Who are you again?

There are two things that you should know about me; first, I am terrible with names and second, I am a “mean” person. I use quotation marks because I have been told this on a few occasions; most recently by the Head of the English Department.

Here’s the thing. I began the semester with good intentions. I was going to make an effort to stop referring to everyone as “you” in my classes. I desperately wanted tenure and I observed that my peers, who had been achieving this rank, were adored by their students. I, on the other hand, was barely tolerated by most people at the university. I was good at my job - really good, in fact - but career advancement in academia is largely linked to reputation nowadays and I was not a natural when it came to interfacing with students.

Over the summer I read a few articles about how to connect with people and the experts agreed that remembering names was fundamental. They suggested making associations. Like if you met someone named Wayne, think of Wayne Gretzky and imagine them holding a hockey stick. I decided to give it a try.

On the first day of the school year I made notes in the margins of my class list, like “big nose” next to Anna Sawyer and “mouth breather” next to Dylan McCarthy and so on. Admittedly, my methodology was far from kind but within a few weeks I had made working connections to many faces and names. It felt like success was mine; that is until last Thursday.

I had a great lesson planned and was excited to get started. Then Luna Stettner (AKA “overbite”) interrupted me as I was about to do a roll call. I sat patiently at my desk while she spat her questions at me and smiled like I cared about what she had to say. At some point during her rambling, I accidentally passed out my master sheet for people to confirm their presence.

The students started to leave the classroom in a domino pattern; coinciding - as I pieced together later - with the exact time that the paper landed on their desk. In the end, only one tall, goofy-looking guy remained. I couldn’t place him.

“Where did everyone go?” I asked.

“This might answer your question,” he hissed, handing me the attendance sheet. “I would probably be insulted if I knew what a Habsburg Jaw was.”

Jacob Johnston. Dammit. Where did that beard come from?

It was only after he stormed out of the room that I looked at the paper and realized what I had done.

Fast forward to the next day when my boss, Marion Hogarth, the ancient department head, called me in for an impromptu meeting. She had a printout of the list and recited some of the more spirited memory joggers. It was then that she called me a mean person.

“We’ve had complaints from six students and twice as many parents. This is the second grievance against you this semester and we’re barely into October. You’d be fired if you weren’t already a tenured professor,” she scolded.

I didn’t bother to correct her regarding my professional status in case she acted on her threat. In my defence, I surmised that she wanted to keep the incident quiet seeing that she was still dealing with a huge harassment lawsuit that had been brought forward the previous year.

I said that I would apologize to everyone and offer private meetings to the students who had complained. My plan was to extend olive branches to each of them in the form of an A for their final grade. This solution seemed to satisfy her; we were not in the ethics department after all.

I left her office and was heading to my own when I saw a young woman pacing outside my door. It was Little Black Book; so named because she arrived early to class on the first day and was engrossed in a little black moleskin book. What I have come to know about her in the weeks that followed is that she is one of the most obnoxious people that I have ever encountered. She constantly peppers my lectures with know-it-all interruptions. Little Black Book is probably the kindest label that has ever been assigned to her.

“May I talk to you?” she whispered. “Privately.”

I nodded and took out my keys, bracing for the retribution that was coming. Then I remembered her innocuous moniker, and it occurred to me that there was no way that she would want to talk about the attendance sheet. I relaxed and offered her a chair.

“I want to talk about the attendance sheet,” she said as soon as the door was shut.

Shit.

“Let me say that I am sorry…” I began.

“I’m not here for an apology. I have a proposal for you,” she said purposefully, pausing dramatically before speaking again. ”The little black book that you saw me reading isn’t mine. I found it on the grass by the cafeteria on the first day of class. It belongs to Adam Keough.”

She stressed the name deliberately, like it should mean something. I shrugged.

“He’s the editor of the campus paper,” she explained.

I stared at her blankly.

“He’s in your Linguistics 201 class.”

Still nothing.

“Well, you’ll know his name soon enough. He is in the business of selling papers on campus. He makes a bundle too. And this,” she said, handing me the book, “contains the list of his clients, their orders and details on the delivery system.”

I tried to look appropriately shocked.

“I figured out that he puts cryptic messages in the Xpress every week denoting the time, date and library stall where you can reach him for deliveries. I watched him in action yesterday. There must have been a hundred people ordering and picking up papers in a two hour span,” she said without taking a breath.

“So why are you telling me instead of going to the Dean’s Office?” I asked.

“Because I thought you could use this as leverage to stop him. He’s planning to run your attendance sheet screw up as the cover story next week. But I have an idea,” she said, leaning in to reveal her plan.

The next day I waited on a bench outside the engineering building. There was no one around; it was almost like someone hit a pause button on campus activity for the morning. It occurred to me that I had never seen the place so desolate but, then again, I had never ventured to the university on the weekend. My dedication to my work only extended so far.

I was uncharacteristically early so I read a copy of the Xpress while I waited. I had brought it for evidence but was surprised to learn that the editor, whom I was about to meet, was an amazing writer. He was witty and intelligent and his work really stood out against the garbage that other staffers were writing. Once I had read all of his articles, I set the paper on the bench. The front page stared up at me as a reminder of why I was there; in a matter of days its headline could mean the end of my career.

Strangely, I had not considered that my blunder might become a ruinous scandal. I had correctly guessed that none of my linguistics students were social media influencers, and considering that no formal disciplinary action had taken place, I thought that I was in the clear. That is until Little Black Book assured me that my story, in the capable hands of the editor, would trend throughout the college circuit. There would be no recovery for me.

“What’s in it for you?” I had asked her.

“I want to be the editor of the Xpress. If I complain to the dean, there is no guarantee that I will get the job. However, if you threaten Adam with expulsion he will not only stop the publication of your story but he can step down without fanfare and name his replacement. As an added bonus, his empire will crumble,” she delighted in telling me.

I laughed when she used the word “empire” but then she went on to explain that, based on the notations in the book, he was slated to pull down at least $40,000 this semester alone.

I saw a young, stocky guy in the distance making his way towards me. He was late. And it was no wonder; it probably took him an hour to cross the campus with those stumpy legs.

“Ah, so you’re the mystery person behind the email,” he said when he finally arrived at the meeting spot. “Your timing is perfect. I was hoping to get a quote from you for the next edition.”

“I heard about your story and I want you to scrap it,” I said firmly.

He raised his eyebrow at me and smirked; that is until I produced the little black book from my jacket pocket.

“I know about your business and how you use the Xpress to coordinate deliveries,” I said. “So, you’re going to lose the story. Then - and I’m sad to say this because you are a very talented writer - you’re going to quit the paper and recommend your junior editor for the job.”

He was despondent at first but soon became indignant.

“You want me to recommend Mia Simpson? You’re kidding, right? She’s a terrible writer!” he said, picking up the paper from the bench. “Seriously, go to page six and read the latest chapter of her K-pop fanfiction.”

I had started to read it but couldn’t get past the first paragraph. He was right, it was horrible.

“You do know that she complained about you for showing up late to class, right?” he queried.

I did not, in fact, make that connection. I should have, but the name didn’t click.

“I don’t get why you are advocating for her,” he said, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Oh wait! Little Black Book. Mia found the book, didn’t she? Why didn’t she blackmail me directly?”

“Because she convinced me to do her dirty work. And she negotiated an A while she was at it,” I confessed. “I really don’t like that kid.”

We sat in silence for a while. Weighing the pros and cons of the situation, I decided that it had to be reported.

I met with Professor Hogarth on Monday morning and told her that I had found a little black book on Mia Simpson’s desk after class last week. After piecing together the code, I saw her in the library later that day exchanging assignment papers for cash.

During our meeting we called the editor of the Xpress who confirmed that she was responsible for submitting the coded message for publication each week. Upon hearing that testimony, Hogarth assured me that she would be expelled by the end of the day.

Little Black Book was not in my class on Tuesday morning so I assumed that the deed had been carried out as promised. The editor of the campus paper stayed after class that day and reluctantly handed over a thick envelope.

“You don’t need to count it. It’s $20,000, as we agreed,” he said coldly.

He turned to leave but then stopped.

“One last thing, you wrote “three apples” beside my name. What does that mean?” he asked.

“Oh, it's from The Smurfs. They’re 'three apples tall.' You know, really short,” I responded while placing the envelope in my briefcase.

“Wow, that’s really harsh. You’re not a nice person.”

“I’m well aware of that, Aaron,” I replied.

“It’s Adam,” he corrected.

“Whatever.”