The Reluctant Graduate
written by: Jim Harrington
It was at night when the words stung the most. Even lying on his bed, facing the ceiling, head on his pillow, the sides held up like earmuffs, the words overwhelmed his inadequate defenses.
“Congratulations, Graduate.”
Graduate! He’d spent sixteen years in college trying to avoid graduating. Then he got so excited about the results of his second Master’s thesis, this one on localized strategic modeling and queuing systems, he actually finished the damn thing and turned it in on time.
But now what? If he graduated, he’d have to work. In some factory? Or a big tech company? Or worse, his father’s engineering firm?
“You knew it would happen eventually.”
Edward turned to see his best friend since grade school, Peter, sitting at the foot of the bed, sipping a Diet Pepsi. He wore army fatigues and red sandals. Both big toes peeked out from holes in his yellow socks. It made Edward sad that Peter didn’t show up as much as he used to. Not since the accident anyway. Edward told Peter he was too drunk to drive. Peter said he was worse, as he puked in the strip club parking lot where they’d met up with friends for Peter’s bachelor party.
“No. It can’t.” Edward sat at his desk. He picked up a pencil and shook it to stir up the ink. “I don’t get along well with others.” He turned to look at Peter and was greeted by an empty space. “You know that,” Edward whispered to himself. He continued working on an essay for a class he wasn’t enrolled in, his feet tapping a quick rhythm on the carpet, perhaps a salsa. He wasn’t sure. “And you look stupid in that outfit.”
“No worse than you look in those superhero pajamas,” said Peter’s disembodied voice.
When the pencil continued to misfire, Edward stood and paced the room, barefoot, Cocoa Puffs crumbs providing a rhythmic accompaniment on the unswept floor. He couldn’t understand why this paper was giving him so much trouble. He had a well-rounded background, with Bachelor degrees in physics and music, a Master’s degree in sociology, and this recent one in strategic management. Still, he couldn’t come up with anything enlightening — or interesting — to write about Pablo Picasso.
He needed a new plan. Confused, Edward lay down and stared at the ceiling. Maybe he could . . .. Perhaps . . .. What about. . .? Unable to complete a sentence, Edward rolled on his side and assumed a fetal position, his hands in prayer under his head.
“What do you think, Pete?” Edward turned his head. When he realized Peter still wasn’t there, he curled into a tighter ball. “You’re never around when I need you the most.”
Edward considered his options. He could always work as a waiter again. But not the place he was fired from for writing in his diary instead of tending to stupid customers. The college library might hire him full time, or give him a reference. The librarians knew he was a good worker from his two semesters assisting at the circulation desk. There was that incident with the incompetent geography professor.
Edward closed his eyes, and his father appeared, scolding him for even thinking of accepting such menial jobs. “The pay is terrible,” Edward’s father said, his voice brittle. “You couldn’t raise a family properly with those kinds of jobs.”
Edward rolled on his other side, placed his hands over his ears. Work. Money. Family. Grandchildren. More words to haunt him.
He jumped up and screamed. A few seconds later there was a knock on the door. “Are you all right, Mr. Pierson?” a male voice asked.
“I’m fine, nurse, just . . . just a nightmare.” He reminded himself to stay calm so they wouldn’t put that jacket on him again, the one that restricted his arms. He hated it when he couldn’t write.
At the window, he saw the campus bell tower across town highlighted against the hazy horizon. A red light pulsed at the top. A smile appeared on Edward’s face for the first time in weeks. His shoulders relaxed. “Of course, you idiot. Why didn’t you think of this before?”
He grabbed a pile of college recruiting booklets he’d requested years ago, laid on the floor, and began leafing through the listings for PhD programs. He’d figure which ones to apply for as he wrote. Maybe something in medical research this time.
- The Reluctant Graduate - May 30, 2025
