The Huron's Bend

Part 6

You're Just Good Enough

"Just a second, Mr. Auyang," said Professor Freeman as he combed through the clutter on his desk, looking for something he'd yet to explain.

I woke around noon to find a text message waiting for me. With her usual practice of not first consulting students on their availability, Goaltender had slotted me a 1:30 meeting with the department chairman. The two-minute shower, fresh set of clothes, and yesterday's leftover coffee in the refrigerator set me up for the brand-new day. My parents hadn't raised a child that eschewed decorum, and I was determined this time to show up before Freeman nice and clean, if only to offset yesterday's woeful appearance.

"Do you know why I asked for you today?" Freeman said, now scouring the dusty piles on the floor.

I'd thought about it while in the shower and come to the conclusion that he regretted the way he'd unceremoniously dismissed me the day before. It would be unwise for a professor, especially one that sat atop of departmental pantheon, to underestimate the relevance of once-a-semester student feedback on faculty. "I prefer that you tell me, sir."

"And I will, as soon as I find the document." He started looking under the desk. From time to time the top of his shiny head would bob up and down over the edge of the heavy cherry desk. Heaps of books, paper, and cardboard boxes were strewn around every corner of the office, leaving only a narrow corridor from the door to his desk. Ironically, the in-out tray sat empty on his desk.

"Maybe if you tell me what you're looking for, I could help."

He grunted and said nothing. Not someone who would admit defeat of his organizational prowess in front of a student, Freeman went on searching while on his hands and knees. Then a yelp of discovery and he came up from under the desk, one hand gripping a creased memo stained with scuff marks. He smoothed out the paper against the desktop and cleared his throat. "Well ..." He held out the sheet to the desk lamp. "I knew I'd read this when it first came in with the memos on other students. I just couldn't find it until now."

Having met him on only a handful of occasions, I found it hard to read Professor Freeman. The first time we'd seen each other had been during a cursory teacher-pupil introduction right after he'd delivered a lengthy speech on how well the department was being run, and how lucky we all were to be included in this privileged clan of the second-to-none—his words—Department of Computational Intelligence and Robotics. In his late fifties, he was bald and pudgy, but he retained a youthful exuberance, along with adolescent quirks. He could one moment be flustered by the tiniest distractions, and in the next glower at you for taking up his time. In his presence, I tried to play it safe by carefully observing and then catering to his whims.

"Dr. Freeman, I have a class soon. If there's anything you would like to tell me ..." I did not have a class that afternoon; I also do not possess the patience of Job.

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Tell me, Kodi. How are your classes coming?"

"They're coming just fine, thank you. I'm really learning quite a bit in the geometric algorithms class. Dr. Kirtley is an amazing teacher, and Dr. Shaw of deep learning is not too far off either." I flashed him a quick smile. Sorry not to include you in the group of esteemed teachers, but I've heard stories about your lackluster lectures that put insomniacs into comas.

"Good, good," he said, looking not at all pleased. "Listen, Kodi. I called you here today to apologize. I was in a hurry yesterday. Family emergency, you know."

"It's quite alright, Professor Freeman."

"There had been a mix-up. Dr. Brusky is your advisor, isn't he? Well, he didn't handle this properly before taking off. I'm afraid I must apologize for that too."

"Wherever he is, I hope he's having a jolly good time," I said and instantly regretted the tone.

He frowned, motioned me to sit back down and slid the sheet across the desk. It was a printout from a spreadsheet. I casually browsed from the top, until I found an entry highlighted in gauzy yellow.

Student: Kodi Auyang

Id: 289901

Advisor assigned: Kumar Brusky

Qual Result: Pass without reservations

I marked the highlight with my thumb so I would not confuse my entry with other rows, and read it again, from the first cell on the left to the last cell on the right. There was no mistaking my name and school ID. Under the heading Qual Result, the words Pass without reservations were in boldface. In other rows, I found names of several people I knew, and their test outcomes were neatly tucked into three classifications. Some, like me, earned unconditional Pass without reservations; other less fortunate souls got themselves tattooed with Pass with reservations, in which case a short paragraph followed indicating areas to improve and their deadlines; the last and the largest group had their fates spelled out, in cruel red font, an outright, irredeemable Fail.

I don't remember how many times I read and reread the paper. I do remember that I gripped the sheet tightly until it began to crumple in my hands. And when Professor Freeman asked for it back, I turned my back on him, walked over to the brightest spot in the room—under the ceiling light—and read it again. My eyes welled up as a tidal wave of emotions and thoughts flooded my mind. The trajectory of my life, which moments before seemed to be thwarted from all directions by incompetence and apathy, had just done a 180-degree turn and rushed headlong into an uncertain future.

Dr. Freeman asked for the spreadsheet again, louder this time. It dawned on me the paper contained private information that I shouldn't have been privy to and that he had let me see it only because he needed to assuage my doubt—or more likely his own guilt from my shabby treatment of yesterday. After returning the document and thanking him profusely, I dashed out of his office as quickly as I could and with as much poise as I could gather, not wanting to stick around long enough for anyone to cop out on the decision. It wasn't until I'd stepped outside the Electrical Engineering and Computer Science Building that I released the blood-curdling scream that had lodged inside my throat. People walking in the Grove looked up with barely a stutter in their strides; a crazy graduate student that wore emotions on his sleeve was a common sight, even among the conservative engineering crowd of North Campus.

As I came down to earth from the euphoric high, reality began to sink in. I needed a real job, one that allowed me to carry on my dissertation research while providing sustenance. I needed to find a research assistantship and find it quickly.

But to do that, first I must find myself a Ph.D. advisor—one whose surname was not Brusky.