A Thousand and One Classrooms
Samuel Pickering
Mickey rode out of Groton like the Marlboro Man, in boots, a ten-gallon hat, and carrying a bull shooter. He disappeared after the first class, and I didn't see him again until I decided to treat myself to a bottle of wine. While bending over looking at a cheap Chablis, I felt an arm curl cousin-like around my shoulder. It was Mickey with a quart of Jim Beam in one hand and now me under the other. "Sam," he said, "I want to congratulate you on that lecture. Never have I heard a first-year man do so well. You might have noticed," he continued without a pause, "that I have not been in class recently. I'm a senior and have," he added with an intimate squeeze, "certain responsibilities. You probably won't see much of me." Before I could straighten, much less answer, he moved his hand from my shoulder to just above my elbow and leading me down the aisle, he pointed confidentially to a Beaujolais. "Sam," he said, "I recommend this." Then balling his hand into a fist and shaking it like a coach encouraging a nervous substitute, he added, "Keep up the good work, sport." With that he strode out of the door and into the night. That was the last I saw of Mickey. I gave him a D. The wine he recommended wasn't worth a damn.
Mickey deserved a higher grade. He and others like him have given me many A times since I began teaching. By treating education cavalierly such students deflate academic pretension and lighten teachers' lives. When I taught in Jordan, four students once handed in the same essay. I called Hashem into my office and asked him where he got the essay. "Allah gave it to me," he answered. "There must be a
