Professional Development (Part II)

Much to everyone’s surprise, Bob became extremely absorbed with the class. I’ve never seen him take such an interest with any intellectual endeavor. He threw out the remainder of Jim’s technical manuals and computer science text books, and filled the shelves of his office with various Russian textbooks, spelling workbooks, travel guides, Tolstoy cliff notes and Dostoyevsky translations. He purchased expensive language software and a Russian keyboard, and monopolized the time of Jason the Intern for a whole day, having him set up and configure it all on his computer.

The Russian class also became the most popular source of excuses for Bob’s absences, the frequency of which was growing as quickly as the population of Fibonacci’s pet rabbits. The two hours allotted for classes were a given, and whenever anyone questioned his whereabouts in the middle of the day, Bob read a prepared speech about the importance of self enrichment through higher education. Soon, we found out that the lectures were also supplemented by a series of mandatory recitation sections, taught by a voluptuous graduates student, who virtues Bob never failed to praise in most inappropriate and obscene terms. So while, for the first time in a long time, Bob reported for work consistently and promptly, the time that he spent at the office during the day was declining rapidly.

As the middle of the semester approached, Bob became increasingly agitated. He complained openly about what a rotten, difficult language Russian was (never failing to mention the unfairness of the fact that so many beautiful women speak such an impossible language). Bob began taking even more time off, but this time his excuses were particularly cryptic.

When he exhausted all his afternoon doctor appointment excuses, he had to get more creative.

From: Bob Bossman
To: sitg-staff@bpu.edu

Everyone,

I just got a call from my super, and he said that the toilet in my apartment exploded, and flooded the whole apartment. There is raw sewage all over my living room. I am going to have to head back there to begin the clean up. I’ll be out for the rest of the day.

- Bob

This is a fairly plausible excuse, which, sadly for Bob’s credibility, turned out the be completely false. I am not sure why, when Bob fabricates and excuse, it’s often so graphic in disgusting details. It would have been completely sufficient to say that there is a problem back at the apartment that requires his attention. I guess Bob feels that he could cover up the blatant falsity of the excuse with additional information.

About an hour after Bob left to attend to his feces-smeared apartment, Jason the Intern reported for his shift.

“Hey, I just saw Bob pawing over some sophomore in the student center,” he announced in his familiar nonchalant tone. Then, with a momentary expression of pure revulsion and genuine concern for the women of his generation, he turned to Nick and said, “that sort of thing should be criminal, you know.”

That was all that Nick needed. In Bob-related matters, it’s not at all difficult to bait him.

“I am going there to confront him,” he said. “He is a damn liar!”
“Ok, I am game,” Dave announced.

Ben had to go to a meeting, and ever since our night-time adventure at the Apple Store, Tim’s been very uncomfortable with all this. Nick and Ben looked at me. After our little bonding and plotting session at the pizzeria, we’ve formed an unannounced, unspoken, unofficial alliance against Bob.

“Ok, but let’s make this quick.” And off we went.

The student center is a busy hall, swarming with busy, caffeinated undergrads. It is like the college exhibit at the zoo of humanity. There you can find every breed and variety of the undergraduate student – the sexy cheerleader from Wisconsin, the even sexier art student from Madrid, the jock, the nerd, the chess genius, and hipster, the alternative rock musician and his entourage, and… and Bob! That’s right. There he was, not too difficult to spot at all – a 43 year old man, with the desperation in his face all the more obvious in a sea of youthful hope.

He was sitting at a table with a young girl, who looked as uncomfortable as young girls have every right to be in the presence of Bob. This time, however, Bob didn’t have that hungry look in his eyes that he typically gets in the presence of a live female. He looked at the girl, then at his book, then at the girl again. And I realized that Bob fit in with this crowd a lot more than I initially realized. He exhibited all the characteristic signs of pre-midterm anxiety, a very common condition with the entire student population this time of the year.

Nick approached with an expression far more confident than the situation called for.

“Hey Bob. What are you doing here?
“Studying.” Bob was frustrated, and unfazed. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you had to go home because of your toilet.” Nick decided to ignore Bob’s question.
“Right. That’s fixed.”

The girl looked uncomfortable. She glanced at her watch, and with completely inappropriate joy in her voice, exclaimed “time is up!” She began to gather her things. Bob handed her two twenty dollar bills, which she happily accepted.

“I am getting tutored,” he said.
“Yea. I gathered that,” Nick said with that familiar edge.
“That class is so fucking hard.”

A sad an familiar predicament, indeed, but Bob wasn’t going to get any sympathy from me. Burdened with my own coursework, I was struggling to study for my midterms without the benefit of an afternoon tutor.

“The older you get the harder it is to learn a language,” he tried again.

Still, not an ounce of sympathy from either one of us. And at this point, Bob realized that his excuses were lost on us. I count this as the moment when Bob decided that he wasn’t even going to try.

“Whatever,” he said, as Nick continued to glare at him. “Get back to the office.”

After that, things got worse. The familiar awkwardness was replaced by tension. Bob seemed to acknowledge our dislike for him, and retaliated with equal hostility. Nick was the self-proclaimed ring leader, and while the rest of us were often prone to quiet resignation, Nick was always the one to point out the injustice of our situation, and to provoke our rebellious tendencies.

When Bob failed his midterm, things got even worse. He dropped the class, and instead of sulking in his failure like a proper human being, he found solace in making our lives miserable. As the end of the semester approached, our once weird work environment, which you could joke about lightly at cocktail parties, turned into a truly unhappy dead-end career.

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