Lydia eventually gets her laptop to work with the projector. I don’t even have to stand up to help this time.
Lucky break. The school’s much-vaunted, state-of-the-art technology hasn’t made it from the recording studios to my classroom yet. Or maybe that interface and those buttons are so advanced they just look old. Lydia fiddles with an HTMI cord. It’s not the one she needs, so she’s looping it up out of habit. Maybe we’ve come full circle in audio and video advancements. I bet there’s a wax cylinder in the basement where I found the theremin. I should excavate the old things before next semester. The old is new? Could be a future history class if I tack “writing-intensive” onto it. Musicians know about time, but they often confuse trivia with history. I could harness that and transform it into something real. Next semester.
I’m philosophizing because I’m bored, and that’s not fair. It’s Lydia’s turn to philosophize. She makes eye contact, and I smile and give a little nod. I don’t vocalize. I’m tired of talking.
I type Lydia’s name and pretend to take notes on my computer. I really need a new final project. These are getting tedious. It’s not the students’ fault. I need to change things. I’ll do something new next semester.
A notification appears in the upper-right corner of my screen. Lydia is cueing up a song I haven’t heard of. The email notification is from the guy whose name is on the outside of the building. The only time I’ve ever seen him was at a required “professional development” which was mostly him relaying his supposedly storied career in the Minneapolis music scene.
The past. His past in a band I heard of once, I think. I don’t remember when I heard of it. Maybe I just think I’ve heard of it. Maybe Guy-With-The-Name-On-The-Building made me think I’d heard of his band.
Lydia’s song doesn’t illustrate the point she’s making. I get it. She’s manipulating time, as any good musician does. She’s minimizing talking time, maximizing recorded time. She’s a “recording artist,” after all.
The notification is a “Message to the Community.” I’d better click this thing with its arrogant author and arrogant subject line. I should wait, but I don’t. Reading the community message, I realize it no longer matters if I remember what band Name-On-The-Building was in.
Lydia is talking now. She’s looking right at me. I should be making encouraging facial movements. I should be nodding my head and smiling, but I can’t look up. I can’t move my face, lest an embarrassing and explanation-requiring tear emerge. I just stare at the incomprehensible words on the screen.
I text my husband: “The college is closing.” He’ll meet me at the bar. I’m going to get very drunk shortly, with him or without.
Lydia is talking. Anya storms past me, and I can’t look at her, either. Everyone stares at their phones, which are supposed to be in their backpacks. That asshole couldn’t possibly have sent this message to students, could he? Anya flings the door open, and I can hear shouting from down the hall. The door slams shut. Some people in the room are crying. Some aren’t.
Lydia looks at me, confused.
I panic. “Great job, Lydia. Okay, let’s stop for the day. The rest of you can go next time,” I lie.