A thud resonates through the room as another head hits the desk. There was no need to turn back to see who it was. I knew it was the tall guy in the back of the classroom, whose eyes were fighting to keep open only moments before.
He had succumbed to the world of dreams in this Temple classroom. Gazing around, it’s easy to tell that no one’s mind is in class today. Attendance is decent, but the imagination of the students have found their own world beyond Beury Hall.
I look over at the blonde girl with the constant sigh, seated in the 3rd row. She’s probably thinking about the issues she and her boyfriend have. Should she stay with him? Should they break up? How does this lecture apply to the real world and her real life problems? Where is she headed in life?
Deep thoughts consume her internally, while externally there is nothing but a blank stare.
Seated in front of her, the baseball player with clouded over eyes is probably thinking about the game he has this weekend and not about what is being scribbled on the blackboard.
The guy seated between myself and the baseball player seems to have drank a lot of Beast the night before and hadn’t the time to shower it off this morning. A smile comes across his face as he perceivably recalls the previous night and rubs the reminder of it on his neck.
The 46 other students are at various ends of the imagination spectrum. At least they are exercising their minds.
At the front of the room is the professor who is scrawling laggardly.
With his trademark spectacles and salt and pepper hair, he stands generations apart from the students in this room. Could he possibly be so far removed that he doesn’t remember the days of his youth? Could he not recall being in his students’ place, going off to college, leaving homerooms and study halls behind, and replacing them with early morning lethargy from one too many late night libations?
His voice, comparable to Ben Stein on tranquilizers, easily induces sleep. It makes one think that recording his monotone sound could possibly be of some assistance during those restless nights. College students’ funds are meager and sleeping pills can cost a pretty penny.
A recording of his 50-minute lecture on the creation of Cyrus McCormick’s reaper just might make for an ingeniously cost effective sleep aid. The directions would read: “Play this tape back around 3 a.m. and an instant comatose state will ensue.”
It makes one wonder, “Why can’t he be as excited and riled up about his extensive knowledge as `Brother Steve’ is about his sermons?” In fact, that’s probably where a good portion of the absent students are — outside of Tuttleman listening to Steve. They would rather listen to someone, who may be completely against their beliefs, but at least is passionate about his own.
The clock watchers now know that there are 45 minutes of class left, which means so far since the beginning of class the second hand has moved 300 times.
Nevertheless, it hasn’t made much of a dent in time. Time has crept by as slowly as the slackers quietly sneak out the back. Forty-five minutes and the class would be done for the day, destined to be repeated ad infinitum in the weeks to come.
Where could summer ever be? The closer it gets the farther away it seems.