I was late for my first class of Fall semester — Typography One, a sophomore type class. By late, I mean I wasn’t early. I was right on time for the beginning of class, but late because I should have been there much earlier. It’s nice to greet students as they arrive during the first class, and not blow in sweating and panting while they’re already seated. I was both of those things.
Trip :: The elevator was notoriously slow — slow like the first creaky 1857 Otis elevator, or even earlier ones that were powered by steam, or coal. I’d only ridden in it once, or twice, over the course of four years because the stairs were always faster. I was carrying stacks of syllabi, attendance forms, department guidelines, other miscellaneous handouts, a briefcase filled with samples, and a can of coke. As soon as I got to the first step, I started taking them two at a time, and didn’t slow down until I rounded the landing onto the final set of stairs between the second and third floor. Two students were just about to open the door to the third floor and heard me coming. They turned to look, I looked up, and at that instant I tripped and spewed everything onto the stairs. They paused to watch it happen, looked at each other, then turned and continued through the heavy steel fire door which slammed shut behind them. I bent over to gather my sliding pile of stuff, breathing heavy, embarrassed, and continued to the stairwell door. I opened it, turned the corner, and walked to the far end of the hall where the classroom was located.
Explode :: I walked in and saw a full class of students, including the two who witnessed my stairwell incident. I noticed a lot of large unfinished cabinetry in various stages of completion in the front and scattered around the perimeter of the classroom. I set my now disorganized pile of stuff, on a table at the front, found my class list, caught my breath and welcomed everyone to Type One. The first thing I do is confirm that everyone is in the right class. Immediately three students’ hands shot up. There are always that many with instant questions — someone is concerned, or confused, about their individual credits, a work schedule conflict, and a myriad of other issues. They’re all valid questions, and I let them know I’m happy to discuss everything later. I handed out all my paperwork, walked back to the front of the room to continue my introduction, and opened my can of coke. I took a drink, and before I wrote my name and contact information on the board in front, I set my coke on top of the unfinished cabinet next to me. I didn’t realize it, but there was no top, and my full can of coke dropped five feet, hit the bottom of the cabinet and exploded on impact. There was a three, or four, second uncomfortable silence, except for the coke which was spewing, fizzing and dripping onto the new cabinet and floor. My students could see the entire drop and explosion because the side that faced them was open, like backstage of a puppet show, but the side facing me wasn’t. I peered around the corner of it, turned red again and accessed the mess while my students mumbled, snorted and giggled.
Reveal :: After the coke exploded, I acknowledged how ridiculous I was, regrouped and wrote my name, office hours, and email on the board. During that period of my teaching life, I almost always wore a button-down long sleeve shirt, often white, a tie, a sport jacket, jeans and boots. It wasn’t until years later that I dressed far more casually. This night I didn’t wear a jacket and I had my sleeves rolled up because it was hot. As I wrote on the board, my arms caught my eye and I was alarmed and embarrassed once again. They were extremely scratched up from our cat. He still had his claws and he and I rough housed a lot. I wrestled with him like a medium sized dog, and he went after me like I was an intruding cat. What wasn’t always apparent in the heat of battle was just how much damage he inflicted on my bare arms. What began as dozens of white scratches on both arms, turned into raised red scratches. My students saw this too. They must have assumed I was self-harming.
Within the first twenty minutes of entering the building, I’d tripped and spewed everything in the stairwell, my coke exploded, and I revealed my shredded arms. I’m assuming I probably lived with cat scratch fever for years.
The Rain Song by Led Zeppelin, Busload of Faith by Lou Reed, Going Under by Patti Smith, and All My Tears by Emmylou Harris
© C. Davidson
