Scruple the Third

THE PROFESSOR

The professor’s skin was as black as his felt jacket: his hair like the dusting of snow crowning his felt cap. His thin gold rims glinted, as did the aging whites of his eyes and the onyx irises.  His blue vest bulged a little, but his fingers were nimble and pale on the under-sides.  The fingers reached for the unengaged pencil on his pupil’s notepad. 

The professor’s accent was Kenyan: his plosives the product of full lips, and the rolled “r”s pronounced by a reclusive and raspberry pink tongue.  The full lips began,

“You and I, are like this pencil.”  He said.  Perhaps his priesthood preordained his many timely pauses during college lectures. “And the pencil,” he said, “has four points.”

“Point one, pencil:” he regarded the little machine with gravitas, “is that your goodness, is within you.”  The professor looked up.  “Your goodness is, within you.”  The thinking silences rivaled the mute snow. The professor critically regarded the pencil.

“Point two, pencil, is that you can do nothing,” this word he whispered, “unless you are in the hands of someone else.” A pause.

“Point three, pencil, is that you must be sharpened and re-sharpened many many times in your life.” The professor revealed straight rows of teeth, “Are you ready to be sharpened?” He questioned.

A pause. Again to the pencil, and with satisfaction, he said, “Point four, pencil. Is that you must always leave a mark.”