It’s a few days later. There are Christmas decorations and lights on the façade of Morbittity Hall. Inside, Malarkey sits at a desk at the front of the classroom as students finish their final exam. He looks up at the clock. The clock reads noon.
“Time’s up. Stack your finals here,” he says.
One by one, the students pass his desk and pile their blue books one on top of another. Wilson is no exception.
“Nailed it, prof.”
“Brilliant. Couldn’t be happier.”
Later that afternoon, as Malarkey attempts to grade those finals, a chore that only reminds him of the fact that reading anything longer than a tweet has become tantamount to translating Tolstoy into Aramaic, there’s a knock at his door. Malarkey reluctantly gets out of his chair and opens the door. It’s a student he doesn’t recognize holding a blue book in his hands. At first, Malarkey squints, thinking to himself, “Who is this unknown fellow with a blue book in his hands? And why is he here standing with a blue book in his hands?”
“Professor Malarkey?”
Malarkey opens the door and traces his finger across his nameplate.
“My name is Randle McMurphy.”
Malarkey clearly knows who Randle McMurphy is; he wrinkles his brow, but doesn’t let on. Sometimes, students believe professors only have one life to live and that one life is in the classroom after which they climb into a cardboard box and await the next time they have to teach, climb out of the box, and begin the exercise once again. The use of the name Randle McMurphy is a testimony to that ignorant perception.
“Not the Randle McMurphy?”
“Uh, yes.”
“I see. So, what can I do for you … Randle McMurphy?”
“I just finished taking a final exam in Morbittity Hall and found this blue book on the floor.” Malarkey looks at the name on the blue book. “Wade Wilson must have dropped it by accident,” McMurphy offers.
“Of course, by accident. Well, thank you, Randle. I’m extremely appreciative. This will make all the difference in the world to Wilson’s grade.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought. Well, thank you, professor.”
“No, thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
Malarkey takes the blue book, closes the door and walks to his desk.
“Randle fucking McMurphy. Must have dropped it by accident. McMurphy my ass.”
He rummages through the pile of finals looking for Wilson’s other blue book, finds it and smiles. After Malarkey reads the final exam, he emails Wilson and asks him to come to his office where the latter appears to be somewhat nervous, fidgeting in his seat.
“Let’s talk final exams,” Malarkey begins.
“I nailed it, sir.”
“You certainly did, Wilson, you certainly did. It seems you dropped one of your blue books when you turned in the final exam and another student, a Mr. McMurphy, was kind enough to bring it to me.”
“Phew! Thanks for letting me know. I’m glad he found it. That could have been a disaster, sir. Is that why I’m here?”
“No, Wilson, actually the reason you’re here is because, well, you cheated.”
“Cheated?”
“Yes, Wilson, cheated. You see, I know your itty bitty scam.”
“Scam? What scam?”
“Wilson, do you know how some pickpockets work in teams?”
“Not really.”
“Let me enlighten you, in case you want to take up pick-pocketing as a profession after being dismissed from university. You see, your friend, Randle McMurphy, is part of your team.”
“What do you mean?”
Malarkey gets annoyed.
“Don’t take me for a fool, Wilson. You wrote the last sentence of your answer to the last question in blue book number two, went home, copied the answers to all the questions into blue book number one and then had your McMurphy goon deliver it, didn’t you?”
“No, I, uh, have no idea what you’re talking about. I expected to do well.”
“Yes, well, expectation is the mother of all sorrow.”
“I studied hard for the final.”
“No, Wilson, you studied hard to figure out how to cheat, which will get you an ‘F’ on the exam and an ‘F’ in the course. You can appeal my decision if you want, but right now we’re finished.”
“But …”
“No buts, Wilson. Please leave. I’ll report this to the Chancellor’s office.”
Wilson starts to leave.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
Wilson turns.
“When you see McMurphy, tell him I loved him in Five Easy Pieces.”
Wilson nods and leaves the office. Malarkey turns to the Reader.
“Now, you might think Wilson was expelled for flagrant cheating. An egregious act beyond egregious acts. But, you see, Wilson’s father is a major donor to the university and, well, the sons of major donors may one day become major donors themselves, so Wilson was merely put on probation for one semester and could retake the course to eliminate the “F.” Life in the academy. So it goes.”
At that point, Malarkey gets a text message from Liliana:
Lunch?
Who’s paying?
You are?
I’ll meet you at the trolley stop.
Malarkey and Liliana stop next to the Citrus City College Trolley. It’s not a trolley per se, but it’s in the style of a San Francisco trolley with the difference being the trolley doesn’t run on rails, but on tires. On the front and sides of the fire engine red trolley, the name CITRUS CITY COLLEGE TROLLEY appears in gold, Italianate letters. People climb on.
“Let’s take this to the café for lunch,” Malarkey says.
“It’s only a few blocks. We can walk.”
“C’mon. Never rode this before.”
So, Malarkey and Liliana climb on. There are students seated next to them and a few faculty members.
“Would everyone please buckle up?” the driver asks.
The riders put on their seat belts, as does Liliana, but Malarkey doesn’t.
“Sir, would you kindly put on your seat belt?”
“Why?”
“College policy.”
“That’s okay, I’ll take my chances.”
“Please, just buckle up.”
“You’re kidding, right? This bloody thing travels at ten miles an hour for four blocks. Who needs a seat belt?”
The Reader has to imagine what transpires due to Malarkey’s obstinacy since the trolley driver has no option but to call the police and before Malarkey knows it, there’s a half-dozen Citrus City campus and city police cars surrounding the trolley. A swat team stands on top of the trolley, masked and in armor, with assault rifles drawn. One can hear a police helicopter whirling above with Malarkey on the ground, hands behind his back, cuffed as Marvin Gaye sings, “What’s Going On.” Malarkey looks at the Reader straining to lift his head and barely mumbles …
“Can I get a witness?”