Failure Notice

Mr. Valentine liked to grade essays at his neighborhood Panera a couple of evenings each week. He found a certain warm, cozy comfort there, plus he could eat healthy, while drinking copious amounts of coffee. The only drawback was that every now and then, he would run into people he knew, when paradoxically, all he wanted was solitude. Sure, he could have stayed home, but he had trouble staying focused at home. His air pods kept most people at bay, but some people can’t take a hint.

Every now and then, he would encounter people he knew – fellow teachers, as well as students, both past and present.  More often than not, there was an implied mutual ignore between them. Sometimes, he would engage in small talk. Sometimes, he struggled to pinpoint when he had the student. One year? Five years? With each passing year, time became more fluid. And with almost 20 years under his belt, time became a rapid blur. 

Sometimes, he recognized a former student the moment he was approached. Sometimes, he didn’t recognize them at all. But nothing could prepare him for a particular encounter one frigid January evening (the kind that made leaving the house a tough decision).

As he slogged through excruciating final exam essays, a rather ragged individual approached him. He not only looked homeless, but like a homeless person addicted to meth. He wasn’t one to assume, but this one seemed to be a no doubter.

 The man didn’t speak, but instead just hovered over him. Mr. Valentine hoped that if he ignored him long enough, he would go away, as was usually the case. It wasn’t unusual for individuals like this to linger at this particular Panera from time to time. Eventually, they would leave him alone once it was clear he wasn’t going to pay them a modicum of attention. Or, they would be politely asked to leave by the staff, at which point they would comply without further incident. This man clearly wasn’t taking a hint. And it didn’t seem like he was going to be asked to leave anytime soon.  

“Mr. Valentine?”

 Though it wouldn’t have surprised him that some of his students turned out like this, he had yet to encounter one – at least, not to his knowledge. He didn’t recognize this man whatsoever…but the man certainly seemed to recognize him.

 “Mr. Valentine, right?” the man persisted.

 “Yes.”

  “It’s me. Cody Robinson.”

 A name that has lived in infamy. Teachers tend to remember two types of students the most: the best students…and the worst. Cody Robinson was by far the worst. And the biggest asshole Mr. Valentine had ever encountered in his 20 years of teaching. Judging from his appearance, the years had not turned his fortunes around. Somehow, this outcome was worse than he would have guessed – though that was debatable. He had him pegged for prison.

Mr. Valentine’s usual response when he encountered a former student that he couldn’t quite recognize was to ask what he had been up to, buying him some time while he tried to decipher the identity of his former pupil. He became proficient at carrying on a conversation in a manner with a student he didn’t remember, let alone recognize until a vague recollection would emerge in his mind, as though the student were being regenerated out of the deep recesses of his memory bank. Sometimes, he would still draw a blank…but certainly not in this instance.

Just looking at Cody’s current condition – tattered clothing, rotting teeth, a horrible stench – he knew asking how he was doing wouldn’t suffice in this context. The answer was clear: he was doing awful. 

“I need your help,” Cody pleaded.

If only he had asked 10 years ago…

“Yeah? How so?” Mr. Valentine responded with a hint of irritation, lined with guilt for feeling this way. Of course, he already knew the answer before Cody even said it:

 “I am trying to get back on my feet. But I’m homeless. My family kicked me out and I got no one.”

Mr. Valentine was never one to help a panhandler. He made it a point to never be rude to them, but he usually went out of his way to ignore them. This was the first time he was approached by one he knew.  

“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Valentine said earnestly.

He truly was.

“But can you help?”

Mr. Valentine hesitated before responding.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he said coldly.

He couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming (and sadly uncharacteristic) urge to help him. He thought long and hard. After all, it was the humane thing to do – especially when you personally knew the person begging for help.

And then he remembered: He was the reason Cody didn’t graduate. He needed the credit, but he came up just short. It wasn’t uncommon for Mr. Valentine to pass a kid who felt just short of the goal line. Cody fell within the parameters of getting a mercy pass – or, at least some sort of credit recovery plan. But he had been such an asshole all year long, failure was the only option. In fact, the only time Mr. Valentine ever had to be disciplined was when he called the kid not an asshole – but a dick. In the end, he received a slap on the wrist and the reassurance that he had simply said everything that everyone else was already thinking. Fortunately, it was expunged from his file after a year with a warning that if it happened again, there would be consequences.  

Cody certainly didn’t help himself in any way – academically, or character wise. In the end, he had no one else to blame. He failed himself. And it wasn’t just Mr. Valentine’s class he failed. He had failed several classes and was coming up just short of the finish line. It all came down to Mr. Valentine’s English class. So how could he not feel partially responsible for this tragedy standing in front of him?

Much to his surprise, Mr. Valentine was suddenly overcome by a sudden urge to help his former pupil. But then immediately reminded himself of what a fucking asshole he was.

 But he was just a kid.

 He was hopeful Cody would just leave him alone. Then again, he could always leave instead.  Cody continued to linger showing no sign of surrendering.

“Please? Mr. Valentine. Please. I need your help.”

  Two employees finally approached, demanding that Cody leave. They apologized to Mr. Valentine as Cody headed back into the cold January night. He then lingered in front of the window where Mr. Valentine was sitting. He was looking at him with meth-addicted puppy dog eyes. And then he disappeared until seconds later, he was standing in front of him again.

 Unable to bear it any longer and not wanting to see Cody sent back out into the cold, Mr. Valentine gathered his belongings and headed out into the night. Halfway do his car, he froze in his tracks and almost went back inside. He could at least give him a few bucks. But as it turned out, it was a fleeting thought. He kept walking until he got into his car, before heading home to his warm, empty apartment.

He couldn’t sleep that night, consumed by the guilt of turning his back on someone who not only needed help now, but could have used his help way back then. When Cody was just a kid with a troubled home life, but still capable of being molded.

To help assuage his guilt, Mr. Valentine vowed to help Cody if he ever ran into him again.

But he never did.

In fact, a few years later, he found out that Cody had died of a heroin overdose. Would any amount of money have helped him kick his addictions?

Unlikely.

 But at least he would have known someone cared. If even for one small moment. And sometimes that is more than enough.