The Revolving Whiteboard

"Now, we will pick this up tomorrow, but I need you all to at least look over the work we have done today tonight, okay." 

Mr Lyle always appeared stressed. Perhaps, he always was, but something about his unkempt demeanour spoke of liberty rather than constraint. He was good. Nothing special but not awful. He did not relate to many students, but he struck a chord with them for those he did. He often dreamt of receiving emails from former students decades down the line, thanking him, telling him "if it wasn't for you blah blah blah". A noble dream, don't get me wrong. The vagueness of the dreams was the issue. He was not interested in the context, just the praise. As a literature professor, he wished for successful writers to contact him and remind him that he taught them so well. However, Mr Lyle just wanted credit. A banker could thank him for his contribution to their creative spirit, and Mr Lyle would thank them all the same; their occupation was consciously blurred. This was about to change. Soon his time with his students would be more precious than he could ever have imagined. Every lecture would be standalone. It happened on 03/04/21.

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In lectures, the students were nameless. They were meant to be. In all fairness, some classes were so small that Mr Lyle made more effort to remember his future stars. The first years were his favourite. Not because he was a pervert, that was very much an open secret in his mind only. It was because he felt inspired by them. Most came with a blank slate, whether they were aware of it or not. The militant atheists, the militant feminists, the Marxists, and conservatives are all unaware that their adopted role means nothing here. Mr Lyle would occasionally wind up the students who seemed silently distraught over his language. In his late fifties, Mr Lyle knew some old-fashioned slurs that would probably go off without disruption. He didn't feel one way or the other about language; he just liked the non-reaction he was afforded. The best he could do was '"fairy". Nothing explicitly homophobic unless there was a forced confession. 

"Now Jack was a quiet boy, wasn't so good at sports. A bit of a fairy".

Stunned silence. These moments made Mr Lyle's day. He found it hilarious, but there was no judgement. See, he knows them all because he once was them. He, too, had his activism, his label. Sadly, he couldn't appear on his Twitter handle, but, in his day, he wore a badge- a communist badge. Proudly strolling through campus, urging the eyes of strangers towards his jacket breast. The thought used to make him feel sick, but now he just laughs. So he pokes fun at the young and severe whenever he can. Today, however, the fleeting relationships he garnered would be even more inconsequential. Thirty minutes into his class on African Literature, Mr Lyle decided to use a whiteboard. A throwback, he was writing. The irony was lost on the sea of laptops facing him. Illuminating their stupid fucking faces. He missed the touch of writing. Mr Lyle missed a lot of things. Turning round to see if the novelty of the whiteboard provoked any reaction from the students, he froze. He no longer recognised anyone. The nameless were now strangers. The girl who always wore boots presumably several sizes too big, gone. The young man with an undeserved hefty beard…gone. They were replaced with other tropes he had seen before, but it was the tropes he had seen- these were brand new humans. 

Mr Lyle's eyes scanned the room, trying to maintain focus despite his shaking head. He could not come out and ask the students what was going on, and they would either laugh or say nothing. He feared being seen as crazy, especially with his past at the university. 

"I'm sorry, class, but he will have to cut things short today. I will see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Saturday, sir," said some annoying cunt who still exhibited a secondary school personality. 

"Silly me, right well, remember to sign up for the film festival this year. It doesn't matter if your idea is premature; any works are considered and appreciated."

"I thought you guys didn't get the funding for the festival this year?" said another annoying cunt, but it was a girl, so we will say annoying bitch. I prefer cunt. She was an annoying cunt. Mr Lyle lost his tongue. He pretended to not hear the girl and watched as the class left. The theatre, now empty, mirrored his mind. Thoughts swirling around the room but too inconceivable to breach reality. Mr Lyle blamed the coffee. He liked to find physical solutions to his apparent mental issues. He arose from his chair, which had begun to stick to his vulnerable, sweaty asshole. Hastily shutting down his newly mastered laptop. His mind spanned out of control as he looked at the date on the bottom right corner of the screen. 

03/04/22. 

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Mr Lyle could ignore many things: his unwithering love for his ex, that lump on his right testicle, and his strong suspicion that he fathered a child back in 1998. However, a year of his life passing by in a day? One look at the whiteboard and then his full-year gone in an instant? He couldn't handle it. His first action was to check his emails; how is the vacant Mr Lyle still functioning full employment?

Well, not only was he functioning, but he even gained a minor promotion. He was now the head of the literature department for all-year groups. Furthermore, it appears in this past year, he has been in an on and off relationship with some Geography professor. At this moment, the relationship is very much on. Despite placing severe stress on Mr Lyle, the slight twinge in his dick helped him forget the multitudes of awkwardness facing him. A year of his life is gone, but whoever has been fulfilling the role of Mr Lyle has been somewhat prosperous, if not more successful than the real Mr Lyle. But the real Mr Lyle is the Mr Lyle of the past year? Your confusion may be intense, but it is nothing compared to Mr Lyle, who, now back at his home, is contemplating slamming his head against the wall to see if it hurts. It did. 

After sitting at home feeling like an invader, Mr Lyle was finally honest with himself and whipped out his emails again. He was on the search for emails sent to him from his students. Not any praise-giving student from the past year; no, he couldn't feel any credit for that. But the allusive, successful former students, the golden ticket to self-applause, were the target of his hunt. 

Nothing. Noticeably fewer emails from students in general, he noticed. In amongst the bureaucracy, an email titled 'Congratulations John' sprung for attention. Mr Lyle's students had received the highest average grade across all subjects. Before heading to bed, Mr Lyle stared in the mirror.

"What the fuck is going on! he screamed. His wrinkled face appeared distant. He searched through his medicine cabinet, hoping for some experimental drugs. Begging for a freak side effect where the patient forgets a year of his life in one swoop. Some paracetamol, ibuprofen, the usual shit except his anti-depressants were gone. His heart medication, his eczema cream, all gone. The bathroom bin was also empty, so this was not a recent progression. Mentally and professionally risen. He slowly sat down on the cold bathroom floor, waiting for an explosion. Fifteen minutes went past when finally a tear crawled out. The only thing Mr Lyle recognised. 

End of Chapter One.