Chapter 10

I had been in my room for too long. I had spent the entire weekend working on the homework I had put off in my determined rush to finish my draft of the research paper. Thought I had completed the draft early, proof-reading it twice before submitting it for class, I had ignored the piles of readings that had accumulated from my other classes. With my eyes aching from reading tiny print and my head pounding from the volumes of information I had attempted to stuff into it, I made my way outside to see some daylight. It was a brisk fall afternoon and I relished every second of it.

There is something about fall that suits me. It’s a season of change, of both anticipation and melancholy. You can sense the immanent bitterness of winter by the slight bite in the crisp, refreshing evening air. You enjoy the vibrant mosaic of colors created by the changing leaves while thinking that soon those leaves will be dead and gone. The signs of winter foreshadowed in the mildness of fall remind you to savor every second, knowing full well that such fine weather will be a long time coming.

I took my time as I walked from my apartment to my favorite coffee shop. It was one of those times where I only processed minute details about the world around me. The vibrant red leaves of the maple trees lining the street would beg for my attention only to be replaced by the way my scarf softly rubbed my cheek as it caught the cool breeze blowing past. I didn’t see the people pass me, the cars as they drove by. I heard crackling of the fallen leaves as they crunched beneath my feet, but did not keep track of how far I had walked or how far I needed to go. The world around me only materialized when I smelled the distinct aroma of coffee.

Slightly chilled, I ordered a grande mocha, grabbed a local paper from the rack, and headed directly for my favorite seat. A leather armchair, it sat in a corner, and faced away from the rest of the café. In a place that often buzzed with conversation, it was quiet and restful without being isolating.

I took off my coat, set my paper on the chair, and went back to retrieve my large, steaming cup. It was one of those oversized mugs made famous by Friends, which seemed just right for the mood I was in. I wanted to just hang out in a place other than my apartment, to hear the noise of people and, for just a moment, pretend I was waiting to meet five of my best friends.

Sitting back down, I noticed a table across from me, occupied with a very familiar profile. One, I realized, that I saw every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Hoping to go unnoticed, I picked up the paper, raising it to cover my face when Mr. Becker glanced up and looked in my direction.

“You can’t really hide behind that paper. You know that, right?”

I lowered the paper and looked over, pretending to be surprised.

“Umm…oh…that was you. I wasn’t sure, and you looked busy anyways…I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He smiled at me and adjusted his seat so he was facing me. He lifted a paper and nodded at me.

“As a matter of fact, I was just finishing your paper. You sure you weren’t trying to intimidate me by sitting near me?”

I stuttered for a second, trying to overcome my surprise and force words out of my mouth.

“No…no…not at all…I didn’t even realize that someone sitting around here when I first put my stuff down.”

“Hey, I was just kidding you. I didn’t even notice you had sat down until I got a whiff of your coffee there.” He waved at my cup and then signaled to his empty one. “It reminded me that I need a refill.”

He stood up and moved towards the counter. I sat torn between my desire to ask about his opinion of my draft, which was sitting not five feet from me and tempting me with its red marks visibly scrawled along the margins, and my desire for conversation between us to be over. I liked talking to Mr. Becker, probably more than I should. I always felt like asking him more questions, probing him for more information, more suggestions, more details about his own interests and pursuits. When I met someone I was interested in getting to know, and in this case, interested in getting information out of, I could become, well, overbearing might be a diplomatic way of saying it. I’ve been called badgering and downright annoying on a couple of occasions.

I decided to play it safe and return to the newspaper in front of me; since I had just sat down, it meant I couldn’t get up and leave. I hadn’t even had time to take a sip of the cup of coffee that was sitting in front of me. I shifted slightly, turning away from the direction of the taunting paper, and tried to focus on the article in front of me. But, despite my attempts to look absorbed, I must have betrayed my underlying desire to discuss my paper. After a few minutes, I heard the rustle of papers and found, quite suddenly, my paper being slid on the small coffee table in front of my chair. I looked up to find Mr. Becker sitting next to me, taking an empty chair to my right. He just smiled, and before I could speak, said,

“I figured you’d like feedback as soon as possible. You have some time? We can go over it now.”

Afraid of stuttering incoherently, I just looked at him and nodded. I put the newspaper aside and shifted forward to begin skimming his comments. As I reached to turn the page, Mr. Becker also reached out; I jolted as hour hands hit each other and pulled back immediately.

“Sorry. I was going to turn to page.”

Professor Becker chuckled at my reaction and turned the paper to the final page. “Don’t worry. I was just going to show you my overall comments. I thought we could discuss more general things now. You can check out the specifics later.”

I looked down at the quick, semi-legible scrawl in front of me and waded though his nearly full page summary. I glossed over a couple of sections that were extremely difficult to read, but I could tell that my road to finishing this paper would be long and arduous. Already my head was swimming with ideas and resources I would need to answer some of the questions he had posed. His comments were insightful and challenging, proposing perspectives to my argument that I had never considered. A sense of foolishness was starting to take root. Why had I decided to take on something so closely related to his area of specialty?

Feeling grossly ignorant, I made it through most of his comments. I was struggling with the last quarter of the page when I heard him chuckle again.

“Are you able to read that?” As I looked up at him, I saw him grinning back at me. “If you aren’t, I’ll understand. My writing is, I’ll admit, clearly challenging.”

At this point, my humiliation was growing at an exponential rate; completely self-conscious, I began to interpret his questions with secondary meaning, as though he were also questioning my basic intelligence. In defense, I felt a rising sense of indignation, followed closely by anger. I liked the anger, which forced out the inadequacy. Letting it rise, sarcasm threatened to tinge every word I uttered; I tried to reel in the impulse and respond as pleasantly as possible.

“Uhh…I think…well…I’ve got…umm…most of it…but you, you might want… highlight… the points you want….you want to make sure I address.” Hopefully that was subtle enough.

Looking somewhat quizzical at my response, he turned back to the paper and began to address a couple of sections specifically; for him, the problem wasn’t so much the content as my refusal to side with one perspective of the argument. “Okay, but what do you think?” was, apparently, scrawled in the margins in several sections. Silently, I resigned myself to the comment. I had received the critique many times before. It was a problem with my writing that I had never been unable to quite successfully address.

“How come you seem so reluctant to take sides?” The question snapped my mind back in focus. I wasn’t sure how to respond; Mr. Becker’s question hit directly upon the one aspect of my writing that I knew was weak. To take a side was to be decisive; I wasn’t too good at that. That question deflated me.

There was nothing to say really. Though I desperately wanted to revel in that previous spark of anger, to dig in and rebuke his comments, I had nothing to defend myself with. Mr. Becker had intuitively attacked a vulnerable spot in my writing arsenal, and I shut down.

Defeated, I waited for him to finish speaking, nodding here and there in agreement, but too distracted to say anything, and feeling thoroughly disappointed with myself. Flustered by my growing sense of stupidity, I didn’t notice that he was now looking at me and not the paper. I guess my face told him all he needed to know. He stopped speaking for a second, and an air of unsettled silence fell upon us.

“You realize that this paper represents some excellent work?”

The humor of his previous statements had disappeared, replaced by a sincerity that had me looking up. He was staring straight at me; I could tell he was trying to figure out what I was thinking, what I might say. It was clear that my shift in mood had confused him. Hearing his question mollified me enough to regroup, make me realize how overly dramatic my imagination had become. Overwhelmed, and feeling utterly foolish, I could only shrug half-heartedly. He was still looking at me, which was more disconcerting. I was feeling trapped now, closed in, almost suffocated by him, his steady, constant stare. I looked at my watch and then hastily stood up.

“Oh…shoot…I…uh…I…uh…thanks for talking to me. I really better go now…I have to meet someone.” I grabbed my thoroughly dissected paper and, before he could stand, extended my hand. He looked up at me from his chair as he took it in his. He seemed thoroughly perplexed now and I felt him continue to stare at me as I put on my jacket. I avoided his gaze, looking at him only long enough to thank him again and say goodbye. Then I made a quick exit.