Dr. Rand was about to be challenged. He was certain of it. He had taught this course for twelve years, and most of them were smooth as silk, his lecture unspooling across the length of the lecture hall, students scribbling with sedulous rapidity. But then in his fourth year he spied a student in the middle of a row, a quarter up the raked seats, staring at him with a mix of enthusiasm and disbelief. It was a young man named Marcus who shot up a hand and then, without any prelude, launched into his question, which was really more of a speech. Dr. Rand parried skillfully. The class laughed. They all moved on. But it had shaken Dr. Rand. The next year was clear of complication, and the year after that. But then it was Fred Alvarez, and the initial move was a clearing of the throat rather than a raising of the hand. Fred had a real point—he had spied a flaw in the central carriage of the idea—but again Dr. Rand slid off into a witticism. That night Dr. Rand journaled furiously, wondering what he had done to inspire in his charges such impudence. Was there something in his posture or tone that suggested that he tolerated it? In his student days he would not have dared put an oar in while a professor was speaking. The next year was clear and he braced himself. Years went by where he kept close watch on any young men who seemed overly sure of themselves. But today he had been surprised. It was a young woman, Monica Kriss, who had that look upon her face. She was tapping her pencil faster and faster. Dr. Rand felt giddy and queasy. He turned to the chalkboard, started to fall, and put out his arm to steady himself.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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