Don't Forget to Write

Hard at Work

Later that week I met Amir in front of Rich's classroom and we traded cash for paper. Over the weekend he sent me a text that he received a 96% (a higher grade than my own paper received) and that he had a couple of business associates for me. We me in Shepherd's Hall near the photos of Einstein. He gave me another hundred-dollar bill (for the A grade) when we shook hands and introduced me to his two friends.

"Thanks," I said when he slipped me the bill.

"No, thank you. You earned it man. I read the work over, and I'm no expert in writing or psychology or nothing, but it was good. You really know your stuff."

I shrugged, "Fake it till ya make it is my motto."

"These are my friends, they have similar propositions for you, if you have the time." It was the beginning of October, and mid-terms were coming into full swing. I had my own studying to do, but my grades wouldn't matter much if I couldn't afford an apartment to stay in next semester. Plus I was helping the student body focus on the midterms directed towards their own majors rather than on electives, so really, I was doing a good thing, right? Sacrificing myself for the good of the whole, or some shit.

One of them needed ten-page report on the effects of technology on globalization. The other needed a fifteen-page paper on his personal reflections on the Bhagavad Gita. I charged the first $250 and the second man $500 (on account of the fact that that not only was the assignment longer, but I needed to at least peruse through the Bhagavad Gita and do some research in order to write it properly). Each gave me a $100 down payment and would pay an extra 25% of the total if they received an A. It was amazing what people were willing to do for the mere convenience of time. Though, I suppose time is priceless, and if one has the money to spend on allowing themselves more time, then that is the wisest investment they could make, assuming that they us the newly bought time wisely.

I had no classes after the business transaction, so I bought a coffee from a food truck, and parked myself in the library. From the front pocket of my backpack I pulled out a plastic bag with half a dozen round pink pills; Adderall. I was prescribed to take them daily by a doctor in middle school who claimed I had ADD and Dyslexia. I didn't like taking it except for on special occasions. The doctors were diagnosing the personality of a curious and over-energetic kid. I didn't need medicine, I just needed to be active to keep my mind busy. But I did like to use the pills from time to time when I wanted to stay awake, or if I wanted to enter a sort of hyper-focused, buzzed, mindset.

Besides, who could turn down free drugs?

As I slurped down the pill with my coffee, I considered getting my prescription refilled and selling the little pills to students. At this point in the semester, these focus-intensifiers were passed around campus more than any other substances, perhaps even more than pot. They were an essential component to test weeks.

But then I figured I was already breaking the honor code of academia by running this business out of the college's own library, and adding "drug dealer" to the list of demeanors seemed like a steady step in the wrong direction, so I put the street pharmaceutical business idea deep in the back pocket of my brain and focused instead on the task of writing other students' papers.

But, of course, before writing the papers, and before the full buzz of caffeine and amphetamine reached my brain, I needed to add the nectar of all good writers, lubricators of all words and social situations, into the biochemistry of my body. I again reached into the open front pocket of my backpack, made sure nobody was watching, pulled out the flask filled with whiskey, and poured a couple of dollops of whiskey into the coffee. I repeated these processes, cups of coffee, sips of whiskey, and the occasional pill, for an amount of time that became somewhat imperceptible in my buzzed and hyper-focused brain. I watched a rainstorm come and go, the sunset, the street lamps turn on, the traffic disappear, the sun come back up, the traffic return, and all of the students arrive at campus. Nearly 24 hours later, (the library was open 24 hours on weekdays) Amir's friends came with cash in hand to collect the work. I was wearing the same clothes I had been yesterday, probably wreaked of body odor, hair all over the place, eyes drooping. "You look like crap," one of the friends said.

"Yeah well, I've been on campus since yesterday."

"You're crazy."

"Yeah, I'm crazy," I said to the guy giving me $500 (soon to be $625 once he got his grade back, I was sure) for a twelve-page paper.

Amir's two friends told their friends, who told their friends, and on and on, until soon I had five more papers to write. Some were midterms papers and some were essays. I didn't give out my school email, and ignored anybody who tried to contact me through it. I kept tabs on the librarians, they were like covert agents, or guards, and I had to rotate the floors and rooms I used and slept in at the library so they wouldn't get suspicious. Within the next two weeks, I had over a couple thousand in cash tucked inside an envelope under my mattress, plus the paychecks from coaching. My 25% fee for A grade papers brought in a steady surplus. As far as my own midterms, I received mostly B's.

Since the number of people asking me to do work had grown so much, I was performing most of my money transactions either through private online banking, or through cash in the stairwell where there weren't any cameras. People in the library must have thought I was either overworked, homeless, or crazy, because I spent most nights there, slurping coffee, flipping through books, chatting with my many patrons. In the second week of October, when the last of midterms was finishing up, there was a constant ringing in my ears and my hands had begun to shake. Probably from the sleep deprivation and high levels of caffeine.

Moose and Bruno said that I looked sickly while we were coaching the soccer practices, and I struggled to remember the kids' names or fully convey my message, but the kids forgave me on account of the lie I had told them about having the flu. Plus, they were 5, so it didn't really matter as long as I had fun activities for them to do and could crack a couple of G rated jokes.

Bruno was a bit concerned, as he hadn't seen me at the apartment much at all in the past few days, but when I explained to him my little business operation he nodded his approval. "Keep hustlin' Petey. It's the Harlem way. Now you're getting it. Now you're a New Yorker. It's all about the hustle."

The days blurred together, I lost track of schedules and meals. But, finally, the second Friday in October came around. Midterms were over, and I had the weekend off from coaching. I could relax, sleep, read, do whatever the hell I wanted. I stopped at Abe's for a sandwich and bought a new pack of oatmeal, blueberries, bacon, and a dog treat.

Bruno came out of his room, surprised to see me eating a sandwich. "Petey-boy. I forgot you lived here. Did the library start making you pay rent?"

"No, but they're onto me. They want a 10% commission on all of my profits."

"Those bureaucratic bastards." We laughed, not because our jokes were funny, but because we were both relieved to have even an inch of financial security from coaching, and I had just earned a safety cushion of cash. For once we were comfortable. We laughed because, for now, we had made it. We had money for rent, we had food, we had each other. Things were good. I started to wonder how long it would last, this comfort. I wondered how long I could keep up my business of cheating. And what were the repercussions of getting caught? Suspension? Expulsion? Banishment from the world of academia? What would I do if that happened? Coach for the rest of my life? Pick up a useful trade and work in a union with pensions and benefits? What kind of future would await me if I couldn't get a college degree? This was unfathomable, because I couldn't even imagine the future that awaited me with a college degree. I felt trapped. I thought I was pulling a fast one over the system with my business, but really I was still stuck in the same system, just tucked away in a dark corner, like an insect. I was stuck. I tried to change my thoughts. What was Camila doing right now? I thought about her being a TA, how she seemed to have her life figured out, how she was a professional who enjoyed her work, and finished school and didn't drink in excess. Then I remember the class she worked in, and I wondered how am I doing in my classes? Did I really want to be a mechanical engineer? What was I going to do with my life? Most of all, why couldn't I just be happy? Why couldn't I just lay in bed and accept that, for once, things seemed good? The exhaustion from the past couple weeks caught up with me, my spinning thoughts transitioned into dreams, and I couldn't tell what was what. I guess I was asleep.