confidential ear and a bit of perspective and advice?
Matthewâs finger hovered momentarily over the calendar. He pressed it, then chose a convenient time and began entering the required details.
âIs this seat taken?â
Matthew looked toward the voice, which belonged to a man he didnât recognize. âUm, no,â he muttered. âItâs all yours.â Matthew paid no attention to the stranger, who, he assumed, wanted to pull the chair to the edge of some crowded nearby table.
âGreat,â the man replied. âI hate to drink alone.â
The chair hadnât moved. The man plopped himself down while extending a hand toward his unsuspecting host. âIâm Mori. Short for Bryan Quincy.â
Matthew returned the gesture. âMatthew, short for Matthew Adams.â
âPleased to meet you, Matthew Adams.â The man seemed to mean it. He appeared almost as lonely as Matthew. Not a solitary, reclusive lonely. The kind of lonely that talked to anyone and everyone to fill the silence.
The man had brown hair and a rich-looking beard containing much more gray than his crown or temples. Unlike Matthewâs, his hair showed no trace of thinning. He appeared to have benefited from genetic screening. Impossible, of course, since blind conception would have been the norm at the time of the manâs birth. Fifty years old? The estimate seemed plausible, especially in light of a rotund torso that suggested several decades of chatty beer-and-chip consumption.
âHow did âMoriâ become short for Bryan Quincy?â Matthew asked, more from polite courtesy than burning curiosity.
âMy middle name, Morrison, was my old manâs surname,â he said with a chuckle. âThey called him Mori, so I became Little Mori. Then just Mori.â
âGot it,â Matthew said with an upward nod.
A cheer erupted around them, prompting both men to turn disinterestedly toward a screen. A replay, which seemed to delight the crowd, meant nothing to Matthew.
ââLittle Moriâ just didnât feel right in the classroom,â the man added while lifting a mug to his lips.
âYou teach?â
âIf you can call it teaching.â Another singular laugh.
âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean that teaching, by definition, ought to include learning. Which is something my students seem determined to avoid.â
âHigh school?â
âCollege. University of Denver.â
âWhat department?â
âHumanities.â
âPhilosophy?â Matthew asked, suddenly intrigued.
âLiterature.â
âOh,â Matthew said limply.
âYeah,â Mori sighed, âthatâs how most of my students respond when they discover mine is the only elective class that still has openings.â
âSorry. I didnât mean it like that. I was a philosophy major beforeâ¦before I took a sabbatical.â
âNo need to apologize. Iâm used to it. And I get it. Our generation was formed by Google and Facebook.â
Matthew smiled at the mention of the classic brands. His thirty-seven years suddenly felt ancient.
âWhy dive deeply into an ocean of words when you can skim along the surface on a Jet Ski?â Mori paused to reach for a source. âI think it was Nicholas Carr who said that.â
Matthew didnât recognize the quote, or the author.
âAnyway,â Mori continued, âthis generation is light-years beyond where you and I were when we graduated from college.â
Matthew didnât correct the misimpression.
âOr should I say, light-years behind. I canât remember the last student who had actually finished reading an entire classic novel. They donât know Melville, or Hugo, or even Dickens. You have no idea how irrelevant I feel teaching a literature appreciation course to kids who, for all practical purposes, are illiterate. At least when it comes to the greatest books
Mari Carr and Lexxie Couper