body.
*
Professor Sorenson looked up from his cluttered desk when John entered. “Mr. Nolan, take a seat.”
The chair creaked in pain as John sat down. Before removing his notes, he glanced up at the room’s overburdened shelves. “I think you are going to like what I have so far.”
Old Sores motioned with an upwards palm. Let’s see it.
“Well,” John began with confidence, his notes now in his hand. “Before, we talked about the sociology of government.” He scooted forward and sat up straight. “I have researched numerous civilizations and found their downfalls were largely preventable and self-induced.”
John looked at Old Sores in an effort to soften him up before revealing his ultimate plan.
“Professor, I want to write my own Constitution. In fact, I have already started.” The tense young man presented his rough draft. “What better way to predict the future of governance?”
The professor studied his student’s work, and John was unable to decipher the expression on his wrinkled face.
“I have divided the Constitution into six articles,” John went on. “The first three outline the branches of government, or departments as I call them. The fourth describes how the government will operate. The fifth article details with the rights of the people. And the sixth sets forth laws.”
“The Department of Military and State?” the professor questioned.
“Yes,” John replied. “The other two are Treasury and Commerce, and Justice and Law. That’s all that’s needed. I explain why in there.”
The poker-faced professor skimmed though John’s work. His ancient chair moaned in a series of high pitched squeaks and pops as he leaned back to read. The minutes slowly ticked past.
Eventually, Old Sores removed his glasses, leaning forward to toss them onto his desk. The springs of his chair cried even louder.
“This isn’t what we discussed,” he said.
“No, not exactly, sir,” John nervously replied. “But I—”
“It is a stretch to consider this sociology. It’s more political science.”
The empty feeling John associated with academia, reappeared.
“However, you have come so far.”
The void began to fill.
“I have always thought that my primary job as an educator was not to teach sociology, but to help students achieve their fullest potential. If you don’t plan to seek a doctorate in this field, what harm would it do to continue?” The professor shrugged, his stone expression slightly relenting. “Being candid though, I still question the paper’s significance. Your work must be applicable to pass this course.”
“I believe it is, Professor,” John said, doing his best to mask his jubilation. He could sense the old man’s approval. “I will prove it to you.”
“Fine.” Old Sores handed the papers back to his student. “However, your final paper must sell itself. I’m still not convinced. If you need help, don’t hesitate to ask. I expect the finished copy on my desk by April 30.”
“Yes, sir.” John stood up and flung his bag over his shoulder. With a smile that encompassed his whole face, he proudly walked out of the office.
*
“Sir, you have a phone call on your personal line,” Shalid Ali Hannan whispered in his boss’ ear as he finished his prayers. Alam Jabbar required assistance to rise from his southeastern kneel.
“Did they give a name?” Jabbar asked with a thick African accent.
“No, sir. He just asked to speak with you.”
An injury to Jabbar’s leg left had him partially disabled. He limped down the hall to his plush office.
“This is Alam Jabbar,” he said into the telephone receiver, making no attempt to hide his Kikongo dialect. The Arabic emblem of his organization hung proudly on the wall behind him, a bright crescent moon against a black backdrop, surrounded by brighter stars.
“Mr. Jabbar, it is a pleasure. I have something that may be of interest to you,” said a male voice Jabbar did not
*
Professor Sorenson looked up from his cluttered desk when John entered. “Mr. Nolan, take a seat.”
The chair creaked in pain as John sat down. Before removing his notes, he glanced up at the room’s overburdened shelves. “I think you are going to like what I have so far.”
Old Sores motioned with an upwards palm. Let’s see it.
“Well,” John began with confidence, his notes now in his hand. “Before, we talked about the sociology of government.” He scooted forward and sat up straight. “I have researched numerous civilizations and found their downfalls were largely preventable and self-induced.”
John looked at Old Sores in an effort to soften him up before revealing his ultimate plan.
“Professor, I want to write my own Constitution. In fact, I have already started.” The tense young man presented his rough draft. “What better way to predict the future of governance?”
The professor studied his student’s work, and John was unable to decipher the expression on his wrinkled face.
“I have divided the Constitution into six articles,” John went on. “The first three outline the branches of government, or departments as I call them. The fourth describes how the government will operate. The fifth article details with the rights of the people. And the sixth sets forth laws.”
“The Department of Military and State?” the professor questioned.
“Yes,” John replied. “The other two are Treasury and Commerce, and Justice and Law. That’s all that’s needed. I explain why in there.”
The poker-faced professor skimmed though John’s work. His ancient chair moaned in a series of high pitched squeaks and pops as he leaned back to read. The minutes slowly ticked past.
Eventually, Old Sores removed his glasses, leaning forward to toss them onto his desk. The springs of his chair cried even louder.
“This isn’t what we discussed,” he said.
“No, not exactly, sir,” John nervously replied. “But I—”
“It is a stretch to consider this sociology. It’s more political science.”
The empty feeling John associated with academia, reappeared.
“However, you have come so far.”
The void began to fill.
“I have always thought that my primary job as an educator was not to teach sociology, but to help students achieve their fullest potential. If you don’t plan to seek a doctorate in this field, what harm would it do to continue?” The professor shrugged, his stone expression slightly relenting. “Being candid though, I still question the paper’s significance. Your work must be applicable to pass this course.”
“I believe it is, Professor,” John said, doing his best to mask his jubilation. He could sense the old man’s approval. “I will prove it to you.”
“Fine.” Old Sores handed the papers back to his student. “However, your final paper must sell itself. I’m still not convinced. If you need help, don’t hesitate to ask. I expect the finished copy on my desk by April 30.”
“Yes, sir.” John stood up and flung his bag over his shoulder. With a smile that encompassed his whole face, he proudly walked out of the office.
*
“Sir, you have a phone call on your personal line,” Shalid Ali Hannan whispered in his boss’ ear as he finished his prayers. Alam Jabbar required assistance to rise from his southeastern kneel.
“Did they give a name?” Jabbar asked with a thick African accent.
“No, sir. He just asked to speak with you.”
An injury to Jabbar’s leg left had him partially disabled. He limped down the hall to his plush office.
“This is Alam Jabbar,” he said into the telephone receiver, making no attempt to hide his Kikongo dialect. The Arabic emblem of his organization hung proudly on the wall behind him, a bright crescent moon against a black backdrop, surrounded by brighter stars.
“Mr. Jabbar, it is a pleasure. I have something that may be of interest to you,” said a male voice Jabbar did not
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