Spacing Out in a Survey Course | Theland E. Thomas

The professor and the class are locked in an eternal struggle. We drown in his droning, the continuous sound like the monotonous lullaby of a moving train. The rhythm of his voice slows the movements of our minds until we struggle to stave off sleep. This struggle is reminiscent of the contention between life and death - the professor being the dark angel set to carry us to the other side.

The struggle manifests in our mannerisms. Bodies lean back, arms crossed, some taking diligent notes, and me writing this. Those of us leaned forward fight the hardest, but there are only two of us left. Hands holding heads. These people are losing the battle, though they might not know it. They are like dying men who long for a little rest, and that dark angel gleefully guides them to their beds.

The suffering try to find ways to cope. Clicking, tapping pens. Kicking, fidgeting feet. Pained faces and drooping eyes. We look to find solace in the equal expressions of our peers. The suffering is so shared that, rather than each individual enduring it, it hangs as an atmosphere in the room - an invisible cloud of dread that escapes the room itself and lingers in our minds from the time we leave the class to the time we return.

When we are free, we are not really free. That dread, like the fear of death, follows us constantly. We go through the days focusing on other things, and we eventually forget our mortality. However, we are always crudely reminded by a freak accident or a misplaced glance at a sheet of paper, and that overwhelming dread returns, and so do we.

I'm back in that place, fighting for my life, and I think I'm losing the battle this time. My eyes droop, and my limbs are numb, and I forget sensation. Only the lullaby of that dark angel persists. It threatens to lull me past the threshold. The suffering is too great, and as I slip away, I focus on something beautiful. My body is far away, but I wish I could say, "Your face is a pleasant sight for a suffering soul. It makes me forget that we're all dying together."

The dark angel changes his mind, and a sudden outburst jerks me back to life, as if to say it is not yet my time. But this surprising salvation is simply a delay of the inevitable. Soon, we will all succumb to the darkness. The spark of life reacquaints me with the suffering - to the pounding in my head and the growling of my stomach and the grotesque yawning to maintain my awakened state.

Currently, I am having a realization. Maybe life isn't nasty, brutish, and short. Maybe we've been looking at this the wrong way. We find ourselves lost in the monotony and suffering, and we lament rather than seeing the extraordinary opportunity. We have the chance to learn all we can and make a change. Yes, life is short, but maybe it's only nasty and brutish if we allow it to be.

Maybe, past the monotony, we can hear the beautiful music and the clever poetry. Maybe the pounding in my head and the growling in my stomach is a reminder that I am alive. Blackness surrounds me, and I know my time is up. The rhythm goes silent.

Clap! the professor exclaims: "You're dismissed! Hopefully, I didn't Donne you to death."

A Long Day | Theland E. Thomas

Falling! Darren jolted awake with a shallow gasp. He sat up straight at his desk and looked around him. No one noticed. Alright. He fixed the pencil in his hand. All I have to do is take some notes… He opened his eyes briefly and stared at the last written notes that trailed from incomprehensible scribble to a line that traced all the way down the page. He strained to sit forward, cradling a nearly empty cup of coffee in his left hand. The clock on the wall read 10:22.

“So, as you can see,” the professor droned on, “if you take the derivative of 2y2, you get 4y. And if you take… let’s see here… the second derivative, you get just 3. Isn’t that right, Darren?”

Darren’s eyes flashed open. “Um, yes.”

“No, it isn’t,” the professor said, erasing the answer she’d written on the board, “because you would get 4. Maybe if you’d stay awake in class for more than five minutes, you could actually learn something.”

Heat simmered in Darren’s cheeks as he opened his eyes. He sat up and squinted at the board. Did he miss something? He was in the front row, for God’s sake. He couldn’t keep drifting off like that. Leaning his heavy head against the wall, he gazed at the other students. Their expressions betrayed them. Some were clearly bored, head in hand, eyes glazed over. Many held chronically quizzical faces no matter what. There was always that one brown-nosing nerd. The rest of the students who already knew the material just ditched, but she had to show up every day to generously flaunt her understanding upon the plebeians. Then there was the group of Asians behind him. Darren didn’t know what language they were speaking, but, God, if they would just shut up while the professor was talking… So disrespectful.

He blinked. All the students were gone. WHAT? Darren jumped up, sending his coffee careening into the wall. The classroom was vacant, the lights were off, and the boards had been erased. The white gleam of the moon shone on the desks. His gut churned with sickening weight. What a bunch of douchebags! They’d all just left him there? He walked toward the door and tried it, peering through the pane of glass to see that the building lights were already off. Turning around to face the windows, he realized they were his only chance of escape. Darren took off running toward them, and, as he jumped, he vaguely remembered that the classroom was on the fourth story. He turned his face as his forearms smashed through the glass. As he descended, his body twisted to view the shower of sparkling shards ready to impale him. His stomach dropped out from under him. He was falling!

“Ah!” Darren jolted awake. The classroom was silent. He looked around. Everyone was staring at him. Including the professor.

“I’m sorry, Darren,” she said. “Was my lecture interrupting your dream?”

Darren rolled his eyes. “As a matter of fact, it was. Bug out.”

A soft chuckle rumbled from the class, and the professor stood in shock, her mouth agape. The girl next to him turned to him. “God, Darren, you’re so edgy,” she said, looking him up and down. “I love a man that can stand up to authority.”

“Yeah,” Darren said, first matching her sultry stare, then watching her turn the pencil in her mouth, then glancing at her low-cut top, “Well, you know me.”

“Let’s get out of here,” she said. Like I need an invitation. He straddled the back of her motorcycle and wrapped his arms around her slender waist, pressing his body in close. Together, they sped off, the cloud of dirt in their wake blocking out the sun.

The light of it brought the classroom back. You gotta be kidding me! What time is it? Of course, there were no clocks in this room. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. 10:22. Only an hour and half left. Dammit. He sat up straight in his seat, rubbing his eyes and yawning. The hum of the professor buzzed lightly in his ears. Okay. It was time to pay attention. Passing this class is hard enough when you’re awake. He reached for his coffee, but it was gone. He leaned forward to see it on the floor beside him, spilled into the carpet. Whatever. Quickly, he caught up in his notes and raised his hand.

“Yes,” the professor called on him.

“Okay,” Darren pointed with his pencil. “So, we know about the polynomial, but what about the pterodactyl?”

“Oh,” the professor smiled, pointing to the green outline of the pterodactyl that took up the whiteboard on the other end of the classroom, “I put that guy right over there.”

“Oh, okay, good.” Darren copied down the image of the pterodactyl exactly as it appeared on the board. He leaned back in his chair. He needed to stay vigilant. Something’s happening. Just as he’d completed that thought, men in suits and sunglasses burst into the room, waving pistols.

“FBI,” they shouted, hoisting Darren out of his seat and spilling his coffee everywhere. “You’re under arrest!”

“What?” Darren protested as they slammed his face into the desk and pinned his arms behind his back, “For what?”

“You have the right to remain silent!”

“You didn’t hear?” The professor said as they dragged him to his feet, “Sleeping in class is illegal under the No Slacker Left Alive Act. I reported you last week.”

“ARGH!” Darren exclaimed, “Thanks, Obama!”

Darren bubbled to consciousness again. It’s going to be a long day. He took a sip of his cold coffee and gazed around the classroom in time to see seats full of his clones raising their coffee cups as well. Discreetly, he pulled his phone from his pocket. 10:22.