The Almost, But Not Quite

Will RC be able to write the paper that his life will depend upon to pass his class?

The Almost, But Not Quite

Hi, my name is Riley, but most of my friends call me RC. I always heard that when the going gets tough, the tough get going. I have been working night shifts for the past couple of years, paying for graduate school to become an English professor and possibly a writer. Times have become hard, with no social life, no money to splurge, and no time for sleep. I was a loaner, but this was my choice, and I was happy with this stage of my life. I figure we all make choices. We have to choose them wisely and be satisfied with them.

This fall semester had become increasingly more challenging than at any point in my life. I was taking a full class load with a very challenging professor that had a criminal justice degree and a degree in journalism. With my other classes this semester, I had a lot of writing that was supposed to challenge my thinking and thought process. These classes kept me busy, but all in all, my grades were good. I always looked forward to the weekend. It was the time I would use to catch up on my sleep.

I was having difficulty with criminal justice journalism class because the professor had you write on subjects from a criminal aspect where you had to write from the mind of the criminal. I swear, I think he took real-life cases from his experience as a policeman where the knowledge he had on the case persuaded his mind of how you should write your paper. What I learned was you had to see the criminal, as he once did, and write of the criminal from my professor’s view. All sounds confusing, but this is where I was at, going into Thanksgiving break.

Most of the students were struggling with their papers for the class. The professor was new at the university, where before he had taught at a more prestigious university. He would scold us, telling us how our writing was not at the level we needed to become an accomplished writer. He did offer each student to meet with him during his office hours to discuss the last written assignment. In so many words, he suggested that we had no individuality, and possibly our intellect was below level.

I had to sacrifice my sleep a little to accommodate the early morning office hours, that my professor had available. I won’t lie; I was very nervous about this meeting. I had never had a class that I worked so hard but struggled with connecting my thoughts with my professors. I made sure I was on time. As I entered his office, I wasn’t sure if he knew my name. After saying hello, I noticed my last paper was on his desk. The topic was on a home invasion, where it seemed like the criminal started out committing a robbery with things going wrong and turning into a hostage situation of a mother and her two young children. I wrote about the process of the criminal went through to try and pull off the robbery. I then decided to touch on his thoughts and the bad decisions he made when the family surprised him. I mainly tried to show how one wrong decision affected the next choice and then the next. I then touched on how the mother handled the situation and what her part played in keeping her family safe. Luckily the real-life fictional story ended in a peaceful surrender after hours of negotiations.

As I sat in down in his office, he picked my paper up and glanced at it. He seemed to be refreshing himself about my writing. I was trying not to show my anxiety I was experiencing. I started sweating at a rapid pace, so I slowed my breathing down. I was glad he was focused in on my paper and not me at the moment. Silence can seem to last an eternity. He then proceeded to tell me that I got the whole paper wrong and that I wrote like a high schooler. I had focused on the facts from the case and the outcome. He wanted us to write as if we were speaking from the criminal’s mind and his thoughts and the mother’s mind. Our brains had to think like we had been the ones committing the crime. My paper had so many red marks that it looked like a crime scene in itself. My professor stated that he was grading the semester on how you improved as a writer and not just on a point scale. He said there was still time to make a passing mark. I was happy to hear this, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able to satisfy him with my writings. Putting yourself in the place of someone else’s mind surely seemed to be a difficult task, that I am not sure I can obtain and express. The final paper would determine if I passed.

That evening, when I got off work, I laid my head on my pillow, and I started thinking about the meeting with my professor. I first started chronologically thinking of the meeting and how it went down. For a person that wants to be a writer, I have an analytical mind, and I have to overcome that way of thinking when it comes to writing. Once I was able to change my thought process, I was able to understand a little of what my professor was saying. I felt like I was getting it, but not sure if I could put it on paper. I now hope I wasn’t misreading what I took from the meeting. My time is limited to make a passing grade. I kept telling myself that I will be happy with a C in this class. I was now exhausted. I don’t remember anything else. I must have fallen fast asleep.

Thanksgiving break was a week away, and we would be getting our next assignment during the next class. I know that I have to approach this paper from a different perspective and hope that my writing suits my professor. I spoke to several of the other students about their meetings and their understanding of what our professor wants on our final paper. Some students took away from the meeting similar ideas I had, and some not so much. It didn’t help to speak with my classmates. I feel like I have to go out on a limb and write differently than how I usually write. As I thought about it, It scares me to death to step outside of my realm of a writer at this stage of my learnings. I keep telling myself that no one likes change, but change can be useful.

I have anxiously awaited our next assignment. My mind was already going in different directions before I even knew what the task was. As always, the professor waited until the last 15 minutes of class to go over the new writing assignment. He also allowed any questions we had. His final words to the class were, “be more than an average writer, be the person you are writing about.” He then concluded to have a good Thanksgiving, but not to wait on doing the assignment.

Thanksgiving is just another day for me except that I generally use it as a time to rest and to make sure I do have a good meal. One of the local diners is open for folks like me. Last year they became family to me, and I look forward to going again. Oh, the pumpkin pie with real cream on top is too die for!

It was Thanksgiving, and all I could do was think about the assignment. This paper was a little different from the others. You had to have a crime, where the outcome had a twist that's isn't predicted. I now had to be a criminal without a given situation. It was not going to be easy.

I had many ideas run through my mind, but I knew this had to be a home run. After several days and many balled up pieces of paper, I started getting an idea. I thought, what if I could act out the paper. I now had a start on what to write and how to write. I would have to get very creative, but this is where I was hoping my competitiveness would help me get through as a writer. I had a lot of work to do.

To make this work, I had to invite the whole class for a weekend getaway to a cabin outside of town. I wasn’t telling my classmates what I was doing. I decided to lead them on that it had been a stressful semester for all, and this was something they wouldn’t want to miss because it would be the talk of campus. Our class size was about ten students. I next had to convince the professor to attend, telling him that no matter how the semester ended for his students that we wanted to show him our appreciation for having us look at our writings from a different perspective and to appeal more to the readers. I tried to appear to him that he was the best professor and that we wanted to have a class outing. I had already found the perfect cabin on Airbnb that was outside of town and set on 5 acres. Now being poor, I didn’t have the extra money to spend, but I felt like I needed to do this to hit my home run.

I need to put my ideas together and write them on paper. I drove up to the cabin to get a feel for the situation of my story. I was fortunate that the owner was outside cleaning up when I arrived, and I was able to see the inside of the cabin. A writer needs to know his surroundings for his story. I was able to discuss with the owner what I was thinking and asked if required, would he be willing to participate. He agreed, so I am starting to feel as if things are coming together. I need to get busy putting my story together. I am sort of excited, but I know this could blow up in my face.

I spent the next couple of weeks busy writing my story. It quickly started coming together. I just needed to keep my thoughts focused on the story that follows the guidelines given to us. So far, it looks as if all of my classmates will be attending as well as the professor. I had to promise that there will be food and drinks at the cabin.

I feel good about my final paper. It was a lot of work. Tireless hours of work put into this paper. I feel as if it’s my best writing ever. Maybe my professor did push me to become a better writer. Perhaps he was the best professor I had ever had. I surely wouldn’t have said that before Thanksgiving. I can say I put my heart and soul in this, and if writing is more than that, than maybe I am not a writer. I give myself a passing grade, only wishing it was that easy.

The day had come, I could check into the cabin at 3 pm. The class was to show up between 6:30-7:00 pm and not to be late, and the professor to arrive precisely at 7:30 pm. I had a lot of work to do ahead of me. I told the owner that I would arrive at 3 pm and asked if he could meet me at the cabin. I needed to go over the story with him and make sure he understood his part. This story would only include three people. He said he would be there and was excited to participate.

I began driving to the cabin, and it had been a cloudy overcast day. The rain had started to fall harder, with the worst to come later tonight. It was December, and the leaves had dropped, leaving some roads slick from the wet leaves. The fog was starting to roll in the lowlands where a creek ran through. Turning off the main road, I saw cornfields on both sides. Big farms spaced far apart, were common in this area. The road was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. After about 5 miles, I turned onto a road that headed up a mountain. I passed by some older homes and lots of trailers. I noticed here that cell phone service was in and out. I thought to myself, why would anyone live out here? Where must they work? What happens if you break down? I had been here before, but with the rain and darkness, it was much more intimidating this ride up. I also hope everyone shows up tonight.

I met with the owner, and we laughed about how difficult it was coming up this time. I went over his role, and he was good with it. I gave him an idea of what would happen, so there would be no surprises. I then had to get things ready for the performance of my lifetime, which followed my final paper. I had the semester grade riding on tonight, and the money I spent.

I worked as fast as I could to get everything just perfect. My classmates started to arrive. I only had a few small details left. The cabin had a loft above the great room accessible only by a wooden ladder. When you entered the cabin, you have an open floor plan with the kitchen straight back, with a dining room off to the side. In front of the kitchen was a family room. The walls were all hewed from the logs with pine floors. There were two bedrooms downstairs and a third in the loft. The cabin is beautifully decorated with deer heads and fish mounted on the walls. Also, above the door was an old rifle. It had a large fireplace on one side of the family room, which I had burning to coincide with my story. I draped quilts over the loft railings to hide my classmates. It was almost like they were on the balcony of a play. I also had them park in the field out back, leaving my car as the only one in the driveway when the professor arrived.

It was time to make sure my clothes looked the part I was getting ready to play. I had some fake blood on my shirt and hands, as well as some droppings headed towards the bedroom. It was time to make sure everyone is in place. I listened for about five minutes for the professor's car. I am nervous and excited and feel like I could poop. In my mind, I am ready for a performance like John Wilkes Booth, this time, and it would be my criminal journalism professor being tricked.

My mind was racing, and my heart was beating faster than a drum solo at a rock concert. It was getting closer to showtime, and I felt like my future as a writer depended on my performance, which was a reflection of my final paper. I couldn’t afford to repeat this class if I failed. Everything seemed to be in place with all of my fellow students in attendance. I had instructed them to be very quiet and stay out of sight. I made sure that all of the windows were covered in the loft to keep any light from exposing their whereabouts. With the rainy night, there was no glimmer of the moon. It’s as if God above was helping me with my performance. Now it was a quiet wait on my professor’s car to arrive.

It was a mere ten minutes that I heard a car pull up on the gravel driveway. I looked out the window and noticed it was my professor’s old Mercedes hardtop convertible. He was proud of this car and would tell us in class how expensive the car was. It was dark green with a big Mercedes emblem in the front grill. I will say he kept it immaculate inside and out. He probably was cussing driving up to the cabin, driving in such bad weather.

I waited for him to get out of the Mercedes before I opened the door to greet him. I asked if he had any problems finding the cabin, with the weather being so bad. He indicated that he hadn’t, but asked where everyone else was since there were no cars parked outside. I assured him everyone had responded that they were coming, but the invitation said to arrive between 8 and 8:30 pm. I wanted to have time to let him know how much I grew as a writer this semester because of his class. I welcomed him in the cabin leading him on that this was my residence. I only had a floor lamp on that lit up towards the master bedroom. I had drippings of blood, heading back towards the bedroom. I tried to distract him from looking that way to the point that it made him look. I now felt like I had him playing into my hands.

At just the right moment, as instructed, the owner of the cabin flipped the switch on the electrical box killing all of the power to the house. I had lit some Christmas candles in the window to look like decorations, but to give just enough light to be able to see. When the power went out, I told my professor that sometimes, when the weather was terrible, we would lose power. At this point, I am sure he noticed the blood on my jeans. He was standing next to the phone in the cabin, so I asked him to call 511 and report the power outage. I had unplugged the phone from the wall. He just thought the phone lines were not working. I knew he would probably pull his cell phone out to call. I knew that there was no cell service available at the cabin. I told him I wasn’t sure why the phone was out, but my plans for a class at the end of an of the semester party were going to be ruined. I told him with the stress from his class that I wasn’t sure if I could handle another failure. I moved towards the front door to block him from trying to leave. Moments before the professor arrived, I proceeded to tell how one of the neighbors had come to check on things because of the bad weather. I had to take care of him.

It was too close to when I was expecting my professor. I told my professor how failing this class had devastated me. All of my life, I had dreamed of becoming a writer, and now my future was flushed down the drain. I was trying to convince my professor that I had snapped and that he was in grave danger. He tried to convince me that my writings had gotten better and that he hadn’t submitted the final grades. He then asked what happened to my neighbor. I looked towards the bedroom and said that I hit him over the head and wasn’t sure if he was still alive. I told my professor to have a seat at the table and not to try anything funny. I pulled a knife from my pocket to show him I was serious.

I could see that he was accessing the situation and that his police training was turning through his mind. He spent the next five minutes trying to convince me that this could all be settled without any implications. He could forget anything that had happened. I told him he should have considered that when he scolded us, which resulted in insulting our intelligence. I insisted that he was going to have to pay for his actions towards the class. I kept pacing back and forth and looking out the closed curtain next to the front door. I was coming across as a madman who had lost their minds.

My professor was starting to grasp at straws. He asked what I was going to do when the other students began to arrive. I then told him I had contacted everyone and canceled the party because of the weather. That it was just him and me, and I fully intended to make him suffer as if he had done to the class. I told him he would never teach again. He was done!

He tried to convince me that he only was trying to reach our inner thoughts and bring out the best writers we could be. Even with his life in jeopardy, he still was defending himself and his philosophical way of teaching. I yelled at him, telling him he was full of it. I didn’t want to hear anymore. My angry, deranged killer act was surfacing. If he tried to speak, I told him to shut up that I needed to think.

I was using the persona of the character that the professor had taught us when we write about a style. I was amazed at how well this act was going. I could tell that my professor had no clue he was being played and that I had my paper to submit when I felt my performance was over. I was feeling good that my classmates hadn’t made a peak of a sound, but was experiencing the whole performance. I could see their heads, which is why I positioned my professor at the dining room table.

I told my professor that my writing career was over. He had ruined my life, and I couldn’t let him get away with it. It was now if I can’t be a writer then nothing, sort of like if I can’t have you, nobody can have your attitude. I was really in control of the situation. I felt like he now thought that he might not survive. He began to start pleading with me just to let him go, that it wasn’t worth it. He then stated that he had family from a previous marriage. That his two kids still needed him. That I didn’t want to take him from his family, which surprised me, we all figured that he probably never had a girlfriend. He came across as a loaner.

I then heard a rap on the front door. My mind started to panic, for this wasn’t part of my script. I tried to pretend that no one was home in the hope the person would go away. When I heard the knock, I instantly went over to my professor and held the knife to his neck. What was I doing, had I lost my mind? Had I went too far with this act? I was scaring myself. I thought to myself. Please go away. Without a word from me, the professor knew he shouldn’t utter a word or noise. I had this knife right up against his skin so that he could feel the sharpness of the steel blade. It never occurred to me to stop and confess that this was all a plan to act out my final paper. I could see the sweat now forming on his forehead. He knew that this could be the breaking point that would cause me to take his life.

I kept my cool and decided to remain quiet in anticipation they would leave. Another knock on the door, and then a voice was stating that they knew we were there. He demanded that we open the door. I guess the students up in the loft just assumed this was all part of the act. You could have heard a pin drop; it was so quiet. I said, “what do you want?” He warned me that if I didn’t open the door that he would bust the door down. Calmly I thought, “ I can’t afford to fix the door,” so I went over to open the door. I figured I would have to come clean and hope that the fear my professor felt would be enough to convince him that I should pass the class.

I opened the door, and I noticed it was a classmate. I guess I didn’t realize he wasn’t here before the professor arrived. He always sat in the back corner of the classroom and was very quiet. He never participated in any group discussions. Because the class was so hard, no one paid much attention to him. Everyone had their struggles to contend with. I am not sure why he had arrived so late except that maybe it took him a while to get his nerve up.

Jimmy, was his name, came at me with authority. I backed up, mostly in fear. This wasn’t in my rehearsal. The professor seemed to freeze and didn’t utter a word. Jimmy started rambling about how the professor had made fun of him. He accused him of intimidation. Jimmy was tired of putting up with how others treated him. He also said that the class laughed at him and didn’t include him in group discussions. I stated that it wasn’t true and that I had invited him to this class party. I tried to tell Jimmy that he didn’t know what he was saying or doing. The professor spoke up, and Jimmy got this crazed look in his eyes, that made you feel like he was looking straight through you. I was just as scared as the professor was at this point. I tried to reason with Jimmy, but you can’t reason with a madman. This must have been how the professor felt about reasoning with me.

To my surprise, the class above us didn’t make a sound. I didn’t even think about revealing that they were there. I was so focused on Jimmy, and how I must convince him to put the weapon, he appeared to have in his coat pocket down. The professor started to plead that Jimmy put his gun down and walk out the front door. No sooner than the professor spoke of this, Jimmy told me to gag him with the linen napkin on the table. Now it was solely up to me to get us out of this situation. All I could think of was how my theatrical performance was going so well, and know-how quickly it went wrong.

I decided to tell Jimmy that I had the professor here to make him pay for how he treated our class. I showed him the knife and the bloodstains, trying to convince him. I told him that I was on his side and that he needed to let me take care of the professor. I told him about the neighbor and how I had clobbered him in the head. I had probably already killed one person, and I should get to take care of our professor.

You could see Jimmy beginning to think as he looked at the blood on me and the floor. I also could tell he was here on a mission, and he expected to carry it out. At this point, I decided that if I was going to survive this, I had to talk Jimmy into letting me handle our professor. When I tried to get closer to Jimmy, he would get defensive and tell me to back off. I knew I had some more convincing to do.

I tried talking to Jimmy as if he was my friend. We both had experienced the same problems in class. Jimmy felt as if the class didn’t like him. I knew I had only pretended to have a party only to lure the professor there. I was now trying to get in Jimmy’s head as if I was him. Once again, using a technique that our professor had taught us.

I practically guaranteed Jimmy, that I wasn’t going to let the professor off the hook. That he had my word, but I didn’t want any or needed help. I even hit the professor over the head with a cup, to show some confidence in what I was saying. I knew it wouldn’t cause harm to the professor’s head. After my act of violence, I saw that something changed in the way that Jimmy saw me. I think he was starting to believe me.

I took a step towards Jimmy, being careful not to make him feel threatened. I wanted him to know that I was for real. I calmly asked him about himself, trying to gain anything for leverage. I could tell that he was intelligent. I talked to him about some authors that might have influenced the style he tried to write. We had some authors in common, and I could tell that he had a passion for becoming a writer.

I told him that I probably should check on my neighbor that I might have killed in the bedroom. I had gained some trust. I went in and rubbed some blood on my hands, to signify that my neighbor was dead. I tried to act nervous, hoping he would fall for my new performance. I raised my voice to gain command, and to see if he would back down from his stance. I now needed more than anything to act like a murderer.

I was now able to walk around in a crazed pacing type mode. I told Jimmy if we were in this together that I needed to call the shots, but we both would take the blame. I now needed to formulate a plan in my head to survive from this nightmarish predicament.

I decided that I would make it as brutal as I could with Jimmy having to take part. Maybe by making him carry out the act, that he would succumb to not carrying out this violent act. I decided that we would torture the professor by beating him with our bare hands. I would hold the professor first while Jimmy carried out the punishment. If this didn’t work, I was going to be in a heap of trouble. I thought that Jimmy didn’t come across as a physical person to carry out such a task. He had lost it mentally and not physically. After we roughed him up, we then would attack him emotionally, using the knowledge of the professor’s family that I had learned about earlier. Next, we would use a waterboarding technique of almost drowning the victim, but stopping just short of death. I figured and hoped that this would be too much for Jimmy to carry out. If needed, I would continue some sort of torture to have Jimmy to walk away from the formulated plan so that I could spare the professor from death.

I explained in detail my plan. I made it clear that it was my plan, and it had to be carried out the way I saw it. If Jimmy didn’t like my plan, he needed to walk away now. I was hoping this would happen. I was wrong; Jimmy seemed all the way in. Jimmy began punching the professor. With each blow, I tried to pull back on the professor to lessen the blow. Jimmy was wailing away. Punch to the abdomen, punch to the face. I cringed with each strike. How long could I let this go? At one point, I thought I heard the classmates above us, but where the punches were being thrown was out of sight of the classmates. They could only hear and continued to assume it was part of the act. After a few blows, I could tell, Jimmy was releasing some frustration he had within himself. I laid the professor down and had Jimmy stop punching. Enough! I screamed. Jimmy was exhausted and knelt to his knees. His back was to the front door. I lunged to the door and reached for the rifle above. Not knowing if it was loaded or not, I knew I had to act as if it was. Jimmy believed that the cabin was my home, so he had to believe it was my rifle.

I told him this was over, and don’t make me use this rifle. I made him move over to the corner of the room and called for my classmates. They started clapping, some saying bravo! I was like no this was real, and you don’t understand. As they climbed down the ladder, I asked them to check on the professor. I kept my eye on Jimmy. I was glad as a child that my dad had taken me hunting, and I knew how a rifle worked.

After seeing the professor, the students realized that this wasn’t at all an act, that they had almost witnessed a murder. I plugged the phone back in, and we called 911. I was at the police station the whole night as well as my classmates. Jimmy was arrested for attempted murder, and my fate was left to the professor on whether he was going to file charges. I didn’t care anymore about passing the class. I was praying not to go to jail.

The professor spent the next few days in the hospital. During this time, the entire class went to visit. They each gave their version of the story and tried to convince him that I was only doing what I had to do concerning stopping Jimmy. They also told him that my paper would explain my part of the mishap and that I was only trying to be the writer that he wanted us to be.

At first, I was advised to stay far away from my professor. After my classmates talked with him, they convinced him to sit down and meet with me. I was very nervous about this meeting that I took one of my classmates with me. I explained the whole story and had my paper to back it up. I apologized and asked for forgiveness. I wasn’t sure where I stood after everything that had happened, but I did make him aware that I genuinely did not intend any harm. There was some silence from my professor, and I was feeling very awkward that I decided I should leave. As I walked away, he hollered, RC comes back here. In all of my years of teaching, no one has ever understood what I was teaching as you have. I will read your paper, and if it matches your story, you will be pleasantly surprised. I am not pressing charges against you, and I hope we can be friends for a long time. With friends like you, who needs enemies, the professor said.

Needless to say, I passed the class, and we stayed friends for the rest of our lives. I was a guest speaker to his classes until the day he retired. I would have never been the writer I am today, if not for Professor John Cline. I doubt if he would have been the professor he was, if not for me (RC). We laugh, be careful about what you ask from someone.

Author's Note

Any feedback is helpful. First time writing.