Whoa Is Me (snippet)

The slight slur of the white haired teachers voice gave the indication he had kissed the flask in his coat pocket a few times in between classes at North High School, and the first night here at Columbus State Community College. His red nose that didn't change color with warmth told me it wasn't his first drink today. Brushing snow off his tweed jacket, his shaking hands wrote on the chalkboard, Mr. Salome. "Pronounced Mister Sal-oh-may. Not Sal-ohm, Sal... oh... may." "Now, for the first couple weeks I ask that when you speak, you first remind me of your name. This will be my 3rd year teaching this creative writing class.." he continued.

And with that I learned everything I needed to know about mister "Sal... oh... may". Divorced 4 years ago, mid 50's Sal here figured out that with his English teachers salary split in half, after his second failed marriage, he'd only have to work 23 more years to be able to afford to die alone in a retirement home, but picking up some night courses he could keep his comfortable lifestyle in the suburbs,passing out in his recliner each night with his faux leather shoes on.

"The difference in non-fiction vs fiction is information vs emotion" he read off his notes. "What we're going to focus on this semester is the emotion of prose. Prose is the romance of the relationship."

"Prose is pornography for cynics" I sarcastically interject.

Looking up from his folder, I can see the defeat in his eyes. Poor Sal just wanted to rattle off his prepared notes, take a few questions, and get back to his whiskey affair. "What's that? Mister...?"

"Sorry, Gilbert, but everyone calls me 'Gills'. I said there's no excitement in prose. Prose is a 3D printer with pre-programmed goals. It's efficiency is in the set of rules it's bound by. Completing a task perfectly, and moving on to the next project. I don't want to be a printer, I want to be a sculptor. I want the block of clay under my hands that I can shape with my only boundaries being the limitations of my imagination. The imperfections are the personalization of my piece."

The 18 year old's I'm surrounded by all roll their eyes at the 30 year old who thinks he's more clever than he actually is, and under their breath I hear "what an asshole". And with that, they've learned everything they need to know about me.