Steve stopped writing early for the last time. The other students were busily working on their in-class assignment, to describe the object (a leaf this time) that was sitting in front of them. Whenever students stopped, I would encourage them to look more closely. I would point out how they overlooked a scar on a tomato or some tiny numbers on the handle of a red screwdriver. “Look closely,” I’d plead. “Don’t stop. Don’t quit. Don’t give up. Don’t be lazy. Don’t just write down the obvious things that anyone can see. Be an observer. Develop a keen eye for small details.”
Students had stopped asking questions like “Why are we doing this?” and making comments like “This is dumb.” Even Steve now said things like “This class is really helping me to observe more carefully and write more clearly.” Yet Steve, moreso than his younger classmates, continued the lazy habit of stopping early and staring into space.
He was the oldest student, a retired man in his sixties. And it was hard to tell if he meant what he said about liking the class. But he made sure that every other class period he stayed after and complimented me on my teaching style, comparing it to old high school teachers he’d had fifty years ago. “You’re much nicer than Mrs. Sparks,” he’d say, and then I’d find out that he had her for tenth grade English in 1946.
“Come on, Steve,” I’d say. “Keep writing. Look at that shoe string more closely.” Steve would say he couldn’t look any more closely, that he already had, and then he’d want to show me what he’d written. “I don’t want to read it,” I’d say. “Not yet. Keep writing. Look harder. Find a focus.” He’d tell me he had his focus, and I’d tell him to “just keep looking. You’re not done yet. Don’t be lazy.”
Steve never missed a class, but he always finished his assignments too soon. I kept pushing. “Steve, don’t stop. Steve, keep looking. Keep writing, Steve.”
“Man, you’re tuff,” he’d say.
“We want you to see more, see deeper, beyond the surface, beyond the obvious.” “We” was me, and the rest of the world too, I thought. And Steve would pick up the shoe string or the battery or the can of creamed corn and start looking. He’d write a little more, but pretty soon he’d be done, again, before all of his younger classmates.
After class, Steve wanted to talk to me. I knew what it was about. He would tell me how much he liked the class, how much it was helping him. He would say how glad he was to be going to college, how he was insecure at first, but was really enjoying it now. I never knew whether to believe him. But we’d walk from the classroom to the elevator with Steve complimenting me and the class. “I have to go to my office,” I said. I was in a hurry and had to get home to watch TV.
“I don’t want to keep you,” Steve said, “but I wanted to tell you about my wife. I think you’ll find this interesting. I made an observation about her … after all these years.” He was always childlike in his enthusiasm, just as he was in the way that he would stop working in class as if he needed a little nap. “It’s just a pencil,” I’d say, “and you’re just observing it. Come on, Steve! Keep at it!” And he’d pop out of his little nap-like daze, like a child, and get back to work. You always had to keep pushing Steve.
“Come on,” I said, passing the elevator on my way to the stairwell. We went up three flights to my office, but Steve had stopped talking. When I reached the top, I saw how far behind me he was. In my office, he caught his breath and told me about his wife. Then we took the stairs back down and said good-bye.
One day I gave everyone in class a leaf from a different kind of tree. Steve had sassafras, on oddly shaped leaf that was just changing colors. He looked it over and began writing. After twenty minutes, he was done. “This could take you a week if you’re doing it right,” I said to the class when I saw that Steve was done. “At least a couple hours.” Steve was looking ahead, his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t seem to hear my general comment, which wasn’t unusual for him. “Steve,” I said. “Keep working.”
“I’m done,” he said. “I really can’t see anything else. It’s just a leaf.” He tried to show me his half-page of writing, but I wouldn’t look at it yet. “Go further, Steve. Go beyond. Come on. Don’t be lazy.” He shrugged as always and picked up the leaf again. Then he wrote a little and in five minutes was done. His classmates were still writing, still observing, turning pages in their notebooks. And Steve was done. I gave Steve a chance to start working again on his own. I left the classroom, got a drink from the fountain, went in the restroom and washed my hands. When I came back, Steve seemed to be sleeping and his sassafras leaf was on the floor.
“Steve,” I said. I walked over and said, “Steve.” I touched his shoulder then shook him gently. He became unbalanced and fell out of the chair. “Steve,” I said. Another student began giving him CPR. Another called 911. Two girls were crying. Steve was dead.
The End
jwmetz 