:e)

                                            by S.I. Jones

   The dorm complex is sort of a modernist beehive of pod-like homes. Protag found his cell on the ninth plateau. Each identical abode is a sleek glassy, drum accented in stainless-steel. He had just avoided the rainstorm as the view outside his dorm became a dark grey. His roommate was out, probably shooting meth, he left behind his jacket, his schoolbag and his house keys. Junkies have no need for these things.

Protag  settled himself in his half of the room, the contrastingly neat part of the first floor that wasn’t covered in Radiohead posters and memorabilia. Having a last name as wealthy and powerful as his roomate’s kept the faculty from questioning his habits. After all, his father funded most of their programs.

Protag logged on to his computer terminal, a hair-thin C-shaped display. The central computer records almost everything. Keeps track of every key touched, how many mistakes are made, and when they’re made. He checks his email. No personal mail, just a mass-distributed announcement from the supervisors. Protag checks the time and starts reading it.

The estimated reading time is 9.3 minutes. When the supervisors review statistics at the end of the day, they will see next to it name of each student and the amount of time spent reading this letter.  The faculty will evaluate each students with a well regimented rubric. Less than six minutes- time for a student conference and possible attitude counseling. Seven to eight  minutes, keep an eye on this student; may be developing a careless attitude. Eight to Nine minutes- Student is efficient, but may sometimes miss important details.

Exactly 9.3 minutes- Smartass. Needs attitude counseling. Twenty or more minutes, check security videotape to see what the student was doing.

Protag prefers to spend between eight and nine minutes reading the letter. He scans through the letter, scrolling down from time to time, occasionally scrolling up to pretend to reread an earlier section. The terminal will take note of this. It’s small, but shows up his work-habit summary.

 Protag logs off and heads out into the dreary rain for class. He could take the student carpool or a bus. He really should, but walking isn’t an issue. Students at Elite University are fit by nature because their health plan is so demanding. Get too heavy and people act differently around you. As you walk the corridors,  you can feel eyes following you, estimating your weight.  You could sense your classmates saying to themselves, “I wonder how much he or she is driving up our health plan premiums?”

Protag joins other likeminded students who decided to walk in the rain. He could make out some of the florescent identification numbers on their uniforms, numerical ghosts that floated below anonymous men and women. This was Elite University’s way of keeping a literal “tab” on their students. It makes bureaucracy move faster as students don’t have to state their name or purpose at administrative offices. If fact they didn’t have to say a word. Their ID would have automatically scheduled an appointment with via electronic mail.

He arrived at the lecture hall, an auditorium with no official name and if it did it would be some terribly formal title. Students got hip to calling it lecture hall 1001 because of its grandiose structural design. Planned by a world renown German architect,  it was an over glorified auditorium about half the size of a football field.  When the auditorium wasn’t being used for occasional assemblies, it was reserved for the most acclaimed professors and inspirational speakers. Last week, Stephen Hawking’s third clone gave a five hour lecture as he demonstrated his new, controversial, theory that explains all physical phenomena in the universe with one brief sentence of mathematical purity. After, he autographed his new book with his electronic signature from his military designed wheelchair. In an age of affordable prosthetics, Stephen Hawking still maintained his handicapped demeanor from the previous decade. He still spoke with a synthesizer; however, the advancements in technology changed his once monotonous computerized voice to a warm, organic one. In a way Protag envied Hawking. Never having to put up with useless conversations.

He struggled to find a seat, brushing up against proactive students who arrived a half an hour early, exchanging callous, automatic smiles with them. His program says this class was taught by an professor by the name of Dr. Hal. He has a PhD in digital sculpting, Protag’s field of study. The medium involved constructing complex holographic figures, whether they be for entertainment, medical, or artistic purposes. You name it. He readied his light canvas as the lights dimmed. The Professor took center stage.

From what Protag has heard, Dr. Hal loves to pick the minds of his students. From time to time he uses a random selection unit that roulettes through the present students and selects one unlucky soul to entertain a question. The student’s response is evaluated on how profound or accurate it is and is stored a file. The old pedagogic  policy of “there are no wrong answers,” is completely forgotten. It was just a way to force class participation. Somehow prove to your Prof. that you’re  more intelligent than a rock with a mouth, that you can think critically, structure sentences, and form valid opinions in the blink of an eye. Prove that you’re capable of contributing to society and therefore worthy of the miracle of life. So be ready to regurgitate concepts that you yourself know you understand just for the sake of your class. That’s all college was to Protag. In fact, that’s all education was to him since he was a child.

Dr. Hal had just finished explaining the significance of pioneer digital sculptors and their influence on the advertisement industry. He began to critique, holographic art piece that, to Protag was shapeless, awkward, and meaningless, but was nonetheless world renown.  Dr. Hal had all the attributes of a pretentious artist, the charismatic hair, the custom tailored suite, the Andy Warhol glasses. After a few segways and rhetorical questions, Dr. Hal approached the holographic student selection roulette that hovered beside his podium. Gave the lever a pull.

Sure as hell, Protag’s name would be selected. He was put on the spot. No matter how inarticulate or tongue-tied his response, he had to say something.  Passing the question might suggest that he’s inattentive. He listened to the Professor’s query  carefully.

“Mr. Protag, what is your opinion on this ubiquitous advertisement for Coca-Cola 2023?,” Dr. Hal asked seamlessly. “What is my opinion?,” Protag helplessly wondered. In all honesty, Protag couldn’t care less about Coca-cola and their innovations, but he asked for an opinion. An opinion can’t be wrong, can it?“I think it’s Pretty.” Protag answered in all seriousness. “Pretty what, Mr. Protag? Care to expand” Dr. Hal Further Demanded. “No, I just think it’s pretty.” He could feel his gut sink into his seat as the sea of students glared at him, ready to attack. This idiot just wasted 12.3 seconds of our class time, that translates into 0.0094 trillion dollars from of our tuition. Someone better shut him up before it gets ugly. After making a note on his terminal, he redirected the question to another student. The vicious eyes turned away.

Professor Hal told me to wait to be spoken to at the registrar’s office after class. For my name to be called. A hefty fine had been charged to my student account for disruptive behavior under a violation called Illicit Vagueness ( Section 3892B of the Elite University Code of Conduct). These aren’t your everyday community college dorm-rats, or IV league snobs. These students will shape the future, the global elite. Most of them from families with enough assets to stay in existence for centuries. Every moment of education is crucial.

Before he left he was asked to step before  a laser projector. It took aim at his shirt and began to add more information below his student identification number. INARTICULATE was branded into his uniform in vibrant letters. Now professors knew not to dare summon this student into a discussion.

Protag had enough embarrassment for today. He completely neglected his later 6:30 P.M. class and went to his dorm, hoping he can sleep this day out of memory. Protag always had trouble with public speaking. He could form an argument perfectly in his head, with a clear path from points A to B to C, but when he had to express himself verbally, it melted away leaving him lost in his own thoughts. Recollections from today’s experience cycled in and out of mind. He imagined Stephen Hawking’s melodious, inhumane voice as it piped glorious equations. Quantum harmonics in a symphony of complex algorithms. They soothed him to sleep.

 Protag woke the next morning with wild fear to find that his lips had merged together in a smooth patch of skin. His mouth was gone. 

 10/30/10