Sitting at a desk in a library that’s the size of an apartment living room, I’m approached by an old man. He’s coughing heavy; his eyes are squinted and wrinkled. Finally he clears his throat. “I need help wit citing.” His voice is slurred, sounding like a drunk who froze off part of his tongue.
“I can help with that,” I say, rather too eagerly. I’m doing anything to not lose my job here. I’m hoping they won’t remember that I’m getting paid twenty bucks an hour to sit by people and slowly talk them out of their minuscule writing troubles.
I walk over and sit next to him. “Yes, you just need to find your source first for us to cite it. Otherwise we won’t know who the author is.”
“But I don’t know where the sources is,” he says, half angrily, half like he wants to cry.
Are, I think. “Okay, well let’s go to your flash drive first.”
“How do I do that?”
Seriously, he doesn’t know, or is he just trying to humor me? I mean how did he open five documents from it? But I say, “Okay, let’s go to my computer, then you go to whichever folder you saved it in and open it up.”
“I don’t know which folder I saved it in?” Then he randomly clicks on one and looks at me. “That folder?” he asks, like I’m an all knowing, all encompassing being, who could see him as he created and named his folder a year ago.
After numerous attempts we manage to open the correct folder and document, which lead us to the sources, and to me pointing out the authors’ names, and bending over the keyboard to type in the information. I continue to point at an MLA sheet to show him why I am typing in the order I am. “I’m following MLA formatting,” I say.
“But where did my sources go?”
“We minimized them so they’re temporarily at the bottom of the screen.”
“Where, huh?” he says.
What would it be like to be him, old, confused, slurry—not half a wit left, not even enough to bathe regularly. Somehow he decided to attend this expensive College, priced four hundred something a credit, probably after seeing some cheesy commercial about it. He probably has dreams of walking across the platform on his graduation day, getting a diploma handed to him by a smiling professor, who proudly shakes his hand. Likely he expects applause from the audience, and to then walk off to gain the career of his dreams. When in reality, if he does graduate, he’ll be going to interviews slurring, and answering their questions with unrelated questions and answers, only to go back home and wait for a rejection letter in the mail. I mean, if I have a master’s degree, with a 3.91 GPA, and speak “slur-lessly,” and I still have to grovel for a part-time position, what kind of chance does he have?
Later I sit back at my desk, rather I should say Jill’s desk. It has her name on it and eighty percent of the questions I answer are, “Nope, Jill’s not here yet. She comes in at eleven, but I’m sure I can help you.”
Generally they look at me accusingly, like I killed Jill, threw her under the desk, and am now sitting above it, pretending to have some position there. “I guess, maybe you can help,” they say reluctantly. I wish I had a name tag that said, “MA in English and know ninety percent of what Jill knows.”
A few hours go by, and I’m looking over a paper with a student, one who I had talked into being my regular client. His breath smells like he eats poop for breakfast—which makes me more amazed than disgusted. I mean seriously does he somehow eat poop? Like the saying goes, if it looks like a horse, sounds like a horse, acts like a horse, then it’s a horse. So yes, he must eat poop. And if so, is someone sabotaging him by sneaking it secretly into his food. Perhaps they inject it into his candy bars or slather it on his burgers.
Then Jill walks in smiling and humming, like usual. She sets a Christmas card on my desk. Shit, I didn’t think of getting a card for her. I smile an overly large smile to make up for it. “Thank you, Jill!”
“Yes and there’s something in it,” she says. “Oh, and remember to come to the little holiday party,” she says, always remembering to be PC enough to say holiday, not Christmas. Then she hums her way out the door, to get set-up for the party.
Finally I finish looking over the paper with the student. I grab the card and rip it open. It reads, “Happy Holidays! The students and I have enjoyed working with you.” I read over, “Enjoyed” past tense. Why, why is it in past tense? I mean I should have been asked earlier this week about my available hours for next quarter, but figured they were being slow. No news is good news, right? No, no, that saying is bullshit. It’s never good news. No news means someone is avoiding telling you the bad news, leaving someone else to accidentally leak it through a Christmas card. I tilt the card up again, and a five dollar gift card to Starbuck’s falls out. Well at least I have a five dollar gift card—I’m sure that makes up for my eight hundred monthly pay cut.
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