The Failed Coup

They came shuffling in, the walking dead, as they did every Monday morning on campus. Are they even alive? Slow moving, the students slid into their seats, hung over, unready to start, ready to continue their slumber.

“Welcome back, my lovelies. Today in ENC1101 we’ll be working on an essay based on the movie Anonymous. Do you have to know the author of a piece to appreciate it?” Mrs. Dunham projected the writing prompt onto the Smart TV. “Even if you missed a day of the movie you were supposed to view last week on Canvas, you can still work on this essay.” Even if you missed EVERY part of the movie, like some of you…

Garrett wearily raised his hand and said with much dramatic exaggeration, “Can’t we just take a break? We’re always writing.”

“Imagine that. Writing. In Freshman English. At college.”

“Yeah, exactly. My head hurts.”

“What would you rather do? Math?”

“No. Sleep.” And then Garrett put his head on his desk, his backpack for a pillow. At least his tuition was paid – she wasn’t worried about losing any of her paycheck for his laziness. He was a double legacy, and his account would be good for years.

Around the room, there was silence. Partially because only ten students showed up before the class started at 8:00. The rest were late, again, soon to come in with a Dunkin Donuts coffee or a McMuffin. Why don’t they ever bring me some? A bribe, perhaps, to overlook their rude tardiness.

Sarah looked down at her lined paper, and asked, “Does this have to be, like, in paragraphs?” She used wide lined paper for her giant lettering so it looked like she wrote more.

Mrs. Dunham looked at her with that “You’re Kidding Me” rage face. “Um, yes, it has to be in paragraphs. You’re all freshmen in college now, and you have to start writing like people who passed the SAT.” She sighed, and continued, “Intro with a thesis, support in the form of examples, and then a conclusion of some sort tying everything together.”

From the other side of the room, Bonnie piped up, “But I don’t read. I’ve never read a whole book before outside of class without GradeSaver.”

Her friend Donna chuckled and chimed in, “Me neither. I don’t want to use my brain when I get home. I have a job, four other classes, and I’m certainly not gonna be a teacher. No disrespect.”

“None taken. You probably just haven’t found a book you liked yet. What movies do you like?”

Bonnie pondered that question for a moment. “I dunno. Horror, I guess.”

“Do you like bugs?”

“Um, no.”

“Then you should read Whispers by Dean Koontz when we get to the Readers’ Choice selection on the syllabus.”

“But I said I didn’t like bugs.”

“I know. That’s why this would be a good book,” Mrs. Dunham sweetly replied, truly hoping the girl would read the book and wet herself with fear. That’s how good readers are made. “I found that book by accident. I walked into a book store in the mall one day, looking for something new to read. The shiny red cover of the book caught my eye, and I bought it. I’ve read every one of his books since then. Brilliant writer.”

Mrs. Dunham continued walking through the room, checking on the students’ progress. “Why haven’t you started yet?” she asked Dillon, sitting near the front of the room.

“I’m too tired to write. I didn’t go to sleep until 3 last night,” he replied.

“Why so late?”

“I was playing Metamorphosis on the Playstation. Cool story.”

“Oh,” she answered. “I see. You’ll see a connection to that story later this semester. This essay is still due at the end of the class. Start by answering the prompt, and then use examples that we’ve read earlier in the semester, for example Beowulf or Canterbury Tales.” She noted that Dillon had already drifted off to sleep sitting up. “Or not.”

Continuing around the room, she found two girls in deep discussion. “Are you two discussing the Shakespeare Authorship question?”

One girl looked at the other and addressed her, “Did you see the rally in the Student Union? They’re demanding Starbucks in the dorms.”

“I know! They’re not happy will being supplied a Keurig in the rooms.” They both kept looking at their phones.

“Um,” interjected the instructor, “The essay? It’s due at the end of class. Let’s get focused on that.” Cell phones had become the bane of educators at all levels. Anti-graduation devices, as one professor put it. “We have about 40 minutes left. Let’s get going.”

Near the two talkative girls sat a young man with thick glasses and a fluffy blue toque. Miles was bent over his paper, obviously trying to write the world’s best essay. “How do you spell ‘anonymous’”?

“A-n-o-n-y-m-o-u-s. It’s on the whiteboard.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He continued writing, pausing only to erase a whole line. “You want separate paragraphs?”

A sigh, now joined by eyes raised to the ceiling. “Yes, paragraphs. You can’t have an amorphous blob of words and call it an essay.”

“What’s amorphous?”

“Without shape. Without structure.” Mrs. Dunham smiled weakly and continued, “Yes, I want paragraphs. One idea per paragraph.” She sometimes wondered why she went into teaching. This was supposed to be a regular college English class with students who had actual high school degrees. “Just like all the essays we’ve written in here so far.”

Miles replied, “This is the first one I’ve written since last year.”

A light knock on the door, and Mrs. Dunham’s TA came in. He whispered, “Mrs. Dunham, may I speak with you a moment.” She excused herself from the students to talk with Eric. “There’s a problem in your department, and many professors are threatening to walk out. I think you need to go see what the commotion is about. They asked for you. I’ll take over while you’re gone.”

“Thank you, Eric. They’re writing the first formal essay today – prompt is up on the screen.”

“Ok. I’ll see you later.” Mrs. Dunham gathered some papers into her bag and left.

As the door closed, Eric quietly locked the door addressed the class. “Listen up, Droogs. I’ve been Dunham’s TA for three semesters, and she has let you get away with murder.” He now had their full attention. “And for now, I’m your new instructor. You may address me as Professor Kane.”

“As in Cain and Abel?” Garrett replied.

“SILENCE. You, in the back with your Jansen backpack pillow, up front NOW,” Eric barked.

“Hey, now, you can’t-“

Eric shook his head. “Uh-uh-uhhhh.”

“Professor Kane,” Under his breath, Garrett retorted, “You can’t make us-“

Eric cut him off. “Do you want the “F” for this this class? Because I can make that happen. You, Garrett – am I correct? – are a trust fund baby and act like it. You’re going to work for your grade in here, got it?” He watched Garrett slink forward and take an open seat. “This class is going to have STRUCTURE, and you’ll follow the standards set forth by the state. Got it?” The students nodded fervently. “And you’ll follow this college’s rules. “You – Sarah, right? – Toss out that donut, and while you’re at, collect everyone’s food and drinks and throw those out as well. Those are not allowed in the classrooms or lecture halls.”

“But,” Bonnie whined, “class starts at 8, and it’s so early.”

“Early? I’ve seen you show up at 10 with barely an hour left in class. This class meets only once a week and you’ve missed nearly 2/3 of it. That’s gonna stop now.” Eric stared at everyone in the room. “All of you signed up for this required class. If ANY of you are late or absent again, you’ll be dropped from the class, and an “F” will be your grade since it’s past the drop/add date.”

This clearly alarmed the students. They shuffled around in their seats, sat up, unhappy with this sudden new enforcement of rules they ignored in the past now that this new regime had taken over. The girls who were on their phones, Kylie and Chantel, started typing quickly. Eric noticed. He retrieved a piece of black equipment with five antennas out of his bag and plugged it in. “Good luck, ladies, with sending THAT message. No more cell phone use in this room. This little beauty right here guarantees that.”

Dillon said flatly, “But those are illegal.”

“WHAT? Are you from Fivay? That teacher was a loser who didn’t know what he was doing.” He referenced the teacher from a high school who was caught using a signal jammer in his classroom. “This piece of Russian technology is top of the line. No one will know it’s here. No more cheating from you. Oh, I know about Chegg, Quillbot, Course Hero, and WriteMyEssay. I’m the one who grades Mrs. Dunham’s papers. And you couldn’t be more obvious if you tried.”

Fully frightened, the students were perfectly still, wondering what was going to happen next. Eric pulled a stack of novels from inside a cabinet and started distributing them. “No more movies for you. That’s for first graders. You’re going to read real books and analyze intellectual writing.” He finished handing out the Anthony Burgess novel, A Clockwork Orange, and said, “Oh, and I tore out the glossary. You need to learn about context clues. You, in the front with the pink hair, start reading on page 3.”

Gillian, who was terrified of reading aloud, began. “There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, Dim being really dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. The Korova Milkbar was a milk-plus mesto, and you may, O my brothers, have forgotten what these mestos were like, things changing so skorry these days and everybody very quick to forget, newspapers not being read much neither.” She stopped reading and looked as if she were about to cry.

“What are you all looking at? Your books should be open to the same page.” The students flipped their books open to the same page. Eric’s authority and ugly aggression flowed throughout the room. “What is Alex saying here?”

Silence in the room was broken softly by Garrett. “We have no fuckin’ idea.”

“WHY NOT? DID YOU NOT HEAR IT?” screamed Eric. “AND NO CUSSING!”

“What is a droog? A milkbar? A rassoodock? What does ‘winter bastard’ even mean?” Garrett was obviously agitated.

“How the hell did you guys pass middle school? CONTEXT CLUES.” Eric had spittle flying from his lips as he yelled at the class. “Garrett, or shall I call you Master Garret,” Eric sneered, “Pick up where she left off.”

Garret looked down at the page, took a deep breath, and began to read. “Well, what they sold there was milk plus something else. They had no licence for selling liquor, but there was no law yet against prodding some of the new veshches which they used to put into the old moloko, so you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes admiring Bog And All His Holy Angels And Saints in your left shoe with lights bursting all over your mozg.” Garrett stopped reading and looked up. “These two sentences aren’t even English. I passed AP in high school, and we never learned words like these. We studied SAT lists.”

Eric mocked Garret, “’I passed AP.’ Well good for you. Here’s your medal.” He threw a dry-erase marker at him. “Use the same prompt you see up there. Does it matter if we know the author of this book or not? I want these essays done in the next 30 minutes.”

Pens and pencils started scratching on papers across the room, pages flipping back and forth, knees bouncing under desks. After fifteen minutes one young man shook his hand as if he’d been writing too long. Bonnie was sweating, Dillon had his face close to his paper. They were terrified of what might happen if they didn’t get the essay right. “Chop chop, my Droogs. Fifteen minutes left.”

Dillon decided he’d switch colleges, Sarah was willing to take the “F” on her GPA, and the others were reconsidering changing majors in their first year of college. None of them had ever encountered an instructor like this and realized how coddled they were in high school. No one prepared them for classes run by pure evil. Pencil points were breaking, more paper was taken out of notebooks, and the smell of pink erasers wafted through the air. A sound broke their concentration; Mrs. Dunham was returning.

Eric looked at the students. “There will be no mention of this. Ever.” He put his cell jammer in his bag. “And you will do whatever Mrs. Dunham asks. If you don’t, I’ll be back.” Eric walked over to the door, unlocked it, and let Mrs. Dunham in. His demeanor changed completely. “You can never be too safe. They’ve been a great class. I’d love to come back and work with them.”

Mrs. Dunham said, “There’s a good chance of that.” The students looked terrified. “That’s what the meeting was about. A group of TAs petitioned to have more autonomy during their practicums when they have the classes to themselves. The senior fellows and the chairs agreed to the request. It would give the TAs more practice leading classes by themselves.”

Eric smiled, “Oh, that sounds fantastic. Let me know when you’d like me to start.”

“How about next week?”

Looking at the class, Eric smiled and replied, “I’d love to.”