Definitely Could by Mike Miller
It takes me a second of squinting before I spot the professor over in the corner. He’s staked out a table with extended foliage from the local trees, and there’s only a pair of freshman girls nearby. A lot of people think the section is too dark for an outdoors patio.
I’m a couple of minutes early, and he’s already comfortably settled at the table with an unsteaming cup of coffee. I bet that weakling is drinking some watered-down and sugared-up java. He hasn’t seen me because he’s reading, so I continue my observation while I side shuffle through the ranks of studying students. It’s been almost a year since I’ve last seen Professor Haskell; I’ve spent a fair amount of that time loathing him.
It’s finals week starting tomorrow, and around me is the mixture of the already-too and never-will-be prepared. I slide past a trio of girls giggling wildly, but their palms are stuffed with index cards. Their demeanor easily welcomes the better distraction; their bold school-sweatshirts scream readiness and hope.
I love how as we have gotten older, we have become lazier. The busy beavers here at the café are all freshmen. While every older student here, the older kids relax with their java knowing that a single night of back-breaking labor can salvage anyone’s college career. If they haven’t nurtured that ability yet, they’d be wiped from the rolebooks for bad grades. It’s natural selection.
As it’s my last semester as a sophomore, the Zen skill of information-absorption is almost mine. I figure I have all night to figure it out.
I glide by a headphoned kid focusing laser beams into the texts before him because he hasn’t cut his curly hair in months. Time for all the campus zombies to earn another semester of relaxed kick-back. It’s not like I wouldn’t want to be smokin’ a bowl either, but I think the average pot-head still needs at least twenty-four hours of preparation. I’m going to crack open my used books for the newest first time later in the day. There’s no point starting such a grueling task on a perfectly beautiful day like this when there’s still plenty of night ahead. Plus I got this.
“Professor Haskell,” I say with a hand already extended. When he looks up from the book, my fingers are inches from his sunglasses and he jerks his face back in surprise. It’s just how I envisioned it.
He says, “Hello, Jason,” and casually accepts the handshake. The startled look is soon replaced by his usual smugness. I squeeze the hand to remind him who’s in charge now that I’m not enrolled in his class or working for him. He doesn’t flinch, but says, “Whoa, tiger. Too much coffee?”
“Not enough.” I sit down.
“Well, let me get you a cup then.” He begins to rise. I wait until his massive frame fully settles on his feet before I say no thanks. He says, “I thought you liked this place.” And I tell him I really don’t want a cup of coffee. I gratefully get to witness some disappointment, but he begins to lumber off anyways.
“Why’d you even want to see me?” I call after him.
He turns and says, “Calm down, Jason, I’ll be back-“
“I’ve got a final tomorrow, Prof, so if you’ve got coffee to drink, I can skedaddle.”
He returns. “Fine. Have it your way.” His face is frustration, and I internally note another victory in the gauntlet of despair I have planned for him. He returns to the table and pulls a file folder from his briefcase. “I wanted you to see my new book.”
Plucking several crisp sheets of paper, he lays them before me. “Check it out.”
I say, “Why?”
“Because you’re curious. Because you loved the other ones.”
“I also loved my ex-girlfriend, but I’m not having sex with her anymore.”
“Such a way with words, young writer.” His sarcasm doesn’t veil the complement. I wait until Haskell’s completely turned away to fetch another cup of coffee before I voraciously scoop up the pages to read.
The numbers are late, 358-361, and at the top of the first page is the heading Chapter 24. So there’s a girl named Marie and a guy called David, and they’re on their way to another couple’s house. They talk about his mother. There are the lines: “She killed the radio so she could hear the way he breathed. With his mouth open, his stuttering was choking him so she smiled.” I’ll privately admit I like it. It’s cleaner than his other stuff, which I am already on the record for admiring. I begin to think he wasn’t wasting my time. I read on until a “Yo, Jason!” is shouted at me.
I look up, and it’s Wes. “I can’t believe you’re studying already,” he gushes.
I say, “If my reputation’s on the line, then I’m not.” Wes starts to sit down, but “I’m actually having a meeting with the esteemed Professor Haskell right now.” In case Wes is extra dim at the moment, I jerk my head in the direction of the professor-looking man standing in line at the counter. The bald head and tie should also indicate this is not just any ol’ bro.
Wes smiles smugly as an asshole who’s proudly learned privileged information. “Him, Haskell? Hold the presses. What for?”
To wrap things up quickly, I say I’m not sure and shuffle the papers closer to me. I tell Wes it was Haskell’s idea, and that I can tell him about it later.
Wes shyly inserts a closing invitation “to hang after finals are done,” so I say maybe.
Wes vamooses just before Haskell turns to return. While sipping his steaming cup of coffee, he retrieves a pill from his pocket and pops it in his mouth, taking a swig of coffee to wash. I’m impressed he can devour such an obviously burning beverage, but he grimaces and gasps at the heat.
Once recovered from the trauma he asks, “Who was that?”
So he did see Wes. I tell him it was a friend though I secretly refuse to return Wes’ messages. Haskell could care less. “Excellent. So what do you think?”
“It’s alright.” I watch him wait for more like a hungry cub.
He continues, “So it made no impact.”
“You’re writing a novel, Haskell. You gave me 3 pages out of...“
“Fourteen hundred.” He blankly responds. Now I have to conceal amazement because that’s practically doubling his other two efforts. A year ago he hadn’t written a thing.
“Must’ve had a lot to say in those 13 years.”
“Not really. It’s been really boring, and I’m the kind of writer that needs inspiration to hit him on the head.”
So I can’t help but mention, “So you’re not that good a writer,” because he has yet to have any real anger invade his soul this conversation. That’s the only reason I came. I want to see him be mad like I was mad at him. That is my sole motive for even getting out of bed today. Maybe I’ll get some food when I’m done here, or maybe I’ll do some studying after I eat. But right now, I must reduce this man.
Instead of clenched teeth and balled fists, I get laughter. He laughs so hard he slaps the table in glee. The table shakes so much that coffee spills out onto the papers. The freshwomen to the left look over at me and the unexpectedly and improperly mad grown man. After the realigning of spectacles, Haskell says, “So the gloves are off, huh?” Then he keeps laughing. This is ridiculous.
He chuckles, “It’s absolutely true: I am a horrible writer. It took me a lifetime to compose three mediocre little books, and I always knew that a juvenile like you would tell me sooner or later how much I such. I guess I’m just so happy that I was right.”
“Congratulations on your finished masterpiece and your keen insight into human behavior.” I have the urge to abruptly leave, but he just called me juvenile.
“So now it’s a masterpiece?” he says, getting merrier by the second.
“I’m not commenting on a page and a half. I’ll get back to you on the rest when I can read it for free from the local library.” I hand him his pages back
“You didn’t read to the end?” as he takes the pages back.
“I didn’t think it was homework.”
He tucks away the pages in to the case and pulls out a brown-and-white hardcover with the words “Definitely Could by Page Haskell, author of Ophelia’s Fever” and a picture of a silhouette of a clock tower on fire. He says, “This is yours.”
I grip the book and examine the cover carefully. The drawing is simple and crude, but I eventually recognize it as one of mine. The clock face’s circle is a line that begins on the right and goes counter-clockwise. That is definitely my improperly drawn circle.
“Motherfucker, you stole this!” I charge.
“Now calm down, Jason.” He says with a hint of fear in his voice.
“That’s my drawing. How the hell--?”
And he starts chuckling again. The girls begin to study our commotion.
He cackles, “You just haven’t gotten it, have you? Now you’re disappointing me.”
“What?” I demand.
“It’s your book. I certainly came up with the meat of these 400 pages, but it’s your bones.” Now I’m not sure what’s happening. He expands with “It’s your story. I read it and knew that it was a literary gold mine. I figured that writing your novel should be my final work. Your vision with my craft. I am proud to say that this is our baby.”
I flip open the book. “Which story?”
“’Cold and Deaf.’ I think I successfully updated that calamity with one of your better lines.” Haskell inspects the trees as he recites, “’At any other time and place, I would possibly help her, but right now I definitely could not.’ I loved the separation of ‘couldn’t.’ Remember that one?”
I’m too busy scanning the pages to tell him that I probably wouldn’t write something that corny. But that was definitely my crummy drawing on the front.
“What good is it being a writer if you don’t remember your best lines?” His lofty philosophy is lost on me as I continue to tear through the book. I see his name on the front, pseudo-pensive pose on the back, and inside are words that may have somehow been penned by me. I realize that the story is spread too evenly amongst its length for me to decide anything right now. I close it and stuff it in my backpack.
“Well, Prof, this book is just another chapter in our bizarre relationship. I’m going home to figure out how to sue you silly.” As I start to leave, he grasps my wrist ferociously.
“Please don’t go.” He begs with the emptiest uselessness. “I’m not finished.”
“Are you drunk?” I ask flatly.
“Poisoned,” he whimpers. And somehow I’m the one now laughing.
“Too much ‘proffee’?” I say with so much giddy glee that it diminishes the delivery of the stupid pun.
As I’m wondering what the eavesdroppers might say, Haskell leans over and whispers, “If you go then I’m going to tell the pretty young girls next to us about the ex-student/teacher’s-aid who just murdered me. Remember he had the short brown hair and was wearing a t-shirt with a dragon smoking a joint on it? They’ll call the cops when I drop dead on the table.”
He doesn’t know that I’ve fought long and successfully for reenrollment, but I don’t need to correct him about that now.
The merciless certainty staring into my eyes says I should sit back down.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask calmly.
“I’m killing myself. But I thought murder would make a better martyr. For the annals, homicide is far superior to suicide.” His words begin to slur as he mumbles “shuishide.”
He continues, ”I told myself over and over that it was only fair if you knew what was coming.” His eyes are getting groggy while his head rolls weakly. “Though I think I’ve already given you way too, way too much about how to get away with it.”
“With what?” My hands brace the edge of the table to help me pounce away.
“With whatever. I just wanted you to know that I know I was fair about everything. About telling you.”
Quietly I growl, “Then let me go now.”
“No,” he says forcefully though getting visibly weaker by the second. He keeps his gaze locked on mine, but I can feel him studying my face. He’s measuring my twitches of horror, observing my brow in confusion. His failing strength causes his frame to slouch awkwardly in its seat, but he keeps his chin up. But his pupils are alight with merry power, the still potent ability to humble me into submission. His death will be filled with joy at my squirming. I think this is maybe the best it ever got for poor Professor Haskell.
Final reserves of energy fix a thin grin on his dying body as he softly says, “You were always a pain in the ass. But I sure liked your stuff. This isn’t about you though. Don’t make that mistake. I’m really killing myself because of women...”
A hollow wheeze rasps from deep within his chest. “I even thought. Of the best. Last words.” I start reaching for my bag.
He raises his voice and turns towards the hushed and conversing ranks of studying students when he proclaims, “I left a woman for a girl who left me!”
He falls ear-first into the still steaming cup of coffee, then lies perfectly still in the simmering liquid.
Pack firmly on back, I snatch his briefcase and instantly jump into the bushes. A commotion is building quickly when people start chattering behind me.
I leap over a wall into an alley. I wonder if I should have stuck around to watch those final moments while I run down one street around onto another.
I’ve never taken the bus before, but I hop on one and pretend like I didn’t just watch a man die. I’ll pretend especially hard not to look like a murderer.
And I have to study too still. But not now - now is my solace. I can begin the crunch in a couple of hours. A night of pure labor and a low-level curve will redeem us all.
It takes me a second of squinting before I spot the professor over in the corner. He’s staked out a table with extended foliage from the local trees, and there’s only a pair of freshman girls nearby. A lot of people think the section is too dark for an outdoors patio.
I’m a couple of minutes early, and he’s already comfortably settled at the table with an unsteaming cup of coffee. I bet that weakling is drinking some watered-down and sugared-up java. He hasn’t seen me because he’s reading, so I continue my observation while I side shuffle through the ranks of studying students. It’s been almost a year since I’ve last seen Professor Haskell; I’ve spent a fair amount of that time loathing him.
It’s finals week starting tomorrow, and around me is the mixture of the already-too and never-will-be prepared. I slide past a trio of girls giggling wildly, but their palms are stuffed with index cards. Their demeanor easily welcomes the better distraction; their bold school-sweatshirts scream readiness and hope.
I love how as we have gotten older, we have become lazier. The busy beavers here at the café are all freshmen. While every older student here, the older kids relax with their java knowing that a single night of back-breaking labor can salvage anyone’s college career. If they haven’t nurtured that ability yet, they’d be wiped from the rolebooks for bad grades. It’s natural selection.
As it’s my last semester as a sophomore, the Zen skill of information-absorption is almost mine. I figure I have all night to figure it out.
I glide by a headphoned kid focusing laser beams into the texts before him because he hasn’t cut his curly hair in months. Time for all the campus zombies to earn another semester of relaxed kick-back. It’s not like I wouldn’t want to be smokin’ a bowl either, but I think the average pot-head still needs at least twenty-four hours of preparation. I’m going to crack open my used books for the newest first time later in the day. There’s no point starting such a grueling task on a perfectly beautiful day like this when there’s still plenty of night ahead. Plus I got this.
“Professor Haskell,” I say with a hand already extended. When he looks up from the book, my fingers are inches from his sunglasses and he jerks his face back in surprise. It’s just how I envisioned it.
He says, “Hello, Jason,” and casually accepts the handshake. The startled look is soon replaced by his usual smugness. I squeeze the hand to remind him who’s in charge now that I’m not enrolled in his class or working for him. He doesn’t flinch, but says, “Whoa, tiger. Too much coffee?”
“Not enough.” I sit down.
“Well, let me get you a cup then.” He begins to rise. I wait until his massive frame fully settles on his feet before I say no thanks. He says, “I thought you liked this place.” And I tell him I really don’t want a cup of coffee. I gratefully get to witness some disappointment, but he begins to lumber off anyways.
“Why’d you even want to see me?” I call after him.
He turns and says, “Calm down, Jason, I’ll be back-“
“I’ve got a final tomorrow, Prof, so if you’ve got coffee to drink, I can skedaddle.”
He returns. “Fine. Have it your way.” His face is frustration, and I internally note another victory in the gauntlet of despair I have planned for him. He returns to the table and pulls a file folder from his briefcase. “I wanted you to see my new book.”
Plucking several crisp sheets of paper, he lays them before me. “Check it out.”
I say, “Why?”
“Because you’re curious. Because you loved the other ones.”
“I also loved my ex-girlfriend, but I’m not having sex with her anymore.”
“Such a way with words, young writer.” His sarcasm doesn’t veil the complement. I wait until Haskell’s completely turned away to fetch another cup of coffee before I voraciously scoop up the pages to read.
The numbers are late, 358-361, and at the top of the first page is the heading Chapter 24. So there’s a girl named Marie and a guy called David, and they’re on their way to another couple’s house. They talk about his mother. There are the lines: “She killed the radio so she could hear the way he breathed. With his mouth open, his stuttering was choking him so she smiled.” I’ll privately admit I like it. It’s cleaner than his other stuff, which I am already on the record for admiring. I begin to think he wasn’t wasting my time. I read on until a “Yo, Jason!” is shouted at me.
I look up, and it’s Wes. “I can’t believe you’re studying already,” he gushes.
I say, “If my reputation’s on the line, then I’m not.” Wes starts to sit down, but “I’m actually having a meeting with the esteemed Professor Haskell right now.” In case Wes is extra dim at the moment, I jerk my head in the direction of the professor-looking man standing in line at the counter. The bald head and tie should also indicate this is not just any ol’ bro.
Wes smiles smugly as an asshole who’s proudly learned privileged information. “Him, Haskell? Hold the presses. What for?”
To wrap things up quickly, I say I’m not sure and shuffle the papers closer to me. I tell Wes it was Haskell’s idea, and that I can tell him about it later.
Wes shyly inserts a closing invitation “to hang after finals are done,” so I say maybe.
Wes vamooses just before Haskell turns to return. While sipping his steaming cup of coffee, he retrieves a pill from his pocket and pops it in his mouth, taking a swig of coffee to wash. I’m impressed he can devour such an obviously burning beverage, but he grimaces and gasps at the heat.
Once recovered from the trauma he asks, “Who was that?”
So he did see Wes. I tell him it was a friend though I secretly refuse to return Wes’ messages. Haskell could care less. “Excellent. So what do you think?”
“It’s alright.” I watch him wait for more like a hungry cub.
He continues, “So it made no impact.”
“You’re writing a novel, Haskell. You gave me 3 pages out of...“
“Fourteen hundred.” He blankly responds. Now I have to conceal amazement because that’s practically doubling his other two efforts. A year ago he hadn’t written a thing.
“Must’ve had a lot to say in those 13 years.”
“Not really. It’s been really boring, and I’m the kind of writer that needs inspiration to hit him on the head.”
So I can’t help but mention, “So you’re not that good a writer,” because he has yet to have any real anger invade his soul this conversation. That’s the only reason I came. I want to see him be mad like I was mad at him. That is my sole motive for even getting out of bed today. Maybe I’ll get some food when I’m done here, or maybe I’ll do some studying after I eat. But right now, I must reduce this man.
Instead of clenched teeth and balled fists, I get laughter. He laughs so hard he slaps the table in glee. The table shakes so much that coffee spills out onto the papers. The freshwomen to the left look over at me and the unexpectedly and improperly mad grown man. After the realigning of spectacles, Haskell says, “So the gloves are off, huh?” Then he keeps laughing. This is ridiculous.
He chuckles, “It’s absolutely true: I am a horrible writer. It took me a lifetime to compose three mediocre little books, and I always knew that a juvenile like you would tell me sooner or later how much I such. I guess I’m just so happy that I was right.”
“Congratulations on your finished masterpiece and your keen insight into human behavior.” I have the urge to abruptly leave, but he just called me juvenile.
“So now it’s a masterpiece?” he says, getting merrier by the second.
“I’m not commenting on a page and a half. I’ll get back to you on the rest when I can read it for free from the local library.” I hand him his pages back
“You didn’t read to the end?” as he takes the pages back.
“I didn’t think it was homework.”
He tucks away the pages in to the case and pulls out a brown-and-white hardcover with the words “Definitely Could by Page Haskell, author of Ophelia’s Fever” and a picture of a silhouette of a clock tower on fire. He says, “This is yours.”
I grip the book and examine the cover carefully. The drawing is simple and crude, but I eventually recognize it as one of mine. The clock face’s circle is a line that begins on the right and goes counter-clockwise. That is definitely my improperly drawn circle.
“Motherfucker, you stole this!” I charge.
“Now calm down, Jason.” He says with a hint of fear in his voice.
“That’s my drawing. How the hell--?”
And he starts chuckling again. The girls begin to study our commotion.
He cackles, “You just haven’t gotten it, have you? Now you’re disappointing me.”
“What?” I demand.
“It’s your book. I certainly came up with the meat of these 400 pages, but it’s your bones.” Now I’m not sure what’s happening. He expands with “It’s your story. I read it and knew that it was a literary gold mine. I figured that writing your novel should be my final work. Your vision with my craft. I am proud to say that this is our baby.”
I flip open the book. “Which story?”
“’Cold and Deaf.’ I think I successfully updated that calamity with one of your better lines.” Haskell inspects the trees as he recites, “’At any other time and place, I would possibly help her, but right now I definitely could not.’ I loved the separation of ‘couldn’t.’ Remember that one?”
I’m too busy scanning the pages to tell him that I probably wouldn’t write something that corny. But that was definitely my crummy drawing on the front.
“What good is it being a writer if you don’t remember your best lines?” His lofty philosophy is lost on me as I continue to tear through the book. I see his name on the front, pseudo-pensive pose on the back, and inside are words that may have somehow been penned by me. I realize that the story is spread too evenly amongst its length for me to decide anything right now. I close it and stuff it in my backpack.
“Well, Prof, this book is just another chapter in our bizarre relationship. I’m going home to figure out how to sue you silly.” As I start to leave, he grasps my wrist ferociously.
“Please don’t go.” He begs with the emptiest uselessness. “I’m not finished.”
“Are you drunk?” I ask flatly.
“Poisoned,” he whimpers. And somehow I’m the one now laughing.
“Too much ‘proffee’?” I say with so much giddy glee that it diminishes the delivery of the stupid pun.
As I’m wondering what the eavesdroppers might say, Haskell leans over and whispers, “If you go then I’m going to tell the pretty young girls next to us about the ex-student/teacher’s-aid who just murdered me. Remember he had the short brown hair and was wearing a t-shirt with a dragon smoking a joint on it? They’ll call the cops when I drop dead on the table.”
He doesn’t know that I’ve fought long and successfully for reenrollment, but I don’t need to correct him about that now.
The merciless certainty staring into my eyes says I should sit back down.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask calmly.
“I’m killing myself. But I thought murder would make a better martyr. For the annals, homicide is far superior to suicide.” His words begin to slur as he mumbles “shuishide.”
He continues, ”I told myself over and over that it was only fair if you knew what was coming.” His eyes are getting groggy while his head rolls weakly. “Though I think I’ve already given you way too, way too much about how to get away with it.”
“With what?” My hands brace the edge of the table to help me pounce away.
“With whatever. I just wanted you to know that I know I was fair about everything. About telling you.”
Quietly I growl, “Then let me go now.”
“No,” he says forcefully though getting visibly weaker by the second. He keeps his gaze locked on mine, but I can feel him studying my face. He’s measuring my twitches of horror, observing my brow in confusion. His failing strength causes his frame to slouch awkwardly in its seat, but he keeps his chin up. But his pupils are alight with merry power, the still potent ability to humble me into submission. His death will be filled with joy at my squirming. I think this is maybe the best it ever got for poor Professor Haskell.
Final reserves of energy fix a thin grin on his dying body as he softly says, “You were always a pain in the ass. But I sure liked your stuff. This isn’t about you though. Don’t make that mistake. I’m really killing myself because of women...”
A hollow wheeze rasps from deep within his chest. “I even thought. Of the best. Last words.” I start reaching for my bag.
He raises his voice and turns towards the hushed and conversing ranks of studying students when he proclaims, “I left a woman for a girl who left me!”
He falls ear-first into the still steaming cup of coffee, then lies perfectly still in the simmering liquid.
Pack firmly on back, I snatch his briefcase and instantly jump into the bushes. A commotion is building quickly when people start chattering behind me.
I leap over a wall into an alley. I wonder if I should have stuck around to watch those final moments while I run down one street around onto another.
I’ve never taken the bus before, but I hop on one and pretend like I didn’t just watch a man die. I’ll pretend especially hard not to look like a murderer.
And I have to study too still. But not now - now is my solace. I can begin the crunch in a couple of hours. A night of pure labor and a low-level curve will redeem us all.
