by Tom Reilly
Timothy froze. A thousand dollars! I just spent my last thousand on a new furnace.
“You okay, fella? Sorry to give you the bad news,” the mechanic said.
“Yeah, sure. I’m okay. Thanks. Look, I have to get to school to take an exam. Can I leave this here until I figure out something later in the day?”
“No problem. Let’s push it out of the way over there by the side of the garage.”
The mechanic called to the attendant and the three of them pushed the car along the building.
“I’ll be back later to figure this out,” Timothy said.
“I’ll figure what it’ll cost and be able to tell you then,” the mechanic said.
“Thanks. You got a phone I can use?”
“Sure, inside.” The mechanic pointed to the garage office.
Timothy got the phone book and looked up a number.
“Political Science Office, please.”
“One moment, sir,” the operator said.
The woman answered on the third ring. “Political Science Office.”
“Can you connect me to Professor Leibert?” he said.
“He’s not in his office. He has an exam in a few minutes. Would you like to leave him a message?”
“Yes, I’m one of his students, Timothy O’Rourke, and I’m supposed to be in that exam. I had car trouble this morning, and I’m at the gas station trying to get to school as soon as possible. Can you get this message to him, please?”
“Sure, I’ll send someone over to the class right now,” the secretary said.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Okay, now how do I get to school? I don’t have enough for a cab, and I don’t know the bus schedule.
Timothy thanked the attendant and mechanic and walked to the eastbound entrance ramp. He slung his book bag slung over his shoulder to look like a student. He stuck out his thumb and stared at passing drivers. By the time someone picked him up, the exam had already started. He hoped Professor Leibert had received his phone message and understood. The first students to finish the exam exited the classroom as he arrived. Passing them quickly, he failed to return their solidarity nods.
Winded from the long walk and standing there like a child trying to catch his breath, Timothy said, “Professor Leibert, I just got here.”
“I see that, Mr. O’Rourke.”
“Did you get my message?”
“Obviously not, since I have no idea to what you are referring,” Professor Leibert said.
“I called your office about an hour ago and talked with your secretary. I explained to her my predicament, and she said she would get word to you.”
“Like your fellow students who were here on time for this final, I was in this classroom handing out the exams. I’ve been here the whole time,” the professor said.
“I’m sorry. I had car trouble.” Timothy explained the chain of events including his hitchhiking a ride.
Professor Leibert appeared disinterested in Timothy’s explanation. “I’m sorry for your troubles, Mr. O’Rourke, but what do you want?”
“I want a chance to take the exam. I’ve studied a lot of hours for this.”
“I’m sorry. You’ve missed the exam time. How can I allow you a makeup and be fair to the other students? It would require me to design a new exam, and I don’t have that kind of time.”
“But I studied hard for this. I’ll take a tougher exam if needed.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not that I’m unsympathetic to your situation, but I have a class of fifty other students to consider.”
“Do you think they care that I’m late?”
“Maybe not, but that extra time to study might give you an advantage,” Professor Leibert said.
“My extra time to prepare was spent at a gas station and on Highway 40 hitching a ride to try to get here on time.” Timothy’s tone became aggressive.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Rourke. Those are the rules.”
“What rules?”
“My rules,” Professor Leibert said.
Timothy’s face turned red. His lips tightened, and the veins in his neck throbbed. He could see himself grabbing the professor by the scruff of the neck, but his better sense prevailed.
“Your rules? That sounds arbitrary to me. If they’re your rules, you can change them,” Timothy pushed.
“That’s a fairly cogent argument, Mr. O’Rourke, but everyone must operate by the same set of rules. A failure to operate in that manner results in chaos. It’s the only way for this class to be fair.”
Fair? That’s what you call the way you treated me this semester because you don’t like my military service? Is that what you call demeaning any student’s opinion that differs from yours? There’s nothing fair about your classroom, you hypocritical asshole. Timothy wanted to say all of this, but again his good sense prevailed.
“So, what now?” Timothy asked.
“As I said, I’m not unsympathetic to your situation. Here’s what I am willing to do. Normally, I would assign an incomplete grade for a student who missed finals, and you would have to repeat the course next semester.”
“Take it again?”
“Yes, but the reality is I don’t want you in my classroom next semester. Your political views are not something to which I want the other students exposed. They’re impressionable at this time in their lives. They lack your life experiences and may be seduced by your adventures and exploits.”
Seduced? Adventures and exploits? You little prick. Timothy wanted to laugh, shout, or both. He opted for self-control. He didn’t want to give the professor any more reason to push back.
“I don’t want to be in this class next semester, either. I guess we agree on something, finally.”
“Apparently so,” Professor Leibert grinned. “As I was saying, you have completed all of the course work to this point and already have a grade.”
“Yes, a C at this point,” Timothy said.
“Right, whatever it is. I will have to look at that. I will give you that grade without penalty for missing the exam.”
“So all of this study and prep has gone to waste,” Timothy said.
“Not if your goal was to get an education,” Professor Leibert said and smirked. “You’re not here for tests, Mr. O’Rourke. You’re here for an education.”
Timothy hated this rational response. It made too much sense. He calmed a bit. “I was hoping to get my grade up to a B with this exam. I’m trying to boost my GPA to get into grad school. Clinical Psych is tough to get into.”
“Look, Mr. O’Rourke, do you want to know why I’m willing to do this?”
“Why?”
“Apparently, some of your classmates think I have been especially hard on you and the other veterans in the class. I don’t think I was, but they thought it and went to Father Schmitt and complained—”
Timothy cut him off. “You don’t think I was part of that, do you?”
“No, in fact I know you weren’t. Father told me so. Since I don’t want to have to deal with him or you again, I am willing to be flexible in my incomplete rule and give you the grade you have earned this semester. I think that’s accommodating.”
Timothy couldn’t bring himself to thank the professor. He nodded his acknowledgement of this consideration and repeated mentally, Take yes for an answer.
“Also, the last paper you wrote on the Vietnam War . . . I disagreed with every point you made in that paper, and I understand you saw it from a different perspective . . . but that was the best-researched and most well-written paper I have seen from an undergraduate. I showed it to a couple of others in the department, and they concurred with me. They disagreed with your premise but respected your writing and rhetorical talent, as did I.”
Timothy, amid his confusion, managed to say thanks with a nod of his head.
“Look, I don’t have to agree with you to respect your work. After all, I am an educator. I appreciate a well-reasoned argument even if it fails to persu
ade me.”
The professor’s comments weighed heavily on Timothy’s mind. He didn’t like this guy but didn’t mind the compliment. This is the worst kind of appreciation—a victim thanking the oppressor for taking it easier on him. This is insanity.
“All right, thanks for hearing me out,” Timothy said.
“That’s why I’m here. You know, there are a lot of good psychologists in this school, but there are not many good writers.”
Walking to the Student Union, Timothy considered his situation. A damn C in that class is not going to help my GPA, which means no financial aid. Shit, that’s only one of my problems. What about the car? I don’t have a thousand dollars to repair or replace that thing. I don’t even have five hundred dollars for that. I have no money and no transportation—a fitting combination for someone going nowhere. I’m tired of this shit. If I drop out now, no GI Bill money. How can dropping out make me broker than I am? I’m living in a Catch-22 world. Heller could have written these choices for me. Maybe I am crazy for dreaming of a better life.
Timothy walked to the Student Union for a cup of coffee but wanted something stronger. Forget beer; straight vodka sounded better because it would get him there quicker. He had an experimental psychology exam on Tuesday—not one of his favorites, but he knew he would do well on it. He had abnormal psych and statistics scheduled for Wednesday. He liked both of these. He would turn in his final paper on Catch-22 for contemporary American literature on Tuesday. Though disappointed with the outcome of his political science exam, he remained confident about the rest of his week.
He needed a ride home and called his friend.
“Hey, Scoot,” Timothy said.
“What’s up, Tim?”
“Exams, you know.”
“Another reason I never went to college. I hate tests. They ask questions I know nothing about,” Scoot said.
“Yeah, I hope that’s not the case for me. You got any time this afternoon?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Timothy filled him in on the car. “I have to go back this afternoon and wanted someone to go with me to translate all that mechanics jargon you guys speak.”
“Yep, we have a secret language we talk,” Scoot said. “What time and where?”
“I’m at school now and need to study for a few hours. How about five o’clock?”
“Sure, where?”
“At the Texaco station at 40 and Brentwood Blvd.”
“How are you going to get there?” Scoot asked.
“I’ll take a bus or hitch.”
“Bullshit. I’ll pick you up.”
“Nah, you don’t have to do that,” Timothy said.
“I want to. We’re bros, you know.”
“Okay, there’s a Shell station right off the highway at Grand. How about I meet you there at four-thirty?”
“Got it. See ya.”
Timothy walked to the school library. He passed a Students for a Democratic Society demonstration. This left-wing, anti-war group protested regularly on campus. He recognized a couple of students from his political science class and nodded. They returned the courtesy. He never sensed animosity from the other students, only Professor Leibert.
When he got to the library, he went straight to the third-floor study booths. He figured a few hours here and he would be ready for the exam. He studied through lunch and into the early afternoon, until his eyes could no longer stay open. He laid his head on the table. A couple of coeds laughing loudly woke him at four. He gathered his books and left.
It hadn’t warmed up much, and his leg remained stiff from earlier. He pushed through the pain and made it to the station on time. Scoot had arrived first.
“Am I late?” Timothy asked.
“Nope.” Scoot shook his head. “I’m early. Had to go downtown to pick up some parts, so I decided to make one trip.”
“Man, I appreciate this.”
“I told ya, no problem. All that education and you can’t speak to a mechanic, huh?”
“Right. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
“It’s how we keep our secrets to ourselves,” Scoot said.
As they drove, Timothy rambled nonstop—Mom, his car, Cheryl, the hospital, bills, and Dez.
“You want to work full time for that guy? He’s a world-class asshole,” Scoot said.
“Only as a last resort. I’ve got to let him know by this weekend.”
“Lots on your plate, bro,” Scoot said.
“Too much. I feel like a glutton.”
Scoot shifted gears in his truck and the conversation followed the lead. “Still haven’t heard anything about Bobby or any of those other guys, and I’m listening for it.”
“Me neither,” Timothy said. “With everything else going on, I feel guilty not giving it more time.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up over that. You’ve got plenty of other stuff to deal with,” Scoot said.
“Yeah, maybe too much.”
Focus on the pressing thing of the moment. Focus on the pressing thing of the moment. Focus on the pressing thing of the moment. Timothy continued his mantra.
“Comin’ up on our exit,” Scoot said.
Timothy pointed to the service station. “Over there—the Texaco.”
“Yeah, got it.”
They exited and pulled into the lot next to Timothy’s car.
The attendant met them. “How ya doin’? Take your test?”
Timothy had no interest in pleasantries. “Is the mechanic around?”
“No, he left about an hour ago. He works the early shift, but he left an estimate in the shop for ya.”
Scoot leaned over to Timothy and said, “Don’t commit to anything until I talk to the mechanic.” Timothy nodded. The attendant gave him the estimate.
“Wow, 915! Did you guys plan to rebuild the whole thing?” Timothy asked.
The attendant shrugged. “Sorry, man. I dunno, I guess. I just pump gas here.”
“When will he be back so I can talk to him?” Timothy asked.
“Tomorrow morning. Comes in at seven.”
“Okay, thanks,” Timothy said.
Scoot jumped in the conversation. “Tell ya what. I’m going to send a truck over here tomorrow to pick this car up and take it to my place until my friend here decides what he’s going to do with this thing.”
“Uh, okay. I’ll let ’em know,” the attendant said.
“Ain’t Frank your mechanic?” Scoot asked.
“Yeah. Know him?”
“He rides with our group sometimes. We call him Cave Man—he looks like one with his hair and beard,” Scoot said.
“Come to think of it, he does. Good to know. We may start calling him that around here,” the attendant said.
“I know he’ll appreciate that,” Scoot said and laughed.
As they walked back to Scoot’s truck, Timothy said, “What do you mean you’re going to pick it up?”
“Look, man, if you leave that thing here, you got no negotiating power. He’ll figure you’re stuck. I’ll pick it up and park it at my place until you figure out what you’re gonna do.”
“Okay, that makes sense, but I have to do something for transportation,” Timothy said.
“I got you covered on that. You know that old red shop truck I got? It’s a pathetic sight but runs like a top. Mechanically, it’s strong as can be. You can drive it until you decide how you want to handle your stuff. That way all you got to worry about is your tests.”
“That’s a good thought.” Timothy nodded. “The exams are the most important thing this minute. I need to get through this week. Okay, thanks, Scoot.”
“See, things are already lookin’ up.”
“I’ve been looking up lately and only seeing clouds. It’s nice to see a little light break through.” Timothy smiled.
Scoot hadn’t exaggerated the condition of the truck. The fenders didn’t match the color of the body, one door came from another truck, it had more rust than paint, and Timothy could see the s
treet through the passenger floorboard. But, as Scoot promised, it started on the first crank and sounded strong. And that sound was exactly what Timothy needed at this point. The heater even worked.
CHAPTER THIRTY
TIMOTHY LEFT SCOOT’S shop and arrived at the hospital to see his mother. He waited in the truck until a few pickets left.
“How’s she doing, Sandy?” he asked the charge nurse.
“Oh, hi, Tim. She’s about the same. Her breathing is occasionally labored, but her lungs sound clear. The doctors are still trying to figure out the right mix of meds for her. For now, it’s wait and see how the blood thinner works. Sort of touch and go.” This sounded more like a report given to a staff member than a family member.
“Touch and go—that’s not what I expected to hear,” Timothy said.
“I’m sorry. That sounds worse than I meant,” Sandy said. “We are cautiously optimistic, and those are the words the doctor used earlier today.”
“Optimistic? That sounds a little better.”
“Yes. I should have said that the first time,” Sandy said.
“Okay, I’m going in to see her. Thanks.”
He walked down the hall to Mom’s room. “Hi, Mom. How are you?”
“Timmy, I’m glad to see you. I’ve been worried about your exams. I hope you did okay. How did it go?”
He wanted to tell her about the car and the conversation with Professor Leibert, but he saw no point adding those problems to the mix of Mom’s issues.
“It went fine today. I should get the grade I need. I talked to Sandy, and she said you’re in a holding pattern right now.”
“Yes, the doctor said I needed time for the medicine to work. I don’t understand a word they say. Doctors and nurses might as well be talking Greek or some secret language.”
“Mechanics, too,” Timothy said before he could catch himself.
“Huh?” Mom said.
“Nothing, Mom. Making a joke.”
“Oh yes, I do what they tell me to do. I figure they know what’s best.”
“You’re a good patient, Mom, and that’s what it takes around here.”
“Lord knows I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Yes, you have. Has Leslie been up to see you?” Timothy quickly changed the conversation, not wanting to travel down the path of all of her sicknesses.
