Stacey, what do you think of Descartes?
“Huh?”
Descartes, the French philosopher?
Her look is a definition of befuddlement.
What about you, Brett?
His eyes never look up.
Does anyone know Descartes’ claim to fame?
They pay me little mind. They listen to not a word, their eyes disengaged and
preoccupied.
I must be invisible, a translucent figure. My speech is emitted at a low frequency,
discernible only by canines. It must be.
Or so I can imagine.
I look at them, hoping my stare on their beings would entice them to reciprocate.
But it is not so.
I begin to doubt my purpose, my function, at this institution. Testing the length to
which I’m being ignored, I wave my arms wildly, make strange faces, grimace awkwardly.
Anything to see whether they’re paying attention.
Nothing.
The smooth glass in their hands, the liquid resolution, and compact design has
enchanted them beyond repair, nullifying any need for human recognition. The quirky
videos and funny memes are the new addiction. Out are the street narcotics, in is
cyberspace dependence. It’s enslaved their minds, trapping their attention, reversing
their learning capabilities. And they’re only the first generation. How badly will the
children of tomorrow devolve by adulthood?
Out of ideas, desperate for their awareness, I ponder my next move, lost in
thought. Should I remain silent for the remainder of class? My speech is ineffective, and
clearly a nuisance to them. Would the lesson lose any of its zing in the absence of
language?
Perhaps, but I’m paid to perform certain duties. I enjoy the job, what it stands for,
the impact I will have on the future minds. I relish the salary, the long holidays, the perks
and summer vacations.
But there’s got to be more to it than this. This act. It’s merely a show at this point,
something they can tell their friends and relatives if asked the perfunctory, How’s school?
inquiry.
This isn’t what I signed up for.
I fear for the future. What the world will become, and I along with it. Will I have to
conform accordingly? To stare downwards, and avoid human eye contact wherever I go?
Perhaps I’ll move far away from organized society. Recede deep into a woodland,find a pond, and record my thoughts about the pointlessness of it all. Solitude will be a
tiresome burden, but so is living among the zombies in the overcrowded cities. Few
acknowledge others anymore, for tech is our new essential.
I may cease to exist if this keeps up.
Seconds pass. Then minutes. I stare at them, they stare at their devices, and time,
meanwhile, stares at us all.
Or so I can imagine.
I write another quote from the book’s passage on the white board, hoping the
squeaky sound of the magic marker would divert their eyes in my direction.
It doesn’t.
My nerves intensify. Patience is at the breaking point.
It can’t go on like this. The dean’s words (leave them be; all you can do is take off
participation points, but do not touch their devices) be damned. In a fit of rage, I snatch
the trash bag from the corner basket, and toss it across the floor, picking up the empty
can. Several of them, intrigued by the minor mayhem, look up.
So we’re not deaf and blind after all! (silent thoughts, not words)
I storm upwards to their seats, holding the basket in front of me.
Put your phones in here.
“Professor …”
Put them in!
“But —”
Now!
All sixteen devices are swirling in the metal can, like confiscated marbles at a
children’s playground. With muted pride, I place the basket on the floor next to the board,
and continue my lecture.
When I glance at them, all I can see are their lackluster eyes. They’re open,
conscious, awake. Yet absent is any vigor, alertness, recognition of where they are.
Has it really come to this?
I proceed to talk, write on the board, explain the author’s intent.
But when I inquire about the theme, I get no responses.
Did anyone like the passage?
Not a single arm is raised.
Who does the author’s style remind you of?
Crickets.
For laughs, I lift the basket with phones, and rattle it. At this, their eyes light up,
their postures straighten. Like trained animals before a promised treat.
Once I put the can back down, they’re dejected and comatose again, quicker than
a fiend removed from morphine.
Try as I might to engage them – calling on them individually, suggesting they talk
it over
in groups of two or three – I fail, over and over, like a chunky athlete during a hurdlingrace.
So that’s how they wanna play it: with silence and disengagement.
Fine.
More time passes. Their eyes grow weary of me. The solitary clock’s
second-hand is the only source of sound.
Tik-tok, tik-tok.
Their figures gradually lose definition, and begin to fade, ever so slightly. This can
not
be. I must be at wits’ end.
I look up at the time: two minutes to go. Upon catching sight of them again,
they’re barely visible, nearly transparent. Before my eyes, they fade away, like morning
mist in sunlight.
When the clock strikes two, I’m the only one in the lecture hall. Why did they have
to take Descartes so seriously?
After some contemplation, I can only imagine.
Armand Diab (pen name: Barlow Crassmont) has lived in the USA, Eastern Europe, Middle East and China. When not teaching or writing, he dabbles in juggling, solving the Rubik’s Cube, and learning other languages. He has been published by British Science Fiction Association, Wilderness House Literary Review, Sudo Journal, and in the upcoming 41st anthology of Writers of the Future.