The Classroom

---"Success"---

Randall Stevens
13 October 2008

The Classroom

“Define Success,” the tweed clad professor asked as he strode through the large oak-paneled classroom. It was filled with 16-17 year old students wearing red blazers over white oxford shirts and blue and red plaid ties.
“Success,” said a chipper young girl with auburn hair, “Is the souls achievement of its most foundational dreams.” The class groaned. The one other girl in the room looked away, holding back equal parts laughter and embarrassment. The only difference in dress between these two and the twenty or so males making up the majority of the class were their knee-length wool skirts and white socks in place of the boys' khaki slacks.
“Thank you, my dear.” said the professor, cleaning his glasses on a silk tie. “That was,” he paused, “informative. Anyone else?” A stocky, red-faced youth with a military buzz-cut half coughed and grunted before raising his fingertips.
“Yeah, uh. Success is- success is like...”
“I did not ask what success is like,” the professor interjected, suddenly stern. “I asked you to define it. Anyone else?” A pigeon-chested boy with greasy black hair and ubiquitous acne inched his hand into the air. “Yes, Mr. Mendle?”
“I think success,” he began slowly, “Is meeting your goals, and...”
“And what are your goals, Mr. Mendle? Showing up to class on time, maybe? Not too successful this morning then. And what about yours, Mr. Anderson?” A squat red haired boy choked and sputtered, spilling water down his shirt.
“Me?” he asked, recapping his water bottle.”
“You, Mr. Anderson. What are your goals?”
“I dunno,” he said. “A house, maybe. Wife, kids, a good job? What do you mean?” he added, noticing the snickering faces around the room.
“And you, James?” asked the professor, ignoring this comment. He motioned to the sallow, symmetrically faced blonde man standing at the back window. “What tickles your fancy.”
“Hm?” the blonde man grunted, glancing away from the window and looking vaguely in the professor's direction.
“What tickles your fancy, James,” enunciated the professor.
“Hmm,” he frowned, “Usually my wife.” The class erupted in laughter as the man turned back to whomever it was he was watching stroll across the back lawn. The chipper young girl who'd spoken earlier turned faintly pink and leafed through her copy of Civics: A Pursuit, before the professor finally spoke again,
“Informative,” he said slowly, “As always, Professor Tucker.” The blonde man glanced up again, nodding briefly before returning to his vigil. “Informative.”