They say you need fear to be courageous. This is a lie. You need only love.
V. Shnodgrate, Renowned PL Poet
Rather, the professor was on his way to vacation.
See, that part is always left out, isn’t it?
Depending on the circumstances, sometimes the vacation isn’t worth the pain and dadblamery it takes to get there.
Dost thou agree?
Of course you do.
You can’t disagree with that, or you might be a bit wormy.
Anyways and some.
This professor was off.
In a plane.
Planes are fun. And a bit tiring.
So, this professor leaned back–with a book on my lap, see–and closed my eyes for a few winks.
(I had a book there just so I looked like I dozed off while reading. It’s a thing, see. Academics are always dozing off while reading. Sometimes I fancy myself one.)
“Look, the only reason I hate you is because you enjoy what I don’t.”
That startled me.
The bury fellow next to me was speaking up.
I should’ve mentioned that this professor was smashed in between two people, see. Wasn’t lucky enough to have the window seat and wasn’t lucky enough to have the aisle seat.
I was betrayed.
Abandoned. But I was making the most of it.
Till the burly fellow on my left yelled at me.
“Say again?” I asked.
He shook his head. I think he was cranky about having to say it again. His ragged, stringy beard looked ferocious, too.
“The only reason I can’t stand you,” he said, more slowly this time, “is because you enjoy what I hate.”
And he indicated the book I was reading.
It was Shakespeare.
You know, that odd English guy with the earring.
Now, here’s the thing: that Shakespeare book is one that the professor carries around sometimes. It puts you to sleep extra fast.
Perfect cure for insomnia right there.
I should get lots of money for telling this cure, now that I think on it.
So, the chap said that. About Shakespeare.
And this professor didn’t say anything at first.
I was shocked.
‘Cause it was shocking. What didn’t he like? The earring, I bet. Me too, though. So.
But before I could say anything, explain that I only read Mr. Earring so that I’d fall asleep faster, the lady on my right spoke up:
“You bearded moron,” she said, to the burly chap. “Shakespeare takes sophistication to understand! Something that you obviously don’t have, but which this gentleman–“she smacked me in the arm here–“does. So, shut-up.”
“Oh is that right?!” he said, leaning over me. “I don’t care! Ya hear me? I don’t care! I’d smack a woman!”
“Look here,” I said, pushing them into their respective seats. “Why don’t we just stop?” I looked at the fellow. “The sudden, I don’t care if you hate me or not.” Then this professor looked at the lady. “Thank you for your sentiments, but I don’t really read the brute,” I said, tapping the book. “He cures my insomnia.”
“Well!” she said, tossing her head and going back to her business.
“Hahaha!” the burly one said. “Apologies! I misjudged you.”
Then there was peace for our time.
Goodness. I needed to get some rest, see. Once this flight was through, I had to navigate the Space Dock. And that was always nearly impossible, double-see. You think airports are bad? Space Docks are worse.
International flights compared to Intergalactic flights.
Yup. The fear was real.
And, yes, in case you’re wondering:
The professor was heading to outer space.