7. Emerson
SEVEN
EMERSON
I wake up scrunched to one side of the bed as sunshine blares through the windows.
Half—no, three-quarters—of the bed is taken up with a big, enormous, giant dog.
He’s sprawled out, looking like a deflated balloon, his belly up and legs stretched wide in an awkward but somehow endearing way.
His fur is all mussed, with one ear flopped over and the other sticking up like a lopsided antenna.
I pat him on the belly. “Hey, Bobo, you have to get off.” A low hum of a snore comes from the pile of dog. “Off,” I say louder.
Bobo doesn’t move. I shake him some more. He’s trying to get back to sleep, but I won’t let him.
“Bobo. Off.”
I keep pointing off the bed, and finally, he seems to understand. He gives me a massive sigh, as if I’m a parent telling a teenager to get up for school. He tumbles to the floor and shuffles into the main room.
I put my hand where he slept, and it’s nice and toasty—so warm and cozy I could fall back asleep.
But no, I must get ready for my lecture.
My first lecture as a New York City professor.
My first chance to get in the good graces with the top tier of academia.
While the school I teach at in Indiana is fine, it’s definitely not anywhere near the same caliber.
There isn’t enough funding for research, and most of the students take my classes to fulfill a distribution requirement.
The University of New York is highly esteemed, boasting exceptional students and faculty. Sheena’s been trying to get me in for years, and I finally have my chance. It’s really about who we surround ourselves with that makes the impact, right?
I get ready, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake my forced roommate.
Bryce is passed out on the couch, arms and legs akimbo, barely surviving on that thing.
It’s like seeing a hamburger trying to fit into a hotdog bun.
For a moment, I think about saying he can sleep in the bed, but then that feels weird—because then I also think about Bryce in my bed, and I should not be thinking about Bryce anywhere except outside this apartment. Because he needs his own place.
I take the subway, remembering the route and minimizing any conflicts. I no longer have the lost look of an out-of-towner. I get to the music building on campus and pour myself a cup of coffee in the communal kitchen. Not like I need it since I’m jittery with nerves. Finally, Will comes up to me.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” I say.
“We’re all really excited,” Will says. “We’ve read your papers, and we’re eager to learn from you.”
I wonder if he’s just saying that because he’s the TA, and TAs are always about kissing up to their professors. But still, I take the compliment.
“Thank you, Will.”
He opens the door to my classroom for me, and when I step inside, my stomach plummets like a faulty elevator.
This isn’t a classroom. It’s a lecture hall.
A big lecture hall. Bigger than any room I’ve ever taught in.
It’s built like an arena, a tiered amphitheater—the desks go up a few levels with the teacher at the center.
Tall windows stretch to the ceiling, pouring in sunlight.
Once I get over the scope of the space, I begin to process the number of students in the room. More than I realized. On paper, fifty students doesn’t sound like much, but when you see them all together, you realize—wow, there’s a lot of people.
My lungs constrict. My chest tightens. I shake out my hands behind the podium so they don’t see.
Am I sweating? I can’t tell. I turn around to adjust my hearing aid, the high-pitched noise making me, and most likely everyone in the hall, cringe as I pretend to prepare my notes.
I take a deep breath and the nerves overtake me like a wildfire.
I try to compose myself, reminding myself I’m a professor with a Ph.D. I’ve chosen to be here, and I can do this. I turn around and flash a big smile.
“Hello! I’m Professor Grant. Welcome to Beats and Requiems: A History of Western Music.”
And then I completely lose my train of thought. The train careens off the track over a cliff leaving a giant plume of smoke in my head.
“I’m Professor Grant.” I let out a nervous laugh. “I know I already said that, but sometimes people have a hard time remembering my name. It’s Grant. Just like Cary Grant or Ulysses S. Grant. No relation to either of them. Okay, moving on.”
I walk around the perimeter of my teaching cage. Students look down at me from their desks, making me feel tiny.
“So, today in class, we’re going to talk about—” I trail off and rustle my notes.
The thing that people don’t seem to realize is that it’s hard to lecture. You’re basically speaking extemporaneously for sixty minutes, and you can’t have it all memorized. You have to follow your train of thought, which, as you may recall, is on fire at the bottom of an imaginary cliff.
“Right, so we’ll be talking about Beethoven and his impact on music history. The composer. Not the dog from the movies.” Another nervous laugh escapes my lips. “Does anyone have any questions?”
Students trade looks. A guy in a tracksuit three tiers up says something I can’t quite make out.
“Excuse me?”
He’s turned to someone behind him, clearly trying to make a joke.
I raise my voice enough to grab his attention. “I ask that you please look at me when you’re speaking?—”
Tracksuit guy turns toward me and says, “About what?”
“What about what?” I ask.
“You asked if anyone had any questions.” He speaks very slowly, like I don’t understand English. “About what?”
“Oh. About the class.”
A young lady in the front row says something, but a guy in a fedora next to her speaks at the same time.
I shake my head and take a deep breath. “And only one at a time please. I can’t understand you when you talk over each other.”
“Well, we haven’t gone over anything yet,” says fedora guy.
A girl three rows up raises her hand.
I point to her. “Yes? And please, speak up.”
“Hi! I was wondering on the syllabus …” She holds up the syllabus over her mouth as she talks. The rustling of the papers turns her words to static.
She puts the paper down then takes a sip from a comically large coffee tumbler, all without stopping talking. I stare at her, unsure if she’s done.
“Does that make sense?” she asks .
“Why don’t we discuss syllabus questions after class, shall we?” I want to wipe away a trickle of sweat from my brow, but I don’t want to call attention to it either. “Did everyone do the pre-reading?”
“There was pre-reading?” another student asks in a yell.
“Oh. I guess not. I didn’t assign it. Sorry, I’m still jet-lagged.”
“Didn’t you come from Indiana?” front-row girl asks. “Isn’t that only like an hour-and-a-half plane ride?”
“Yes, but it was a very fast plane. Hence the jet lag.”
If I had just been able to move into my apartment and have some peace and quiet for a few days, I would have been able to mentally prepare for this. But no. I had to have Mr. Jazz Hands and Clifford the Big Red Dog as my unintentional roommates.
A guy in the back raises his hand. I’m relieved he gives me something to focus on.
“Yes, you in the back!”
He hesitates for a second before speaking up. “So, uh … you’re from Indiana?” His voice is loud and clear, but thankfully, he’s not shouting. “Is that, like, where you … started your music career?”
I smile, the question pulling me back to my roots.
“Well, sort of,” I say. “Indiana is where I first learned what it means to truly listen to the subtleties of classical music. The state might be known for cornfields, but it’s got a rich musical history too.
I spent years studying under some of the best professors there—working with orchestras, honing my craft.
That’s where I realized classical music isn’t just something to play—it’s a language.
A conversation with the past, the present, and the future all at once. ”
I let the words linger for a moment before continuing. “So yes, Indiana was my starting point. But this”—I gesture to the classroom—“this is where I take it further. To understand it deeper. To pass it on.”
“But like …” The loud and clear guy interrupts me. “No offense. How are you able to, like, listen to mu sic?” His hand moves up to point to his ear, to where my hearing aid sits, but he thinks better of it at the last minute. “No offense.”
The class stares back at me, and now I truly feel the spotlight of this arena layout. I am in a gladiatorial battle, waiting to get mauled by a tiger.
“I am hard of hearing in my right ear, but I assure you, I am more than qualified to teach this class.”
I roll right into my lecture and don’t take any more questions.
After class, I try to work on my paper but don’t get far. Instead, I spend my afternoon walking around New York, taking in the city. I watch a basketball pickup game, listen to buskers in the park, and eat the most delicious slice of one-dollar pizza in history. It helps to lift my spirits.
When I return to the apartment, I can hear Bryce from the stairwell. Well, not Bryce—his music. It is pumped up to full volume. It sounds like a club in there. I wonder why they stopped calling clubs discos. Disco is a fun name.
When I go inside, Bryce is full-on dancing like he is at a disco, but he doesn’t have the face of someone who’s having fun.
He’s very serious about his dancing, even moving the coffee table out of the way.
And then I get it. He’s going over choreography with the diligence of an athlete.
He doesn’t even notice when I enter. It isn’t until I go to the fireplace mantel and turn off his music that he looks up, snapping out of his zone.
I do remember that zone—when I’m fully into my research or when I’m engrossed in a musical piece.
“Hey, why did you do that?” Bryce asks.
“It’s too loud. It’s like a disco in here.”