The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

At Ravendale High School, an oscillating tone served as the signal to change classes. Like most obsolete terminology volleyed between schools, the proverbial bell was merely a misnomer. On this occasion, the buzzing alarm startled me from my episode, impelling me to resume consciousness before my students lurched into the classroom for first period’s lesson. I managed to prop my head up off my desk before they trod sluggishly to their assigned desks. Luckily, my prior spell went unnoticed by them, but then again, most early-rising teenagers would’ve been oblivious if an inflamed Mack truck careened through the courtyard’s windows.

  As was so often the case, the majority of these torpid teens neglected to carry a notebook or a writing utensil, but every bugger right down to the last one who schlepped through the door had an electronic gadget affixed to a jean pocket or purse. Be it a cell-phone or a musical device unknown to the likes of my generation, this crew of digitally enslaved learners bopped along the corridors with a capricious vibration. I don’t know precisely when I became so disconnected from today’s regurgitated byproduct of angst and rebellion, but their groove already seemed as worn out as one of my old vinyl record albums.

  A few of my mutinous charges relied on some scurvy habits from the first day of school. These nonconformists enjoyed testing the rules on a regular basis by lingering outside the classroom until well after everyone else was seated. No punishment, short of being condemned to the inhospitable end of a firing squad, seemed to dissuade these hardheaded loiters. This morning, one such example lumbered to his desk at the back of the room with all the finesse of a malfunctioning bulldozer.

  Mitch Dalton, the school’s jock-of-all-grades, may have looked as formidable as any earthmoving machinery, but I suspected that every morsel of muscle added to this boy’s physique somehow reduced his desire to learn anything unassociated with obtaining a football scholarship. He had already learned that the game off the field catered unconditionally to his habits. Mitch was neither the best nor biggest athlete to ever congest the passageways of this high school, but he showed just enough potential on the gridiron to lead the Renegades, (the school’s mascot), to their first winning record in nine seasons. Naturally, Mitch felt entitled to some recognition from a few college scouts, and his coaches helped burnish his character’s unseemly edges whenever manageable.

  My main problem with Mitch wasn’t his indifference toward literature. If I held a personal grudge against every student who refused to read in high school, there wouldn’t be hardly anyone left to detest. But I observed two significant changes in this young man since he entered my classroom in the fall semester. Firstly, he seemed disproportionately bloated of late, almost as if he glued tubes of water to his already sinewy shoulders, biceps, and abdomen. Secondly, and far more disturbingly, I noticed him relenting to a series of involuntary mood swings that sometimes turned volatile. His pimpled forehead and upper chest added to my suspicion that he was ingesting some type of anabolic steroids. At present, this was only a conjecture on my part, and I lacked the gumption to forward it to the attention of anyone for further scrutiny.

  Before I even stood up from my desk to start class, Mitch exercised his obnoxiousness with the same consistency as he worked a weight machine. He taunted a few students, but his repartee was seldom belittling or caustic. I presumed he viewed himself as sure-handed with the female students as when handling a football. But I also suspected that some of his classmates, such as the girl he blatantly flirted with on this occasion, rated his antics as nothing more captivating than a dull child’s imagination. Of course, he couldn’t have selected a more unattainable prospect than the aptly named Prudence Lane. Even the suave-minded boys in class failed to negotiate a reliable way to inveigle this young lady in conversation. Mitch demonstrated all the smoothness of a gravel path as he leaned over Prudence’s desk and flexed a vein-corded bicep in her face.

  “I just benched three fifty last night,” he said, straining to smile through clenched teeth. Another less guileful girl might’ve gushed at this sort of unsolicited attention from a popular athlete, but Prudence had already iced the egos of a handful of hotshots this year. Despite a pair of oversized glasses masking a good portion of her face, Prudence’s organic prettiness couldn’t be entirely veiled behind a librarian’s facade. She also possessed a sardonic wit that barely needed beckoning when deflating overblown braggarts such as Mitch Dalton.

  “Oh, you’re such a buff guy,” Prudence sighed while batting her eyelashes in rapid succession. “Your doctor must’ve prescribed some very nutritious pills for you in order to grow muscles so big.” She laced her words with enough sarcasm to knot up a locker room full of cleats, yet Mitch’s limited intellect couldn’t untie a single syllable of her mockery. For the sake of both students, I decided to step between them in case he interpreted her snub.

  “Running a little late this morning, Mitch?” I asked in my teacher’s voice, which was typically two decibels deeper than my natural tone.

  “Hey, Mr. Cobbs,” he answered, still relying on his brawn as a means to manufacture an excuse for his tardiness. “My coach was talkin’ to me. You know, scholarship stuff or something.”

  “Why don’t you just sit down now,” I advised. “Oh, I almost forgot. I glanced through the assigned essays on heroism and I don’t recall seeing your name on any of the papers. Do you plan on doing it?”

  “What are you talkin’ about? I handed that thing in last week. You must’ve lost it, so I ain’t writing it over.”

  A common excuse, and potentially the blandest one ever invented by a kid neglecting to complete his homework, was to blame the teacher for any missing assignment. Because I routinely collected between twenty and thirty papers per period, it was conceivable that I misplaced a student’s work on occasion. But I knew Mitch’s zeal for producing anything more than a few hastily scribbled lines was far inferior to most college hopefuls. When he managed to scratch out a paragraph from time to time, it resembled something more suitable for the lining of a birdcage than an educator’s perusal.

  It amazed and appalled me that Mitch managed to advance to his final year in high school with the writing ability of a fourth grader. Ultimately, because of his skill on the football field, he was ushered briskly through the system. In the end, teachers such as me were discreetly encouraged to ignore his deficiencies, and then ironically censured for granting a promotion. Rather than challenge Mitch’s veracity in front of the class, I decided to stockpile my ammunition for a later skirmish. When it became irrefutable to Mitch that he had about as much of a chance enticing Prudence with his physique as he did at winning a National Spelling Bee, he proceeded to the back of the classroom.

  Mitch was not the only straggler to find his place belatedly on this morning. A couple others skulked through the door a full two minutes after the bell sounded. At this hour, my twenty-two assembled students looked like a hoard of dispatched zombies from a horror film by George Romero. The last pupil to arrive, however, was a somewhat surprising addition to the laggards. Aaron Mann normally hustled to class with the punctuality of a recruit in boot camp. He marched regularly with the cadence of a solider on parade, and anyone who ever talked to this boy would’ve verified that his discipline in most circumstances aligned with military standards.

  Today, however, something was amiss in Aaron’s stride. His gait seemed as labored as if weighted down by iron shoes. He dressed as he always appeared—loose fitting blue jeans and an earth-toned tee shirt emblazoned with the logo from the United States Marine Corps. But his posture was noticeably leaden, and rather than offer an explanation for his delay, he modestly slunk into a desk in the room’s corner and lowered his shaved head between the folds of his forearms.

  Instead of addressing my concern for Aaron’s current disposition, I moved toward the whiteboard and snatched a single dry-erase marker from its tray. I then printed two words in quotations at the center of the board beneath my journal entry. “The Iliad” spawned little or no reaction from its intended audienc
e. Although we had been studying Homer’s epic poem on the Trojan War for close to two weeks, I suspected the title was Greek to them in more ways than I anticipated.

  Before I even introduced my lesson, pockets of irksome prattle began to mix between the rows. “Okay,” I started, projecting my voice loudly enough to infiltrate the disturbance. “Yesterday, for homework, I asked you to read pages 240—256 in your anthologies…”

  “In our what?” a chorus of dumfounded voices interrupted disharmoniously.

  I then pointed to a lavender-colored textbook on my desktop, while barely managing to stifle an urge to scream. “Textbooks,” I continued acerbically, “You know, the big purple book with all the prose and poems in it that no one in here ever bothers to read, otherwise known as our literature anthology.”

  “Ohhh, that’s what it’s called,” several dolts chimed with no humility.

  “Well, how many of you have done the reading?”

  Should I have been startled that not a sole senior bothered to respond to my inquiry? Maybe I should’ve just stayed in bed and listened to the loons all day. As it now stood, nearly two-dozen kids hunched at their desks like the descendants of Quasimodo. From these lackluster ranks, one boy eventually raised his hand to indicate that he wasn’t seeking sanctuary from the lesson. In the realm of teaching, one participant out of more than twenty was nothing to celebrate.

  “Excellent,” I said, continuing with my overt sarcasm. “So Aaron’s the only one who read the assignment last night?” My second request was greeted with a protracted silence. If I dared to lecture them on the necessity of reading in order to thrive in an English class, the whole lot of them might’ve gone into something equivalent to insulin shock. Besides, I had voiced my opinion on this obvious point more times than I cared to recite. Additionally, another distraction at the center of the classroom preempted my cautionary rhetoric. Emily Lee liked to chew gum in the same uncouth manner that a milking cow chomped on spring grass. Her nervous habit was usually tolerable when other matters didn’t irritate my mood. Unfortunately for Emily, my ears seemed unduly tuned to her snapping bubbles and slavering jaw on this occasion. Adding to my fretfulness, she adopted a rude practice of applying makeup to her over-medicated face whenever an impulse compelled her to do so. As might have been expected, she presently appeared more readied for a cosmetics convention than a seminar on classic mythology.

  Years ago, I might’ve lashed out at her like a whip against a bull’s hide, but experience had a way of alleviating a teacher’s tantrums. Moreover, if I corrected Emily on her insufferable obsession, I’d then have to tackle every other breach of etiquette visible within the classroom. Students didn’t mind being disciplined nearly half as much as they loathed being criticized among their friends. I therefore proceeded with the course of my class, faking my obliviousness to their numerous infractions almost as badly as they pretended to internalize a single utterance from me.

  “Okay…remembering what we learned yesterday about Achilles, he knew his fate before the war started. His mother Thetis informed her son that he would have glory, but a short life. My question to the class is this: if you knew for certain that you were going to die in a war, would you do it willingly in exchange for fame?”

  I once believed that periods of silence in a classroom were conducive to reflective thought, but I’ve since concluded that the impulsive nature of high school students compelled them to respond to questions they knew (or thought they knew) with the rapidity of a machine gun. Since the majority of my class stationed before me like mounds of stagnant mud, it was safe to assume that they had either ignored or refused to deliberate the proposed choice. Only Aaron’s hand lifted like a white flag across a battlefield’s routed flank. Rather than permit Aaron to serve as a solitary lifeline to a torpedoed crew, I called upon those who appeared most content to submerge into the depths of apathy.

  I initially selected a boy who wasted the larger portion of each period doodling Japanese anime on his desktop. It wasn’t my intention to embarrass Markus Barnes, for I still reserved a fleeting hope that he was capable of surprising me with his artistic pursuits someday.

  “Markus,” I called out to him, “what’s your opinion on this topic?”

  Markus’s pencil stopped wiggling in his hand long enough for him to mumble, “To be honest, Mr. Cobbs, I wasn’t really listening.”

  I progressed between the aisles to challenge another couple of equally droopy-eyed students, before conceding to an indisputable fact that Aaron represented my last retreat for validation. He momentarily shed his dourness to submit a pithy statement.

  “Achilles was born a hero,” he said. “Heroes need to be revered.”

  I purposely paused to permit Aaron’s classmates to savor those concise words; sometimes the profoundest notions were conveyed in such simplistic terms. In this case, the voice of a soldier-to-be spawned a molecule of vitality into his limp classmates’ limbs. I attempted to capitalize on this glimpse of enthusiasm by shifting back to the whiteboard and writing the word ‘REVERE’ in uppercase red letters.

  “Excellent,” I said, directing my praise at the only student who merited it. “Maybe that’s the flaw of every hero. In this poem, it’s just not enough for Achilles to simply be remembered. He must also be revered.” My hand then slapped the whiteboard for emphasis.

  Again, I delayed my lecture, praying that something tangible germinated in their unfertilized brains. Finally, a hand other than Aaron’s rose from this sea of humpbacked mammals. A glimmer of promise forwarded from a bantam voice, a squeakiness seldom deciphered in the channels of this or any classroom. This was a meek-mouthed girl named Heather Carter. She spoke less frequently than a mime with laryngitis. But today, a curtain of cobwebs fluttered from her parted lips.

  “So it’s like this Achilles guy actually gets a rush from fighting?” she questioned.

  “In part, that’s true, Heather,” I replied, encouraging her to elaborate by revolving my hands.

  “Kind of like a drug,” Mitch piped in from the back of the room.

  “Okay,” I returned compliantly, “let’s call it a drug of sorts. Can fighting in a war provide such an overpowering sensation for somebody?”

  Emily pinched her strawberry flavored wad of bubblegum between her index finger and thumb before asking, “Was this Greek hero high or something?”

  A predictable round of giggles followed Emily’s statement, but this short-lived mirth was far more encouraging than listening to a dropped pen or persistent chorus of sniffles. Some of the kids even managed to prop their heads up to wipe gobs of drool away from their unhinged jaws. At least they hadn’t dozed off again, and this in itself was a foundation worth building upon. I hastily wrote another word on the board, hoping to trigger additional inquires. After pronouncing the new word’s syllables silently, Heather presented another question in the span of twenty seconds; by my estimations, this was a new record for her. “What does hu-bris mean?”

  “Does anyone want to take a shot at this one?” I said.

  “I think it’s related to adrenaline or something biological like that,” Prudence tried tentatively.

  “Is Prudence right, class?” Only Aaron’s chin pivoted from side to side, but I didn’t want him to bail the others out of the muck so soon again. “Come on,” I goaded them all, “what is hubris?”

  “Is it like courage?” Markus offered reluctantly.

  “Good. It is very much like courage, Markus, only to an extreme and always coupled with something less desirable. Can anyone tell me what that might be?”

  At this point Aaron didn’t feel a need for me to call directly upon him again. He aimed to provide the correct answer without further prodding. “It’s pride,” he said, just as succinctly as his previous response. After ten or twelve heads swiveled toward him for clarification, and then back to me for ratification, Aaron finished his textbook definition from memory. “It’s a Greek word, meaning extreme pride or arrogance. Heroes, such as Ac
hilles, had too much hubris. It usually caused the hero’s downfall.”

  For a change, I couldn’t have explained the definition any better than Aaron. My nod of approval provided me with the confidence to continue. “Let’s think about what Aaron told us for a second,” I said, retreating to the board to underscore the word with my marker. “We often think of pride as a noble characteristic, and to a degree this might be true. But when does pride turn into arrogance? Or, more to the point, is pride just a synonym for arrogance?”

  “What’s wrong with being proud about what you do?” Mitch questioned rhetorically. I sensed a dissension in his voice that didn’t surface very often; this was an omen of progress in my mind. “If you’re really great at something, why is it bad to show it, Mr. Cobbs?”

  “That’s a fair question. Most people call this confidence.” I directed the rest of my statement at the entire class. “I bet it’s a trait your parents, coaches, and teachers have ingrained in your heads since you were little kids. So let’s use Achilles as an example to contrast the difference between confidence and arrogance.”

  I sensed a collective groan surging among my restless captives, so I had to be quick to the point. “Okay, so let’s examine Achilles’ rage, especially in his climatic battle with Hector, the Trojan prince. It didn’t satisfy Achilles’ when he slaughtered Hector on the battlefield. Achilles wanted more. He needed to desecrate and dishonor the memory of his adversary by dragging Hector’s lifeless, naked corpse behind his chariot around the walls of Troy.”

  “But he deserved it,” Aaron indicated, no longer bowing his head on his desk. “Hector killed Patroclus. Achilles vowed to get even for his friend’s death.”

  “And so he did,” I concurred. “But the crux here is not whether or not Achilles was justified in avenging Patroclus’s death, but to debate the extreme level of disrespect he showed Hector’s body after he already died. When did Achilles’ bid for revenge become, for the purposes of our discussion, more of an exhibition of boastfulness?”

  Aaron’s expression soured, and I watched his already narrow eyes tightening as if he squinted into direct sunlight. My words vexed him at some level I hadn’t fully calculated. His classmates were content to accept the concept as I explained it, but Aaron hadn’t come in here today without a hint of moxie hibernating behind his brow.

  “Let me ask you something, Mr. Cobbs,” he persisted. “Do you think Achilles was wrong for going to war against the Trojans?”

  “I won’t say he was completely unjustified, but I will say that he could’ve just as easily walked away, with his reputation intact. Of course, we might not be talking about him as an epic hero right now if he opted out, and Homer’s poem certainly would’ve missed out on an exciting turn of events.”

  “There’s no rules in war,” Mitch grumbled. “Hector got what he deserved.”

  “But it’s not true to say that we don’t have rules of engagement today in warfare,” I stipulated. “I just want to be clear.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap,” Aaron snapped. “How do you expect to defeat any enemy by playing fair? America has proven that we can’t win a war by sticking to any set of wussy rules on the battlefield. If we fought nowadays like the troops did against the Japs and Nazis in World War Two, maybe we wouldn’t be stuck in the Middle East for the past decade.”

  Aaron’s zealous favoritism for the ranks in which he intended to enlist didn’t startle me. I therefore had to tread upon this matter with the same delicacy that a ninja navigated a floor of rice paper without tearing its fabric. But, on the other side of things, I was thrilled that our discourse fostered such an animated response from him. With any luck, this sort of contagion would’ve vectored to the others within earshot.

  “Do you think there’s ever a place for honor during a war, Aaron?” I asked.

  Aaron didn’t wait to ponder my question. “It’s not about honor, Mr. Cobbs. It’s about surviving, and making sure the guy on either side of you stays alive, too.”

  “At any cost?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  Once again I delayed making any contradictory statement, hoping that someone in the classroom viewed the topic with an opposing philosophy. The classroom’s silence must’ve felt like a minor victory for Aaron, and the gunmetal glow in his eyes certainly projected his opinion on the matter almost as assuredly as his words. Just when I was about to dispute this anything-goes-brand of warfare, Heather forwarded her most provocative contribution to this discussion thus far.

  “I think the whole idea of fighting is stupid,” she exclaimed. “And reading ancient stories that glorify killing other people over land, treasure, or even ownership over another human being only reflects how little we’ve advanced as a species in the last three thousand years.”

  “Whoa,” Mitch cut in mockingly, “that’s quite a mouthful comin’ from you. Did you read that outta a book or something?”

  “At least I can read,” Heather retaliated; she was apparently resigned to abandoning her taciturn reputation before this period ended. Sometimes teaching was tantamount to being a firefighter afflicted with pyromania, because it was often necessary to extinguish the blaze that I deliberately fueled.

  “Anyone who believes that this world can function without war is just plain dumb,” Aaron said, while pivoting in his desk to defy Heather squarely.

  “Let’s not make this personal, Aaron,” I interjected. “Heather was just stating her opinion, and it’s not one that hasn’t been expressed before.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cobbs, but I don’t see the point of any of this. My grandpa fought and died in Vietnam. He received two Purple Hearts before going back for his third tour of duty—that’s when he got his brains blown out by a 50-millimeter slug. My father raised me to have respect for the heroes who died fighting for this country. So if you’re calling any war stupid, you’re insulting all the soldiers.”

  “I don’t think Heather meant to offend the veterans,” I said, trying to quell this flame before it became too heated. Aaron’s eyes still glowered at Heather, but she astutely recognized that her classmate had more invested in this discourse than a class participation grade. Other students, however, provided enough oxygen to keep the blades of fire flickering in my direction.

  “How about you, Mr. Cobbs?” Markus asked antagonistically. “Do you think war is stupid, too?”

  I didn’t even need to glance in Aaron’s direction to know that he was waiting for my response like a salivating dog conditioned to react at a bell’s ring. “Some wars can’t be avoided,” I offered as diplomatically as an incumbent politician. “But I don’t think military combat should be a first option to solving any problem.”

  “What about fighting terrorism?” Emily added, snapping her bubblegum like a firecracker. “Do you think our government did the right thing by attacking Iraq after 9-11?”

  Here was another chance for me to merit a portion of my salary. Since I routinely dealt with opposing viewpoints, I learned to shift gears between topics as efficiently as a NASCAR driver in the heat of competition. “We’ll always have a need for heroic figures,” I said. “When anything bad happens in this world, we instinctively search for others to make it right. But we also can’t overlook the actions of individual men. Maybe Homer’s message to us is that all heroes may be flawed, even when they think they’re justified.”

  “You’re not answering Emily’s question,” Aaron groused. “Do you think the American Government is stupid for trying to prevent the terrorists from attacking our country again?”

  “Of course not,” I replied. “It’s what they’re expected to do.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you’re convinced they’re making the right choices, Mr. Cobbs,” Aaron surmised bitterly.

  In a young, unseasoned mind, there was simplicity in the resolution of problems that older pragmatists hadn’t the luxury to indulge. Since this topic obviously registered as fundamental to Aaron’s way of life, I decided not to pursue the con
versation further.

  My concession didn’t cause any visible jubilation in Aaron’s posture. Instead, he lowered his head sullenly onto his desktop. The remaining time in class wasn’t nearly as inspiring for me, but at least I managed to coax a couple of students to read a few lines of Homer’s poem from their textbooks. After the bell sounded, the students shuffled out of the room with the dexterity of a professional dance troupe. Only one kid lingered behind, biding for a moment where we were alone.

  “Do you need something, Aaron?” I asked, while sitting in my gray cloth swivel chair behind my desk.

  “Yeah…I was wondering if you got around to grading my essay…”

  “The one on heroism?” I interrupted, remembering that I had just perused it prior to first period. “I looked at it, but I didn’t grade it yet.”

  “Oh, okay, ’cause I was thinking about changing a couple of things in it.”

  “You want to revise your paper even before I put a grade on it?” I appreciated Aaron’s swift display of enthusiasm toward his work, but such a request was seldom presented without some underlying motive. Maybe it was the discomfited manner in which he stood that gave me pause; he shifted in his stance repeatedly like a boy who needed to relieve his bladder. Furthermore, his demeanor throughout the period struck me as peculiar, almost as if he had been a recipient of distressing news. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  Aaron’s hesitation denoted that my inference hadn’t misfired. I hoped he wasn’t still miffed about our earlier exchange of words. “Look,” I offered, hoping to uncoil a thread of tension wound in his expression. “If this is about today’s discussion, I want you to know that I’m glad you contributed. A little controversy keeps the class interesting.”

  “It’s not that, Mr. Cobbs. I’m over it already.”

  I waited until Aaron’s fidgetiness subsided before asking, “So what’s on your mind?”

  The bravado regularly apparent in Aaron’s tone was almost indecipherable when he responded to me. “I went down to the enlistment center for my preliminary physical yesterday.”

  “I take it things didn’t go as you planned?”

  “I failed the physical,” he said glumly.

  “How’s that possible? You’re in terrific shape.”

  I realized, of course, that one’s general health wasn’t always discernible by physical indicators, but it served as a useful barometer. “Are you sick or something?” I asked.

  “I don’t feel sick, but the medic checked into my medical files and noticed that I was having some pretty bad stomach problems a few years ago.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “On and off cramping,” said Aaron. “But the pain has gone away for the most part, except when I get stressed out about stuff.”

  As the boy spoke these words I noticed him favoring the side of his lower abdomen slightly. He clutched at his stomach sporadically with his palm, not even realizing that I observed his every action. “Is there a chance they’ll let you take the physical again at a later time?”

  “The doctor doesn’t think so. He did some other tests, and then told me that it’s likely that I have something wrong with my pancreas.”

  “It might be a chronic condition,” I said, mimicking Aaron’s morose tone.

  “The Marines won’t enlist me,” Aaron’s voice quavered. He suddenly looked as vulnerable as a small child shooting a water gun at an oncoming tank. “I just don’t get it. I can probably outrun every guy in this school, and this was my only chance to get out of this beat town.”

  “Hey, you know that’s not true,” I advised him. “There’s always options. Maybe things didn’t pan out quite the way you first hoped, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do something else as equally rewarding as a career in the military.”

  “You just don’t get it, Mr. Cobbs. I never wanted to be anything else but a Marine. It’s a family tradition. You should’ve been there to see the sad look in my dad’s eyes when I told him that I got booted out of DEP. He must be ashamed of me.”

  Aaron then wiped a globule of water from the corner of his eye with his knuckle. Although I couldn’t claim to share his frustration, I empathized with the plight. He had the same unadulterated spirit towards the military as I did for writing fiction when I was his age. To have such a goal crumble in one’s clutches gouged a jagged hole in the center of a man’s heart. Up until yesterday, I imagined that Aaron’s unfettered mind yielded to few boundaries, and this served as a plus point until he encountered his first unassailable obstacle.

  “I guess there’s some snags in life that we can’t always anticipate,” I said, feebly relying on the canned responses uttered in such moments.

  “It’s all bull crap if you ask me. They can’t tell me I wouldn’t make a top-notch soldier because I get a stomachache here and there. But the doctors don’t even want to talk to me. They told me there’s no cure for what I got. I just have to live with it.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I had a solution for you, Aaron.”

  “The worst part is that they’re taking guys with half my skill. Most of those punks are just looking for college money. I even offered to sign a waiver, you know, saying if anything happened to me then I couldn’t sue. They just told me to go home and think about applying to some colleges.”

  “I’m sure they have their reasons.”

  “Sure, they must. But if I don’t care what happens to me, why should they? Soldiers die in the field all the time. I know and accept the risks.”

  Aaron might’ve resented my next tactic, but I didn’t want him to slink away from this conference believing that the Marines denied him entry for personal reasons. “Maybe you said it best earlier in class,” I reminded him. “I think I remember you saying that once a Marine enters combat, it’s more about staying alive than anything else. But it’s also about keeping the guys beside you out of harm’s way, too. I’m not an expert on military protocol, but I believe the Marines’ creed is to never leave one of their own men behind on the battlefield. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  The pink color flustering Aaron’s cheeks and neck turned a shade redder as he contemplated my words. “So you think I’d be a detriment to the other troops?” he asked sullenly.

  “It’s not what I think that really matters, Aaron.”

  “It’s just not fair, Mr. Cobbs.”

  “Whoever said life was ever fair?”

  “I’m never gonna get my chance to be a hero. I’m just a loser.”

  “Quit the self-pity. Every hero has a weakness. Achilles had his heel…”

  “And I can’t stomach it as a solider,” he interjected. “Now I don’t know what I’m gonna do after I finish high school. My life is over.”

  “Hey, a lot of kids aren’t sure what they’ll end up doing for the rest of their lives at your age. This is just the first step to growing up. I’m sure your dad will tell you that a Marine never surrenders without a fight, even after his years in the armed forces are over.”

  “So what do you think I should do? I ain’t exactly smart enough for college, you know.”

  “Whoever told you that nonsense? Just between you and me, there are plenty of kids in college right now who aren’t as bright as you. It’s just takes a little effort and organization, and you might even discover something you like better than shooting guns at moving targets.”

  Aaron’s face didn’t light up in the way I hoped. He continued to shift in his position as he murmured, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Well, I’ve been around a little longer than you, Aaron, so maybe I have a bit of advantage in this area.”

  “You might be older than me, Mr. Cobbs, but you don’t know what it’s like to have something taken away from you that you always wanted. I bet it wouldn’t be so easy for you to move on to the next thing if you lost your job at this school.”

  It sometimes amazed me at how shortsighted students were about their teachers’ endeavors. Rather than correct
Aaron on his assertion, I simply resorted to one of the stockpiled quotes filed within my brain. “Maybe Vern Law said it better than I can,” I started.

  “Who’s Vern Law?”

  “He was a Major League ballplayer for the Pittsburgh Pirates. Anyway, he is credited for saying that ‘a winner never quits, and a quitter never wins.’ You might want to think about that before deciding that your life isn’t worth anything.”

  Aaron appeared humbled by those words. The youth straightened his posture a bit, and adjusted his faded jeans. Then he started out of the classroom, perhaps clinging to an inclination that I’d call him back and spout a few more homilies into his ear. But the fountain was depleted for now. Once Aaron had gone, I returned my attention to the computer’s screen. I still had the file open containing Aaron’s essay; his fervency for believing in something beyond petty feats was refreshing. Despite my opposition to war, I couldn’t fault the boy’s tenacity. I had no right to sanitize his quest so that it fit into the framework of my expectations.

  As I leaned back against the chair’s fabric, I sensed my mind drifting into another foggy realm, a landscape far removed from the security of Ravendale High School. The precursors of my illness seemed less noticeable this time, but a throbbing sensation against my temples remained inexorable. I didn’t know how many more episodes I could’ve endured before completely losing my composure. But I now came to terms with my condition’s randomness, and fully recognized that the spells were as much a part of this dark day as anything that I encountered in the conventional space of consciousness.

  Chapter 18

  8:15 A.M.