The Bystander

The boat left and twenty students in the retired seniors class were on the lawn. One of them asked me if I was the monitor. Sure, I said, and slipped to the rear. This was before the professor showed up, but soon an older man took the lectern.

He peered out at the class over the top of his tortoise shell reading glasses. “We are judging your Creativity Assessment today. Some of you will not be moving forward to graduation commencement.”

A lady in pink sweatpants and a gray ponytail raised her hand.

The professor stroked his chin. He wore the slightest smile. “Yes, Mildred.”

“What about our final submission? The stream of consciousness piece?”

“Rest assured. We have your final submissions, all of them.” The professor picked up a clipboard. Behind him the woods formed a half-moon cathedral around where he stood. His hands gripped both sides of the lectern. Beyond the trees, the sound of ocean waves rose and fell.

“Now. About the Creativity Assessment. You shall each step to the front as I call you.”

“Oh… Lloyd Jameson.”

The professor’s eyes landed on a gentleman wearing a gray English flat cap. His white hair tufted out the sides, mustache to match. He wore a Hawaiian shirt untucked, khaki shorts, and loafers with his bare ankles showing.

“Join me Lloyd. Don’t be shy.” The professor looked at the class and chuckled.

As Lloyd came forward he glanced at the students. A man on the front row man gave him a thumbs up. He winked back. The professor gestured where he should stand and he took his place. His hands clasped together in front of him.

The professor looked Lloyd over.

Loyd fidgeted with his hands.

“You have failed Jameson. I am sorry, but it is true. And frankly, I’m not surprised. Missing class, your fiction no more than filler, a half effort. Where will you go from here? A lonely existence of staring out windows, wondering where your life went.”

Lloyd looked at his feet. His hands were now clenched.

My skin tingled. I crossed my legs on the lawn and uncrossed them. The boat was gone.

The professor called Mildred to the front and once she joined him, leaned into her face. “Feel the method. Express your dissatisfaction to Lloyd. Let the worst come out. You can do it. I know you can.”

I had heard of method acting. The class was in some sort of learning experience, I decided.

Mildred side-glanced at Jameson. She took a big breath. “You’re a piece of shit, Lloyd.”

“Louder. Like you mean it. You need to face him!”

Mildred stepped in front of Lloyd. “You’re a piece of shit, Lloyd Jameson!”

The professor directed Mildred in berating Lloyd for the next twenty minutes: the thinness of his work, his lack of talent, and the only reason he attended was to please his daughter.

Mildred finally screamed at him. “Get a grip, Lloyd!”

Lloyd was facing away from me, his shoulders hunched and shuddering.

“Thank you, Mildred, please take a seat. Lloyd, you’re dismissed.” The professor gestured to a grove of trees where a man stood and made a motion for Lloyd to follow.

My pulse quieted as I scanned the class. Many were taking notes. Two students to my left were whispering to each other. Judy, a lady with a wrinkleless taunt face, rolled her eyes at the woman next to her. This woman wore a beige cashmere sweater, pearls, and earrings to match. When Judy leaned close to her, Cashmere Sweater closed her eyes and shook her head.

I told myself, ‘you are only a monitor; your role is nothing more than observation. This absolutely must be part of the creative fiction retreat. It must be like acting, or must be a technique you know little about, not being an academic. Don't embarress yourself.’

The professor examined the clipboard once again. “You understand, it is a necessary thing to raise the creativity median. A proud tradition means having standards.”

The professor scanned the class. There was a wet glint in the corner of his eye. “I’d like to call on Miss Ruth Crimson.”

From the front of the sloping lawn a woman rose. She was short and thin and her gray hair hung in front of her face.

Someone muttered a comment. Others snickered.

The woman, Ruth, glanced back, her face red. She took her place in front of the professor.

“Sorry,” the Professor said. “You failed also. We talked about this, didn’t we?” He beckoned with a forefinger to the man directly to my side. “Dwayne, come here.”

Dwayne struggled to rise out of his hunched position on the lawn and stood up. He strode to the front. He was wearing jean overalls and a cap: ‘Harvester’ in yellow letters, the thread torn and ragged.

The professor rummaged in his bag and brought out a riding crop, the handle stiff and dark in his grip, the attached leather strap dangling down two feet, ending where steel barbs glittered, small and bright against the grass. He then looped the leather corded handle around Dwayne’s wrist and drew it tight. “Ruth, will you please stand in front of this tree and face away from the class.”

Ruth giggled. The professor smiled back. He led her to the tree. She wasn't smiling now. Her cheek pressed against the bark. One shoe slipped in the wet grass and she dug her toe in. He held her shoulder for a moment and bound her hands around the trunk with nylon rope.

"I hope it doesn't hurt."

The professor moved behind Dwayne and held his shoulders with both hands. He turned him toward Ruth.

Dwayne hefted the crop in his hand. He shook it to dangle the leather end. After examining it closely, he reached out with it and tickled the back of Ruth’s neck. She shivered.

“Can I give her everything I’ve got?”

“Certainly. Proceed, sir.”

I jerked from my place on the lawn and almost stood. I looked left and right at the students. They were all staring, riveted on Dwayne. I closed my eyes hard, and then opened them. Several of the students sat hugging their knees. Cashmere Sweater scratched the back of her head with her eyes on Judy and Judy smiled back.

I took a deep breath. ‘Your role is nothing more than monitor and the class is calm. Do not interfere.’

When Dwayne reached back. The professor stepped in and held his arm. Dwayne tried to tug away.

“That’s enough.”

Ruth crumpled to the base of the tree.

‘Now THAT went sideways, I thought, this creativity retreat. I must step forward, speak up, dammit. But then I thought, might I be called to task? Might an authority ask me, ‘Weren’t you appalled at the brutish way Lloyd Jameson was belittled and dismissed. And you did nothing?’

Measure your choices, I told myself. You still might skirt condemnation for Jameson, but now? You need to think fast.

Number one you’re only a monitor number two no one has assigned you actual leadership number three these are adults and their spouses or children or caregivers or powers of attorney all have the first right to take action and if you filed a complaint with the Retreat Organization a student’s case against this professor might lose its authority.

The professor reached in his black bag and pulled out a pistol. I don't know much about handguns but the barrel made me think of a sewer pipe.

I glanced to right and left.

“What we’re going to do, class, is experience an emotion, the feeling we get from life’s real events, not from a book, or a movie, but from actually doing the act.”

The professor picked up the gun. I could smell gun oil. He flipped it and held the handle towards Mildred. She stood next to him.

“Mildred, this is a .44 caliber handgun. Take it point it at Dwayne.”

“But Professor,” Mildred said. “You’re kidding right?”

Should I sit or leave, where was the boat, or should I storm out sending a message the monitor stormed out he wasn't having it?

“Remember what we’ve learned, woman. Show is better than tell, but how can you show what you don’t know?”

“Emotion transference!” hollered Cashmere Sweater.

There it was, another learning cue. Emotion transference. A creative process. A sandbox isolation like a software experiment.

“Exactly, Anastasia,” said the professor. “If we can experience an emotion, we can transfer it to the page. Fear of getting shot, if you’ve had it, cherish it. Use it for a character’s fear of falling.”

The professor placed the pistol in Mildred’s hand. He guided her to extend her arm at Dwayne.

“Can you feel it, Dwayne, the emotion, the fear?”

Dwayne stared at the gun.

“And you, Mildred. What are you feeling?”

“I’m scared, Professor. But kind of excited.”

Mildred faced the class, Dwayne in front of her. Her chest was rising and falling as she breathed. Her face was flushed. Her eyes unfocused.

The Professor leaned into her ear. “The power to take a life is in your hands. Remember the feeling, describe it, let it wrap around you, let it help you squeeze the trigger.”

Mildred’s hand shook.

“The hammer darlin’, pull it back.”

Mildred reached with her left hand and tugged. The gun clicked twice in the silence.

“Shoot him, you bitch!” Anastasia shrieked.

Judy glanced at Anastasia. “Do it!”

Mildred’s hand convulsed.

I felt my heart hammering against my ribcage.

“Feel it,” the Professor rasped.

Mildred’s mouth formed a white spittle at the corner. “I’m not sure I feel comfor—”

Mildred fell to her knees and dropped the gun. Her eyes began to tear. She gulped air.

“Cool,” Anastasia said. “I can use that.”