9. Emerson
NINE
EMERSON
When it comes time for my second lecture, I’m feeling much more confident. Or so I think. As soon as I walk into the classroom, the nerves hit me.
The first thing I notice is more empty desks than last time. Is there a bug going around? Or have they dropped? How many are missing? How closely is the administration watching my enrollment numbers?
I take a deep breath. I can’t let it get to me. I have to deliver another solid lecture so I can keep all the students I still have.
“Hello. Welcome to Beats and Requiems: A History of Western Music. I’m Professor Emerson Grant. Just wanted to repeat that in case there’s anyone new here.”
“There’s less students.” The young lady in the front row gestures to the empty seats on either side of her.
“Lucky us. That means we can have a more intimate discussion,” I say, trying to believe it myself. “Okay, well, let’s jump right into the lecture. We’re going to analyze Brahms. How’s that?”
I hate that every sentence that comes out of my mouth has an uptone to it like I’m serving frozen yogurt at a mall food court .
I go to the podium, open my computer, and connect it to the screen.
I spent several hours putting together my PowerPoint slides last night, staying up probably later than I should have.
To keep up my energy, I admittedly opened a Spotify playlist of Carly Rae Jepsen.
Her music is aural sugar: providing an energy boost with no discernible nutritional value.
I open the presentation, but it won’t connect to the big overhead screen. I unplug the cord, then plug it back in. No change. The screen flickers but nothing shows up. The dead air in the classroom makes my skin crawl.
“Huh. Technical difficulties,” I say. “Please stand by.” I can feel my face turning beet red.
Will races up to the podium. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
“One moment, everyone,” I say to my students.
A few laugh. Others pull up their phones and start scrolling, and who knows what they’re saying about me.
“Okay, maybe we close this and open that,” Will says. “I think we can open this up on your browser. The screen might recognize that.” He starts clicking around on my computer, eventually clicking to the Spotify tab, still open from last night.
“Oh, no, no,” I say. “That’s—you can ignore that.”
But when I go to move his hand away, I accidentally hit the play button.
Carly Rae Jepsen’s most perfect pop hit blasts through the speakers. The screen may be busted but not the speakers. They work perfectly.
Loudly.
The strings pipe through the room’s premier sound system, and when the bass drum kicks in and her sweet voice joins, complete horror overtakes my face just as the driving pulse of the chorus kicks in.
Call Me Maybe? Call me a disaster.
On this warm afternoon, I take the long walk back to the apartment to clear my head, but it doesn’t help.
I can’t stop thinking about the lecture today.
Even after I fixed the technical equipment, I couldn’t recover from the Carly Rae mishap.
And my lecture felt … dull. The students were even more disengaged than last time. Nobody asked questions.
When I get to my street, I look up and see a body gyrating wildly in the top window.
Bryce.
He’s dancing his heart out, radiating pure joy.
I watch him for a few moments, enjoying the show, wishing I could be as happy and carefree as that.
How does he do it? How does he let go so completely?
Does he realize how lucky he is to be able to let go like that?
Does he ever question himself? Does he ever wonder if he’s good enough?
Or is he just … free? I wish I could feel that ease.
My mind wanders back to the lecture hall and a soft ache settles in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll find a way to release my fears and dance freely.
There’s something magical about witnessing Bryce this way.
It’s a sweet moment when you see someone in their element.
“Hello,” I say to him a few minutes later after I walk up the six flights of stairs.
“Hi.” Bryce immediately shuffles to the fireplace mantel and turns off his music. “No more music tonight. I did all my practicing, so this apartment is a quiet zone for you for the rest of the evening, Emerson,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply. “But I’m taking the night off.”
I beeline to the fridge, pull out a beer, and chug half of it. I even let the bottle cap fall to the floor.
“Rough day?” Bryce asks.
“Not my best.” I take another sip, running my thumb over the condensation on the bottle.
“Seems like you’ve had a lot of rough days since you’ve been here,” Bryce notices. “The city can do that to you.”
“I don’t know if it’s the city.”
Bryce pulls a wine cooler from the fridge, clinks the bottle against mine, opens it, and takes a drink. “What’s up?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Is the teaching thing not working out that well?” he asks as he cuddles up to Bobo on the couch.
“You could say that.” The disaster from a few hours earlier flashes in my head and a rush of disappointment falls over me.
Bryce and Bobo stare at me from the sofa as I walk around the living room, pacing, just replaying the day over and over in my head.
When I was back at my home university, I struggled to connect with my students but nothing like this.
I was a small fish in a small pond. Even though swimming was hard for me, there was less real estate to take up. Here, I fear I’m drowning.
I let out a big breath. “I’m just flopping all over the place.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Bryce says.
Bobo hops off the sofa and lies at Bryce’s feet, allowing me to sink into the couch next to him.
“Maybe it’s just first-day jitters,” he says. “First-week jitters.”
“I don’t know if my jitters are going away.
” I rub my forehead. Something about Bryce’s open face makes it easy to unload to him.
“It’s not just the lecture. If I do a really good job teaching this class, there’s a tenure-track position opening up that I could go for.
So I really can’t mess this up. And yet, that’s exactly what I seem to be doing. ” I sputter out a sigh.
Bryce scratches at his smooth chin, more intrigued than supportive.
“What?” I ask.
“I know what this is.” He nods as a small smile appears on his lips. “You’re auditioning. This temporary gig is just one extended showcase. You’re being tested. It’s like callback after callback.” He sits up a little taller. “This is perfect. You’re auditioning, and I am great at auditions.”
“But don’t you have trouble landing roles?”
“Auditioning and getting the role are two different things. The best person isn’t always the one picked. Theater can be very political.”
It has nothing on academia, I think.
“I may not land the parts I want, but I’m good in a room. I’ve been on many, many, many, many—” Bryce takes a big swig of his tropical twister. “Many, many—” He takes another gulp. “Many auditions. I know how they work.”
He stifles a burp. I chuckle because, somehow, it still comes off as endearing.
“Emerson, you might want to believe that you are in a highfalutin palace of academic study where it’s all about merit and intellect. But honey, you’re auditioning. So you gotta learn how to dance.”
“Not dancing again.”
“Not literally.” He sits up. “Figuratively.”
To my utter surprise, what Bryce says makes sense. This is an audition, plain and simple. If I do well here, and students speak highly of me, then it could go a long way toward securing a full-time position. So maybe there’s some truth to his adorable madness.
“So what do I do?” I ask. “How can I improve my … audition?”
He jumps up from the couch and practically dances in front of me.
“There are four main tips on how to ace an audition. Tip number one …” He holds out his finger dangerously close to my face.
“You have to enter confidently and unforgettably. The casting agents start judging you the second you walk in the door—no t when you start your performance, not when you introduce yourself. The second you’re in the door, they’re already judging you, and they’re already deciding if they want to move you forward or not.
Right now, how do you enter your class?”
“I enter rooms exactly as human beings have done for centuries. I walk through the door.”
“Well, I’m already bored.” Bryce rolls his eyes. “You need to enter with pizzazz. Make a statement. Toss your nonexistent hair over your shoulder and sashay in there. Hmm, let’s see. Are there stripper poles in these classrooms?”
I throw my head in my hands. Why did I think it would be a good idea to listen to him?
“I’m kidding,” Bryce says with a smirk. “Mostly.”
I shouldn’t find him cute when he smiles, but I do. Objectively, he’s adorable.
“The point is to show these students that you didn’t come to play.
A big thing about entering confidently is displaying a positive attitude too, because people don’t want to work with someone who is a sourpuss.
Not that I’m saying you are.” He smiles, showing a few teeth.
“Even when I walk into an audition that I know I probably won’t get, I walk in like I am having the time of my life, and I’m so excited to see everyone, and I’m just having a blast. Because when you’re having fun, other people have fun—even if you have to fake it. ”
I lean back on the couch, wondering if there is some method in the midst of all this madness. I’m also angry on Bryce’s behalf that he isn’t getting cast left and right. The guy is completely magnetic.
“Okay!” Bryce does a little shimmy. “Tip number two: you need to start strong and end strong. People never remember the middle, but they remember beginnings and endings. So, how do you start your lectures?”
“I say, ‘Welcome to class. I’m Professor Emerson Grant?—’”
“Stop.” Bryce puts a hand up. “I’ve already fallen asleep. ”
“I just said my name,” I say.
“Grant Emerson has a better ring to it.”