Call It Fiction

I once knew a man who called himself a professor. He'd dress in perfectly pressed khakis and striped Banana Republic shirts with the sleeves rolled a quarter of the way up his arm, exposing a watch that matched his hard soled shoes. Over his stripes was always a sweater or a vest, something with a V-neck. In the morning, between warming the iron and gelling his hair, he'd boil water for his oatmeal and tea. As the tea steeped and the oats softened, he'd put on his aftershave, lace his shoes excruciatingly tight and place his UCLA lanyard around his neck. Dangling from it was his faculty ID, the keys to his classroom and an unbearably tacky Nike keychain that was useless except for the fact that it was a keychain. He'd place it around his neck before grabbing his travel mug and heading out the door. It was a routine he had, and no matter how late he’d stayed up the night before watching the Daily Show, he was up in time to complete it without a hitch. I urge you though, not to confuse this man with the poor sap your free spirit feels sorry for, because to assume that this man was anything less than smitten with his routine would be a disservice to him and the one thing in his life that makes sense. Further, this isn't another story about the routine driving a man crazy, because if it wasn't for the routine, the monotonous pattern of food, apparel and diarrhea, this man wouldn't exist. Essentially, this man is his routine, he is the product of the shaved face and his estranged ivy league digs. The routine is his sanity and solace. He knew that every morning he could sip his tea, eat his oatmeal, and count on his clothes to be uniquely uniform. The pattern was cyclically his best friend in that it not only complimented his looks and his persona, but it also was in sync with his more intimate necessities. He had regimented this part of his day to such an extent that even his bowel movements fell in line. As his routine reinforced the ideal of himself, looking forward to the routine persuaded him to get through the day, so he could fall asleep and return to it once again. In a profession full of debate, he could at least feel certain that before 9:15am he will have already completed the only goals that matter to him, he will have replicated a Pollock on porcelain, he will have taken only a moment to fend off an anxiety attack and as a finale, he will have placed his Macbook on his lectern playing All Things Considered by the time his students begin a routine that they feel so indifferent about, it makes him queasy.