Chip Arrives Late

Chip Arrives Late

Room 222 of the RCC HEC-building felt devoid of something. You see, though filled to the brim with students, it missed one integral occupant: the professor. Eyes glossy and bodies stationary, students sat listening to the dull hum of afternoon wafting into the dull atmosphere, forcing several normally introverted personalities to partake in sparse conversation lest they subside into that lulling song of sleep. Of course, the safest topic pertaining to conversing with “acquaintances” lies with in the weather. Therefore, out of sheer boredom, a small section of the classroom began to discuss the flighty, hormonal patterns of Oregon weather. The topic slowly progressed into a scientific conversation and further molded into the topic of global warming.

“Yeah, I saw it on a Bill Nye,” said a student wearing a T-shirt with a singular word on it: colege, which, ironically, was misspelled.

“Now that’s some good factual information there,” replied the student to his right, adjusting his black glasses.

“Who needs science when you have him?” laughed the first.

Overhearing this ludicrous exchange, one of the girls sitting in front of them lashed back, nearly laughing, “Listen, if you rely on a person who teaches first graders for your scientific information when you are a “grown” ass adult, then you need a reality check!”

“Now, if Keith Haring is an artist, then Bill Nye is a scientist. I’ll stick with little stick figures thank you,” retorted the first, who leaned forward, fully engaging in the debate.

“Honestly, he’s not an artist,” said the girl.

“That’s it! Everyone who believes in abstract art over here!”

The girl threw her hand above her head and pushed herself off her chair in a rallying movement. “No! Realism is the real talent! Over here, everyone!”

After a moment of rallying and shifting sides of the room, every student had been correctly categorized by their proper standing. However, this clear divide did not last for more than a few seconds, as one snarky individual suddenly mentioned something about open-form poems and a poet’s lack of talent. At hearing this, the class plunged into complete anarchy! A clear line had been drawn in the carpet between the radical Abstract artists and the old-fashioned Realists. Quickly, they fashioned barricades out of their wood and metal desks, ripping the white-boards from the walls as shields. Books flew like grenades over these shields, impacting with hollow screams. The students dove forward, left, and right, attempting to dodge the literary missiles. As if the great white beast had come to enact its vengeance, Moby-Dick breached the wall, impacting a fairly-thin Abstractionist in the face.

“They got Nick!” screamed one of his teammates, who proceeded to drag the stunned student from the warzone.

Flurries of papers, paperback novels, and 3-ring binders cracked and crinkled in a tornado of chaos, which massed its way from one sector to the other. The Secret Garden spread its spindly, vine-like arms through the Abstractionists’ blockade, only to be combated by Jackson Pollock’s hairy web of ink splatters. Shakespeare’s iconic Sonnets, Joe Brainard’s simplistic one-liners, and Emily Dickinson's open poems shredded themselves into daggers, hurling themselves towards the opposition in a suicidal mission. Frost’s road was definitely more-traveled by as a conclave of pigs from Animal Farm crawled through the cracks of the fortress. Like a biker stomping on a bag of ice, Hamlet cracked his knuckles and dove on top of an unsuspecting student, declaring something about his mother.

“Van Gogh was a fantastic painter!” shouted one emotional student.

“Yeah, well, he cut off his ear and sent it to a lover! Yeah…now that sounds like stability,” retorted another sarcastically.

Famous names, generations of disagreement, stylistic reproaches, and criticisms all compacted into this turbulent stylistic storm. Not even baking soda could tame the fires escaping the mouth of Mordor. Nor could any fire singe the flowers or fields Yosa Buson crafted with a flash of his wrinkled hand. Orcs, wolves, and robots tore holes in the carpet with every step, and with such diversity of creatures came a torment of clattering noises. Yells, war cries, screeches, other-worldly languages—roars, cries, booms—formed a deafening cacophony. If not so submerged in the turbidity of war, the students would have held their ears from shock.

Suddenly, the professor, huffing, stumbled onto the battlefield. Utterly surprised, every head whipped around. Caught like a thief in security lights, the students locked eyes with Dr. Phillips. Time halted, allowing for only the blinking of the students’ eyes; their hands still clutching scholarly projectiles and battered white-boards.

Opening his mouth to speak, the teacher promptly observed the state of his classroom, only to close his lips yet again. He then fiddled with his greying beard and swiped at his slicked back hair. All the while, the students fixed their eyes on him, stuck motionless in that singular moment. The ticking of the clock sounded like the beating of a drum, the breathing of the teacher like the bellowing of a mighty wind.

Until he finally spoke, “Sorry I’m late?”