NO MORE CIRCUS
Eli was one of those students who was a walking disaster. It was my first semester teaching creative writing, though not my first semester teaching at all. The school I worked at had already put me through the hellish Siberia of English comp. Otherwise known as Expository Writing, or to students: Expos. There, most students failed the first and even the second major assignment, all but guaranteeing no chance of an A. Even smart, hard-working undergrads found the stakes grueling.
Now, someone like Eli—chronically late, never submitting the right assignment, constantly needing sidebar explanations and emotional triage—of course would get an A in my class. It was creative writing. My mentor once told me there are only two kinds of students who don’t get A’s in such classes: corpses and assholes. Corpses never show up. Assholes are assholes. Eli somehow combined the worst of both yet was technically neither.
He was plausible deniability incarnate.
If he was late, he had a note somewhere, or might get one next week, if that was okay, professor? He missed the one class I begged no one to miss—on adjectives—and emailed me immediately afterward, confirming that, per the syllabus, two unexcused absences were allowed. Correct? Oh, and by the way, could I explain what he missed?
“I heard it was magical. Sorry to miss!!!” he ended the message.
We’re not allowed to say this, but I sensed it almost immediately. I had found my student nemesis. No matter what corners he cut, no matter how he ignored instructions, there was always a reason. He was never at fault. Life was hard. Something had just happened, oops. Everything came in that exhausted, pre-apologetic tone of I know this sounds dramatic, but… And lo, whatever followed drained you of life. I tried to stay patient. This was before the internet gave us nomenclature like softboy or fuckboy for master manipulators. Eli was ahead of the curve.
He was also a soul suck. An energy leech. But he had perfect timing. He could terrorize on command. Never before had he asked to stay after class. But the day we covered poetic misdirection, he did. I let the class out early—something I never do—because I wanted to catch an earlier train to NYC for a hot date. I told them it was because my sickly uncle needed help. Both of my uncles had been dead for years, mind you.
Yes, I was lying. Common enough for underpaid adjuncts. After all, lies are our social lubricants to maintain sanity. Ways to buy back time from the corporate university, which like an Eli—or a sea of Elis—is bent on squeezing the last drop out of you. All while you await their eval score.
The class dispersed. Eli asked if we could talk. I explained I had to leave, mumbling something about my uncle’s bad kidney condition. He asked me to elaborate on why Elizabeth Bishop focuses on the fish’s “beard” when describing wisdom. My eyes narrowed. I restated my talking points, briskly. I didn’t believe for a second he cared about Bishop, let alone metaphorical fish hair.
“Oh, that’s fascinating, professor, really fascinating, but…”
The ellipsis in his voice stretched on for miles.
He was such a gremlin.
Then suddenly, I smiled. I knew what was happening. Eli was not going to let me catch that train. But I thought: don’t react, don’t be mean. This is his paid-for ten minutes. Let the student go about his business and pester you with his annoying questions.
So I made my quiet play: “Eli, let’s walk and talk. I have to head toward the train, but you’re right, this is fascinating. Accompany me.”
“Of course, professor!” he beamed. Everything about Eli arrived in exclamation points or ellipses. It drove me nuts. His priapic, tyrannically chipper demeanor was bad enough. But it was the hesitations—the low-key melancholies, the recursive pauses, the way his speech could suddenly capsize into silence—that made one feel appropriately murderous.
I slung my silly professor suitcase over my shoulder and exited the door. From behind me: “Professor?” I stopped in my tracks. Turned. I knew it was coming.
“I don’t mean to bother you, but—” Then Eli broke into sobs. Real, hysterical sobs. A viable mess of tears. I felt beyond terrible.
I panicked at once. Led us back into the classroom. Got him tissues. As he calmed down, I asked what was wrong. He soon expounded. Rapaciously. His fear of never being published. His worry about not getting into grad school. His dread of what the other students must have thought of him. On and on the litany went. Oddly, though I was now certain to miss the train, I saw an opportunity. If I could meet this moment with true compassion—become entirely submissive to his needless emotional domination—maybe he’d stop being such a galactic ballbuster for the rest of the semester. If he felt even slightly guilty or somewhat secretly gratified, maybe I’d be spared from then on. No more theatrics. A new victim would be found.
Eli’s strange eyes flickered at me. “I don’t want to keep you from your important appointment.”
He said appointment with a tremulous doubt half-buried in his throat. Yeah. He knew I was lying. Which, of course, I was. “My grandfather has kidney problems too,” he added, bashfully. “I could pass along our doctor’s info, if it helps.”
“Oh, Eli, that’s so kind of you. Please do. But I don’t want to interrupt this moment. I’m just going to text my roommate to meet my uncle on my behalf. No worries.”
“No, professor, please, don’t! Another time! I must be going!”
I told him it didn’t matter. I’d already missed the train anyway. It was just a routine checkup.
He nodded, looking quite frozen and hollowed. His face like a pale shell only recently washed ashore. But I held firm. I transmitted radiant patience. I folded my hands as if warm and durable. All was fine. I pretended not to want to stab him in the eye with a whiteboard marker.
Then he whispered, in a slow teary hush: “Dialysis?”
I blinked. “Dialysis?”
“Kidney dialysis. Has your uncle reached that critical juncture yet, in his treatments?”
That night I fantasized about train wrecks, plane crashes, plagues of insects taking Eli away forever. That single phrase—reached that critical juncture yet—was so smug, so deniable. It made me, a hippy-dippy pacifist, want to buy a shotgun.
Let me pause.
My boss Aimee, the angel who runs our department, is what we call a character. Shoots from the hip. No bullshit. When I recounted my Eli stories, she howled. Then she shut the office door behind me and said: “What an evil fucker!” She demanded every detail.