This isn’t to say that the photograph that has captured my musculr youth hasn’t brought upon bad tidings because indeed it has. More recently, a most unfortunate incident occurred between me and Brandon, one of my students, inside my office. A former wrestler in high school, Brandon was in my office, sitting next to me, going over the second draft of his essay when he looked at the photograph and said, “Yeah, dude, you were buffed back then,” and then looking me over he said in subtle disparaging tone, “But what the hell happened?”
“What are you suggesting?” I shouted.
“Dude.”
“Are you suggesting I’ve gone to pot? Who are you? The big bad wrestler who thinks he can come in here and insult me? Is that it?”
“Dude.”
I stuck my hand out and said, “Think you’re tough, is that it? Come on then. Let’s see who’s got the strength.”
“Dude, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
“All right then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
And with that Brandon offered me his hand for a hand-crushing handshake contest. I was surprised how weak this 200-pound wrestler’s grip was and I exerted immediate pressure, watching with delight at the look of unpleasant surprise on Brandon’s face as it became apparent he did not know what he was in store for.
I thought I better give him a chance to escape my formidable grip. I said, “If you don’t want to get hurt, you can back off right now.”
“Bring it on, bro.”
And with those words, I pushed the pedal to the metal, as it were, employing all those years of hand-crushing exercises on my victim, this ignorant school boy who had the audacity to suggest that I had become some sort of fallen creature unworthy of the photograph above my desk.
What happened next wasn’t pretty. Brandon shouted, “Jesus Christ! You broke my hand!” Upon which I let go. But it was too late. The damage had been done. Brandon was in so much pain, he was bent over clutching his injured hand, his face between his knees. Then he turned toward the nearby trash can and vomited inside it.
“Pain can do that sometimes,” I said, transitioning into my lecture voice. “Bring on intense nausea, sometimes resulting in vomiting.”
Brandon looked at me in disbelief. He said, “Jesus, dude, you didn’t have to break my hand.”
“Have you learned something today?”
“What?”
“About me, my strength.”
“This isn’t about you, man. You’re crazy.”
And with that, he left me alone in my office, at which time I stared at the photograph of myself. The young man in the photo seemed to look back at me with an incriminating glare.
I didn’t see Brandon in class the afternoon of the handshaking incident. Nor did I see him the following week. I was both worried about his condition and my own, for I feared he may file a grievance against me or worse sue me and the college. I abstained from telling my wife Lara about the incident. She was six-months pregnant with twin girls. The last thing she needed was to be stressed out about things, least of all her husband crushing a student’s hand. I feared retribution from Brandon more for my wife’s sake than my own. Gratefully, my fears were allayed the following week when Brandon walked into my office with his hand in a cast.
“My God, Brandon, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s cool, bro,” he said, sitting down next to my desk. “I had it coming. I egged you on.”
“Thank you for being a good sport,” I said. “Yes, you challenged me, but I’m older and presumably wiser. I should know better.”
“It is what it is.”
He put his second draft on my desk and asked me if I could help him. I was gratified to see that Brandon, who seemed rather lackluster academically speaking, was putting in effort in polishing is final revision. I said, “What is the meaning of this newfound enthusiasm for writing?”
“It’s like you said in class, if you can’t find any passion for your essays, just go home, drink beer, eat apple pie and watch reruns of American Idol.”
“Very well then.”
But before I could help him, I had an urgent need to pee. I urinate rather frequently, about once an hour or so, a condition that could not be pinpointed by urologists, endocrinologists and other specialists. One doctor suggested it was psychosomatic, the result of an anxious high-strung personality. And I was feeling anxieties at the moment, as I was guilt-stricken looking at Brandon’s cast.
I said, “Will you watch the office for me? I must go to the bathroom. I’ll leave the door open. If anyone asks, I’ll be right back.”
And with that, I hurried to the faculty bathroom, just across the hall, took care of my business, and returned. When I got back to my office, the door was closed. Luckily, I had my keys in my pants pocket. I unlocked the door. When I entered the office, Brandon was gone. I didn’t really care about him. If he couldn’t wait five minutes for me to go to the bathroom, then he wasn’t really serious about me helping him.
What I did care about was that Brandon had presumably stolen my framed bodybuilding photo. Where that glorious youth flexed his muscles in that tropical garden there was now above my computer a huge swath of emptiness, a giant bald spot.
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