October 20
Steven always arrived at work at least an hour before his first class. He only needed a few moments to glance at his lecture notes before teaching the masses (or "them asses," he often quipped) about the wonders of social science theory. Nevertheless, he often told his friends about the importance of creating quiet time in the midst of the cacophony of the day's events. Today, his walk from the parking garage to the office building was a blur, made less memorable by the nondescript song on his music player. His knees reminded him of his age with each step to his second-floor office.
He threw open the door so quickly that his eyes barely met the nameplate on his door. Seeing the "Ph.D." after his name once meant something to him, a mark of an achievement far beyond the dreams of his small-town childhood. Today, the letters hardly registered with him. His chair creaked as he collapsed into it and closed his eyes. His right hand, familiar with the routine, pulled a desk drawer open and withdrew a plastic bottle. The pills rattled as he placed them on the desk and opened his eyes.
Five minutes, he told himself -- as he did every day for the past month. If you haven't taken them in five minutes, you have to get to work. On some days, the bottle, with more than enough sleeping pills to separate him from his mortal coil, nearly tempted him to the point of no return. On more than one occasion, he had opened the bottle and ingested a couple of the minuscule tablets. On other days, he simply sat in silent prayer, asking God to give him a reason not to end his life.
Today, his mind was blank for nearly four minutes. He felt no desire to pray, no need for tears, no urge to scream, no discomfort in the silence. For those minutes, he became a casualty of his life's attendant fatigue. Exhausted and exasperated, he opened the bottle and turned to take one more look at his office before drawing his final breaths. The walls and bookcases told the story of his professional life. Plaques spoke of a handful of well received journal articles. Dusty photographs elicited fleeting memories of long-forgotten former students and colleagues. Overloaded bookshelves explained the many solitary nights of his twenties and thirties. And a calendar reminded him that today was the twentieth day of October.
The realization brought his head into his lap. Mom's birthday. Shit. I can't do this to her today. She'll never enjoy a birthday again. Somewhere between hope and disappointment, he closed the bottle and returned it to its home beneath a stack of manuscripts. So, what's the topic of today's lecture? he mutters as he turns on the computer.
Steven always arrived at work at least an hour before his first class. He only needed a few moments to glance at his lecture notes before teaching the masses (or "them asses," he often quipped) about the wonders of social science theory. Nevertheless, he often told his friends about the importance of creating quiet time in the midst of the cacophony of the day's events. Today, his walk from the parking garage to the office building was a blur, made less memorable by the nondescript song on his music player. His knees reminded him of his age with each step to his second-floor office.
He threw open the door so quickly that his eyes barely met the nameplate on his door. Seeing the "Ph.D." after his name once meant something to him, a mark of an achievement far beyond the dreams of his small-town childhood. Today, the letters hardly registered with him. His chair creaked as he collapsed into it and closed his eyes. His right hand, familiar with the routine, pulled a desk drawer open and withdrew a plastic bottle. The pills rattled as he placed them on the desk and opened his eyes.
Five minutes, he told himself -- as he did every day for the past month. If you haven't taken them in five minutes, you have to get to work. On some days, the bottle, with more than enough sleeping pills to separate him from his mortal coil, nearly tempted him to the point of no return. On more than one occasion, he had opened the bottle and ingested a couple of the minuscule tablets. On other days, he simply sat in silent prayer, asking God to give him a reason not to end his life.
Today, his mind was blank for nearly four minutes. He felt no desire to pray, no need for tears, no urge to scream, no discomfort in the silence. For those minutes, he became a casualty of his life's attendant fatigue. Exhausted and exasperated, he opened the bottle and turned to take one more look at his office before drawing his final breaths. The walls and bookcases told the story of his professional life. Plaques spoke of a handful of well received journal articles. Dusty photographs elicited fleeting memories of long-forgotten former students and colleagues. Overloaded bookshelves explained the many solitary nights of his twenties and thirties. And a calendar reminded him that today was the twentieth day of October.
The realization brought his head into his lap. Mom's birthday. Shit. I can't do this to her today. She'll never enjoy a birthday again. Somewhere between hope and disappointment, he closed the bottle and returned it to its home beneath a stack of manuscripts. So, what's the topic of today's lecture? he mutters as he turns on the computer.
