Questions
“Sorry I’m late class,” quips the professor as the bald man in his mid-forties walks through the classroom door, slamming it behind him. Suitcase in hand, he glances over to the watch on his opposite wrist and once again feels regret of being over ten minutes late of an already short, hour long class. His eyes wander over his entire class seated.  It was the first day of class, and he was just as nervous as he was eager.
As the students chatter comes to whispers and soon comes to silence, the professor places his suitcase on the table and unzips it to take out a thick pile of white papers. “Here is your course syllabus ladies and gentlemen if you haven’t gotten a chance to view it online,” he says. After taking a few more minutes to hand out the packets, he returns to the front of the room and places the extra syllabuses on the table. “But are there any questions about this math course?”
One student with short black hair and an athletic build raises his right arm. The professor points to him and nods. “Yes?” he simply asks.
The student takes a deep breath. “What’s your name, again?” he asks the professor.
“Erm…” The professor clears his throat. “It’s in the syllabus,” he tells the student. “Any other questions?”
	The same student raises his hand. The professor points at him once again. “I know that. But I don’t know how to pronounce it,” the student tells him politely.
The professor pauses. “My name is not important to pronounce. You may call me Mr. Professor. I am your professor and I will teach you what you need for this course. Now then, any other questions?”
Once more, the same student raises his arm, and the professor again points to him. “What do we need for this course?” he asks.
The professor sighs. “You need your thinking cap, and of course, your history book. As it states in the syllabus, you will need to read it every evening before class. Now then, any other questions?”
	The same student raises his arm, and the professor is not caught off guard this time, gesturing to the student. “Why did you say it was a math class before?”
The class begins to mumble in agreed confusion. “Quiet down!” the professor yells, and the class obeys. “I…I taught mathematics last year. Is that so strange? Now, if there are no more questions, I’d like you all to-”
“I have another question,” the student says raising his right arm. “Why did you bring a whole suitcase to this class?”
	The professor takes another moment to tighten his jacket and contemplate an answer to the question. He looks over to his suitcase and then back to the student. “It has teaching materials in it.”
	“Can I see what’s inside?” the student responds.
“No,” the professor adamantly exclaims.
“Why not?”
“Because, you don’t need to know. It’s not important.”
“How can I believe anything you say, professor? You won’t tell me your name, you got the subject of this class completely wrong, and now you won’t let me see inside your suitcase. How am I supposed to trust you at all?” The professor curses under his breath. He couldn’t let him find out. No. Not this way. Not an ordinary, everyday student. He had to press on. He knew what he had to do. “Alright. Fine, you want to see what’s in this suitcase?” he asks, and the student nods in response. The middle-age professor smirks. “Well, you can see as soon as I use the restroom.”
He zips his suitcase, cuffs it into his hand and looks at his watch once more, heading into the hall, shutting the door behind him.
He takes a few deep breaths and then opens the suitcase once more, ready to empty the contents. Just then, a man approaches him, confused at why he is blocking the door. “Excuse me,” he calmly tells the professor. “I need in here,”
“For what?” the professor snaps. “I’m busy teaching class.”
“Teaching class…no, no, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. This is my classroom and I’m not so su-“
He pauses when he realizes what is going on, seeing the frightful face on the other man. He’s seen this man before. Four months before. Not in person, no. His little brother has a nasty knack for getting himself into trouble. It was at no other place than a police station.
Before he can tell the man who he really is, the “professor” drops his suitcase and tackles him to the ground. They brawl on the ground for several minutes before the bald man takes the upper-hand, delivering several blows to the professor’s jaw. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He quickly opens it. Upon seeing the man begin to get back to his feet, he slams the classroom door open and rushes inside, locking it behind him.
He glances at the class once more, and then at his watch. “Sorry about that class,” he says as he heads back to the desk. “Anyway…”
The same student with all the questions from before raises his arm. “Where did you get the wallet?” he asks.
The man looks at the wallet and almost has a heart attack trying to come up with an answer. Would he tell the truth about where his wallet came from? No, of course not. “I…it came out of my suitcase!”
“Where did the suitcase come from?” the man asks.
Suddenly, the doorknob to the room starts to turn. Someone knocks rapidly. “I’ll get it!” the student exclaims.
“No! No!” the man shouts, as the knocking becomes quicker and harder and harder and quicker. “Don’t…just ignore it!”
“You’ve got some explaining to do, sir,” the student says as the knocks continue. “First you got the class subject wrong. Then you wouldn’t even tell us your own name. Then you left, came back with a wallet, without your suitcase that you didn’t want us to see inside. And now you’ve got someone knocking on the door, trying to get in and you won’t let us see who it is.”
The other students start to chatter amongst themselves. They didn’t understand why this man was so fidgety. And he had to have an answer.
“Alright…alright…alright!” the man admits as the knocks finally stop. But he couldn’t admit the truth. He absolutely couldn’t. He had to do what he did best; lie. “I got jumped in the parking lot!” he yells, silencing the crowd of students. “My mind was a bit scrambled. I really did teach mathematics last year, alright? But my head wasn’t in the right place. I didn’t want to tell you my name because I’m scared! I don’t know what I can say and what I can’t! I…I’m sorry. I’m…sorry…I’m such a coward.”
The story made no sense. And the knocks start up again. “That’s probably him!” the man shouts.
The student stands from his desk. “It’s probably Becky,” he claims. “She’s always late to everything. Let me get it.”
“No, no!” the professor yells, but the student ignores him, not buying his student one little bit. He unlocks the door and turns the knob.
As soon as the door opens, the professor punches the student in the face, knocking him to the floor. “That will teach you!” he shouts, his pulse quickening as he realizes just what he’s done. “I’m so sorry!” he yells. He tries to help the student up but gets a smack on his arm.
“You’re…y-you’re crazy!” the student cries clutching his face, stumbling to his feet. “I’m telling them I want a new classroom. This is nuts.”
He runs out of the room. The professor dusts himself off and walks to the front of the classroom. “Sorry about that class, I had to pick my sick kid up from school and then some maniac attacked me in the hall and…”
The bald man raises his hand, now sitting in the seat the student was at moments ago. “I have a question about the syllabus,” he tells the professor.