stalked up to the board, fixed a simple calculation error, and arrived at the correct answer.  Turning, she glared at him.
        “Well, would you look at that!  I guess I was wrong the whole time.  Sorry to have made you stay.  You can go now.”  She stormed to her desk and grabbed her backpack.
      “I could teach this class better than you,” she murmured angrily under her breath.  Grinning to himself, he picked up his attendance sheet, and hurried out.  Locking the door behind him, he hurried back to his apartment.  He walked to the bedroom, sat down in the shabby, old leather recliner and waited.