Hall Monitor

By Matthew Beyer

Caspar Dougal spent the last minutes of his late-night shift at the warehouse scrolling through Facebook.

Malorie had gotten engaged: Like, “Congratulations”

An invitation to Ron’s retirement party: “Interested”

A message from HR regarding another team-building exercise: Open begrudgingly. “Got it.” Refresh.

The newest message to pop at the top of the feed was from Sharon Bingley, an old school acquaintance. The picture featured a beaming young blonde, who Caspar recognized as Stephanie Bingley, Sharon’s daughter. She was wearing an “Augustus U” pullover and posing in front of a grand, marble edifice. The adjoining caption read,

“ONE WEEK TO GO! SO PROUD OF YOU Stephanie Bingley!!!” 254 likes.

Whether it was through the familiar campy cheerleader he used to know or the sunlight permeating through Casper’s screen, Caspar couldn’t make up his mind whether he was feeling warmth or if he was internally burning.

A high, mosquito-like buzz of the overhead speakers cut through Caspar’s concentration. Time to go home. Caspar put the phone to sleep, slipping it back into his pocket, and cleared his station before making an unceremonious departure out the door, towards the metro.

*

Caspar had begun to nod off to the vibrations of the bus when his attention was arrested by the glow on his right thigh. Unlocking his phone, Stephanie Bingley’s face re-emerged, foregrounding the same white marble. The A/C on the bus had been turned up unnecessarily high and the burning sensation came back again. Flicking his finger out of Facebook, he was redirected back to the home screen. His wallpaper had taken on a new light. The wallpaper consisted of a close-up shot: a manila folder turned sideways that had the heading “REPORT CARD: Reading and Writing”. A gold fastener was attached to a series of papers, with the image centered around the phrase, “Mr. Dougal has true creative potential.”

*

In his twelve years of schooling and Not Particularly Outstanding’s, the phrase Has True Creative Potential was the remark that Caspar Dougal carried with him throughout his entire life. It had been taped on his parents’ fridge, in his personal journal, and served as his senior quote. The phrase migrated from home to home until it found its eventual perch on Caspar’s apartment door.

The phrase had been bestowed onto him by an old high school English teacher. Though Caspar had come to accept being “not particularly outstanding” at an early age, he’d discovered he’d had a particular knack for reading and writing, which lead to innumerable hours being spent in the school library; his epitome of serenity, a home away from home.

Caspar was 17 when he won his first award in a countywide writing contest. One year later, a month before graduating high school, his parents split. Despite his internal lexicon, it took Caspar Dougal eighteen years to understand the phrase “Money is tight”. After graduating high school, Caspar found himself cast into the workforce. As time went on, money is tight became the newly instilled mantra, slowly phasing out the former.

*

The bus came to a squealing halt, throwing Caspar out of his stupor. Easing himself down the walkway, he thanked the bus driver and began his late-night trek towards his apartment. The rain had started to fall, though Caspar didn’t mind. He began jogging through the city streets, his energy had been rekindled by the glow of Stephanie’s smile and the shine of brass fasteners.

Upon entering the complex, Caspar was greeted by the customary snores of his roommate, the lingering fumes of Newport cigarettes, and the omnipresent mildew in the ceiling corners. A late rent notice was slapped on the table.

‘Another chore for tomorrow morning,’ Caspar sighed, relinquishing his soaked sweatshirt and making his way toward his desk. Opening his laptop, he entered the following query:

Augustus U schedule Current Fall Semester First Day of Classes: September 6th

Caspar checked the calendar: it was the morning of September 2nd. Taking out a pad, Caspar scribbled the date and returned to the search engine.

Augustus U courses Course Catalogue Select Major-English Upcoming Courses

The screen imploded with an assortment of numbers and letters, classes ranging from Homer to Hemingway.

‘Let’s make this a bit easier.’

Course Time Range: 5 P.M. to 8:30 P.M.

Results:

ENG. 306- Contemporary American Literature, Prentiss Hall (Rm 361), 5:15 PM-6:30 PM, MWF

ENG. 542- Technicalities of Creative Writing, Laurence Hall (Rm 117), 6:45–7:35 PM, MWF

‘It’s definitely a start, but there’s still a lot to do.’

*

In the early morning of September 6th, Caspar took his usual route to the bus station. In his pocket was a note to be handed to the schedule supervisor, with the following letter:

Dear Mr. Ruben,

Due to recent changes in my personal schedule, I will no longer be able to work overtime hours past 5 o’clock. However, I would be more than willing to come in and make up for any necessary company hours over the respective weekend. I apologize that this comes to you at such late notice.

Sincerely,

Caspar Dougal

As the bus pulled up and the streetwalkers took their seats, Caspar reached into his satchel and took inventory.

-One cell phone plus charger (6% battery)

-Two-inch notebook with multicolored dividers

-A package of pencils and pens

-One tightly pressed polo shirt

-One pair of corduroys

-One tin of styling gel with pocket comb

-A glasses case with dime-store frames, sharp

-A printed copy of class schedules

Aside from the slight groans of annoyance from the HR man, everything had been going according to plan. Caspar placed his cell phone beneath his desk to charge and carried on with his normal workday. When 4:30 came around, Caspar packed up his tools and reached under the desk for his phone. To his dismay, he found the cord detached, lying limply on the carpet. The phone currently sat at 10% battery.

Time for plan B.

Caspar carefully crept his way towards the bathroom. When the coast was clear, he slipped out of his blue jeans and into his cordoroy pants, then substituting his generic blue T-shirt for his pressed polo. He then rubbed one hand into the cool, styling gel, shaping the simple Caesar cut into into a sleek, left-part. The transformation was nearly complete. Digging his hand deep into the side pocket, he pulled out a pair of thin-rimmed lenses he’d purchased at the nearby dollar store and placed them atop his head. Facing his reflection, he practiced his signature line, one he’d been practicing all week:

‘My name is Simon Spector. I’m the Evaluations Official for Augustus’ English department.’

He then slipped out the back door and made his way back to the bus station, heading south instead of north.

*

Upon touching the freshly paved concrete, Simon looked up and smiled, as he recognized the bleached marble edifice. Walking inward, he slowed his pace to admire the layout of the environment; the classic red-bricked patchwork decorating the various structures, the freshly-cut and fertilized lawn evoking the aura of a modern Greek agora, and the warm shades of September floating from the trees.

Taking the schedule from his satchel, Simon weaved his way through a stream of students towards Prentiss Hall.

It didn’t take long for him discover he was overdressed; the general fashion consensus seemed to consist of T-shirts, basketball shorts, cargos, oversized hoodies or sweatpants. Picking up the pace, Simon made his way closer to the front of the crowd, accidentally bumping shoulders with a young blonde woman. Turning to apologize, he was shot with a wave of nausea. Luckily for him, the young woman turned the other direction. Recomposing himself, Caspar shuffled up through the Prentiss double-doors, making his way up to the third floor.

It was five minutes too early. Taking a detour, he made his way to the closest restroom and locked himself in a stall. At 5:16, Simon opened the restroom door and observed the intersecting hallways leading to room 361: what seemed like the last of the students trickled into the classroom, and the collective sound of closing doors allowed Caspar to take a breath. Like a deer poking through a glade, he made his way towards 361, hypervigilant for any oncoming shoes clicking the tile floors. Across from the door was a chair with an attachable desk. Unfortunately, it was left-handed, but Caspar would make do. Raising the chair slowly off the ground, he placed the legs three feet behind the door to avoid getting trapped or slammed in the face, in case someone left to use the restroom. Unslinging his satchel, he took out the notebook and popped the cap off a pen. Leaning forward in his seat, Caspar could make out the professor’s gliding intonations slipping beneath the doorframe.

The first few sentences were lost due to the stenographic pace of the professor’s speech, but Caspar was quickly able to adapt and furiously scribbled as many notes as he could manage without losing any information. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to learn that first day, and Caspar came back with only a half-page of notes regarding class policies, before quickly retreating from the spot and taking a quick stroll around the Laurence building to kill the time. Come 6:46, Simon took up his spot beside room 117, taking out his notepad and pen. This would become his self-appointed routine. Things seemed to flow smoothly enough the first few days afterward, though the process did not always go as planned.

Taking up his usual post in Prentiss one night, Caspar was taking notes when his attention was piqued by the sound of approaching heels. Dipping his head into his chest, Simon forced himself to write slower, more thoughtfully. The snapping became louder, until Simon could see the shining black toes poking at his peripherals.

“Good evening,” An older woman called while passing.

“Good evening, maam.” The clicking stopped.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“No, I don’t think we have. I’m Simon Spector, I run evaluations for the department.”

“Which department?”

Simon looked up. “The English department.”

She stood motionless for a moment, as if pondering.

“It seems a bit early to start doing evaluations, don’t you think?”

Caspar adjusted his spectacles. “That’s what I said, but you can’t really argue with the board.”

The woman gave a light, if not slightly-forced chuckle.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Mr. Spector. I’m Linda Dubrea, one of the associate professors at AU.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She nodded and walked off. It was from that moment on that Caspar knew the in-person visits had to stop.

*

On the front of each classroom door were thick, black wall files where essays were to be turned in. The night after the interaction with Linda Dubrea. Caspar took his fully-charged cell phone and gently tucked it into the fold, double-checking beforehand that the red button had been securely pressed. He’d then exit the building, only to retrieve the device once all students had left for the night.

In his latest attempt, Caspar was making his usual pickup at Prentiss when he noticed something was off: on the door of room 361, the files were full with papers. Darting to the wall, Caspar slowly placed his hand into the pocket, praying to God that no one had discovered the pulsating red light, which had further manifested itself into his heart and muffled his concentration. Ruffling through the various pages of essays, his hand reached toward the bottom of the file until his fingers touched a smooth section of tempered glass. Exhaling, he took the device out of the pocket and checked to see if the recording pulse was still going.

Time: 1:07:43 (and counting). He pressed the square.

“Perfect.”

Caspar slipped his phone into his pant pocket and made a pivot for the door. He made his way to the front exist, only to find the two double doors were blocked by two burly men in blue uniforms.

*

Perhaps it was one of the students whose paper wouldn’t fit right in the file. Maybe it was Ms. Dubrea, who he wasn’t able to convince (maybe there was no such thing as an Evaluations Official). Maybe it was Stephanie on the first day of classes, though he never imagined her snitching on him. Maybe it was an innocent slip of the tongue and that’s where the questions began to be raised. Regardless, Caspar would never find out who or what had tipped someone off.

The two officers escorted the young man into a wide, multi-pillared building whose lights were beaming out into the night. Navigated their way through the halls and up the stairs, they finally came to a wide door overlooking the entire campus. Behind the door sat a silver-haired gentleman in a gray suit and slacks. A bold-font name plate at the head of the desk read:

John Carrington: Dean of Students

“Good evening,” said the older man, resting his forearms on his desk. “Have a seat.”

The young man obliged, biting his lip to keep it from shaking.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Caspar Dougal.”

“And, to clarify, you are not currently enrolled at our University?”

Caspar swallowed hard. “That’s right, sir. I’m not enrolled. Nor have I ever been.”

“You’re looking a bit warm.” He motioned for the officers to leave the room.

After a brief pause, the dean leaned forward into his seat.

“Caspar, may I ask you a question?”. The young man nodded. “Consider this: you’re taking the stand in front of the thousands of students and faculty here at the university, to the thousands of men and women who are as adamant about their education as you are. To the thousands of students who have already spent a handsome amount on tuition. If you were to confess what you’ve done to those men and women, how do you think they’d react?”

“I imagine they’d be pretty sore…” said Caspar, lowering his gaze, feeling the weight at the end of the dean’s stare.

“How many sessions did you sit-in on?”

“Twelve sessions, sir.”

The dean pulled back a moment, opening a drawer and retracting a calculator. Reaching over to grab his bifocals, he began punching in a series of various number sequences before returning to face a deflated Caspar.

“Now Caspar, I am compelled both by my civic duty and responsibility as Dean of this University to press charges against you for loitering and evasion of tuition payments. If we were to press charges, on top of the roughly $500 of accrued class time, you would also likely serve jail time with an additional fine added to the unpaid tuition. And while I do have some jurisdiction to press charges, I cannot control the media’s response. That, in a nutshell, is option one.”

By now, Caspar’s head was anchored to the floor.

“Then there’s option two, in which you would vacate the premises of this university immediately and pay the accrued cost of your sit-in time, within the next two months, to the bursar via check. Having done so, I will close your case and not press any subsequent charges. However, if you are found on campus again, the university has a very strong case to convict you of aforesaid charges and will not hesitate to do so. Are we clear?”

Caspar raised his gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“So, what will it be?”

*

Though initially annoyed, Caspar’s boss would be willing to admit he was relieved to have Caspar return to the original overtime schedule. On one particular night after work, Caspar decided to take a walk downtown, admiring the sorbet sunset melting behind the various skyscrapers. Fingering his jean pocket, he took out a small business card, one given to him by the Dean and looked at it closely: there was a star in the upper corner, with the heading “Constant Creatives,” alongside an address and a phone number.

After walking through the hubbub of nightly traffic, Caspar was guided by the shine of the streetlamps to a small bungalow. From the window, Caspar could make out a living room, with fully-stacked shelves decorating each wall. A company of adults from various ethnicities and ages were seated on couches, each with a book in their lap, laughing. As he reached the threshold, Caspar froze, looking back, then took a breath and rang the buzzer. A wave of laughter and discourse poured through the open door and a man in a sweater and knitcap appeared.

“Hello there, I’m assuming you must be Caspar!”

The young man nodded bashfully.

“Mr. Carrington called. Said you had some stories to tell.”

“Caspar smirked. “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“Well, come on in,” said the man. “Everybody’s been eagerly waiting to meet you!”