Something I wrote up real quick for the hell of it... if you've ever had a teacher that made you sincerely wonder whether they were a robot or not, you might appreciate it... or you might not.
Mr. Son’s Class
One-eighteen. I had finally come upon the door to the first class of my semester. A minute ago I was stumbling down the hallway in a misty sort of daze before realizing that odd rooms were on one side and even on the other. This revelation was at once helpful and disheartening; I had worried about my brain’s early morning performance ever since I had chosen an eight o’clock class. Pausing in front of the door, I allowed myself some reflection. All I had to do was go inside, sit down, listen to the professor, make an A, and then reap my life-long rewards. After attempting to rationalize the idea of wasting forty hours of my life, I noticed that a few pairs of eyes were staring at me through the window on the door. From them, an unsettling mix that can only be described as envy and forewarning emanated.
Nevertheless, I collected myself, stepped over the void, and through the door. The professor’s voice halted as I entered, and I looked over to him apologetically. His eyes conveyed no decipherable response, if any reaction at all; he simply looked back at the class and continued. Already discouraged, I took the closest open seat and quickly turned my attention towards the professor.
“Mr. Son,” read the nametag that was pinned to his shades-of-grey plaid shirt, propped right on his chest. Within half a minute I discovered the cause of those frightened stares. The professor wasn’t human. Well, at least, everything inside me was saying that he couldn’t be. He certainly appeared to be, but there was no way a human could maintain such a deadening monotone and such an expressionless countenance. The man was of Asian descent, as I had previously inferred from his name, but lacked any type of accent or diction which might hint at some type of natural creation. He was fairly tall, dressed in a plaid button down, with black, combed back hair.
But his face was nearly indescribable, for want of something to describe. It was like a blank slate, empty and without features. Sure, he had, a nose, mouth, and ears, but none of them were doing anything. Well, I’ll admit that his mouth did seem to open and close by a few minute degrees as he spoke, but otherwise his face was liken to the appearance of the most generic anatomical portrait.
After a few minutes contemplating this anomaly, I looked around, expecting to see the same betwixt expression which I must have worn upon first absorbing Mr. Son’s presence. Instead I found that except for me and two other students, the entire class was sleeping; the shameless with their heads down, and the others sitting up. All their lids equally sealed. Escapism, I surmised, as I marveled at the human ability to adapt.
The other two students who were awake were surveying the class as well, and for a few moments my gaze locked with each of theirs. We were all wondering the same thing: Is this a joke? Was Mr. Son putting on an act for some inexplicable purpose, or perhaps even for his own entertainment? None of us had any answers, and so we returned our gaze to the robo-fessor, each of us hoping to ascertain whether or not we were the subjects of a cruel performance.
An hour later I was the only aware soul remaining. Of Mr. Son’s endless drone, I had registered nothing. I had kept myself up by doodling whatever pertained to my line of thought. I looked down at my paper to see what I had drawn. There was a noose, a razor blade, a cable in a tub, an ice pick, a shotgun, and a three-story building. I finally admitted to myself that Mr. Son’s lecture was not an act, and this class was going to be thoroughly impossible. I looked at the clock, that damned object that teased my testament to endurance. I would look at the time and then look back 10 minutes later to see that only a single minute had passed.
Begrudgingly I turned my attention to the professor. His words seemed weighted, destined to drop dead before making it halfway to their audience. All of a sudden I began to pity him. I don’t even think he realized that there was only a single person awake in his entire class. Then I began to think that maybe that was his problem. That maybe no student had ever let him know the affects of his voice and countenance, or lack thereof. Maybe if I incite some interactivity, I could somehow enlighten him to the state of the class. And so with great effort, I tuned into what he was saying.
“…and what this global communication did was enforce principles upon international markets.”
AHA! I thought as I spotted something I could comment on. Wholly committed to my mission, I ventured out onto the plank and raised my voice, saying:
“But hasn’t this same globalization led to the exploitation of cheap labor via outsourcing?”
The spotlight was blinding. I had disturbed the crystalline status of the class, and every denizen immediately oriented their gaze towards me. Mr. Son himself appeared shaken, the first human characteristic he had revealed all class. As he composed himself, he met my gaze with a look of curiosity. After an intermittent silence, he replied,
“Well, yes, you have a point. Class dismissed.”
True story.
