His hands are not soldierly. They are small, an alabaster white. And when he first comes into my office, he forgets where he is, who I am, and salutes. Almost immediately, he realizes his mistake, saying, “Sorry.”
“I’m a captain in the army, you know. Six, going on seven years now.”
“You don’t look it,” I say, not really sure what I mean.
“Yes, I hear that often: I look too young to be a captain, and I’ll take that as a compliment.” He finds a place on his neck to rub, not even a rub really, more like a hurried running of fingertips back and forth. “But never mind that, I came here for another reason, and my other reason goes like this: the army is paying for all of this.” Using both of his captain hands to show me what ‘all of this’ looks like. “Thank goodness, but if I fail a class, one class, any class they will make me pay for it. Can you imagine? You understand what I’m saying? In short, failure would be terrible for me. Financially terrible, never mind my GPA. Terrible. Not only that but with failure comes the threat of a demotion as well. From captain to lieutenant overnight.” Snapping his fingers as if overnight and finger snapping were one and the same. “Terrible. After seven years, just like that.” One last pale finger snapping. “So you see, I cannot afford to fail. It is out of the question, which brings me to why I am here: what can I do to make this failure go away? Extra credit? Something like a report? I am good at writing reports.” Leaning back in the chair as if he were not a captain at all, more lawyer-like, brushing something off his knee that I cannot see. “Anything at all?” And this is where he should have stopped, anything like a pause would do, giving me time to consider, but he doesn’t. “Let me put it another way, you’re not wrong in giving me that F grade on the paper. It was a paper, I admittedly, threw together at the last minute. You see, I had desert training with my platoon and by the time I got home after being out along the Iraq border all night, I was too tired and hungry and dirty to do anything student-like. Regardless, I know you’re all about deadlines and such, as well you should be.” Sighing deeply. “So, there you have it: an admission of my wrongdoing, but honesty almost always counts for something, right?” Giving his hands a good rinsing in invisible water.
“A captain, you say?”
“Yes,” and with that he begins to pull out what can only be some kind of ID.
“No, no, I believe you.”
“Here’s the deal, captain,” And now it is my turn to sigh. “If I make this. . . this grade adjustment to you, for you, in all fairness to the other students in your situation—and believe me, there are many others—I would have to do the same for them, to be fair.”
This causes him to give his shoulder a quick rub, and then his neck, and now back to the shoulder. “Yes, in all fairness. But, professor, surely this is something that we would not have to announce, to broadcast, sah? Just between the two of us.” His both hands showing me what the betweenness part looks like.
In the end, I settle for a “I’ll think about it.” This almost always pleases everyone—a kind of neutrality full of possibilities. And so, mission accomplished, he stands, and almost thinks of saluting again before we shake hands. His handshake is predictable, weak, soft, fish-like. Once he leaves, gently clicking the door shut behind him, I have already decided that his failure will not disappear.
Photo by Scott Graham on Unsplash.
