Graphic by Sieve Sandsbom
Studying is awfully good occupation
“There’s one in every bunch,” I sighed to
myself, slumping down into my desk.
1 was sitting in my psychology class,
“Psychoanalysis of Inanimate Objects,”
doodling in my notebook and trying to ignore
an exchange between the professor and a
know-it-all student sitting next to me. I was
bored because a verbal slugfest over some
thing as ridiculous as acrophobia in clouds
seemed like a waste of time, and I was mad
because listening to the student’s views
wouldn’t help me find out the professor’s
opinions and biases — which, after all, were
what mattered when it came to passing the
final.
But I had to admit that the student seemed
to know what he was talking about, especially
when he boxed the professor into a comer
with something called the Paranoid Dew
theory — a theory that the professor had
apparently never encountered. Interested, I
introduced myself to the student at the end of
dass and asked where he had picked it up.
“Oh, that,” he said offhandedly. “I ran
across it when I was researching my thesis on
cumulus cognition. Gee,” he murmured, his
eyes growing misty behind Coke-bottle bot
tom glasses, “that was my first thesis.”
“Your first? How many have you written?’ ’
“Oh, dozens,” he said. “Maybe I should
his thinning hair. “Are they still teaching un
dergrads that nonsense? If the only activities
that qualified as jobs were the productive
ones, what would that make the millions of
soldiers in a peacetime army? Unemployed?’ ’
“Well, no, but...”
“And as for providing income,’’ he
reached into his briefcase and pulled out a
thick sheaf of papers “these are BEOG
grants, social security checks, G.I. bill pay
ments, food stamps and a couple of federal
equal opportunity scholarships because of
my Lithuanian extraction. During my first
year here I worked part time at a sawmill until
I discovered that taking 12 hours of practicum
and two of P.E. worked out to 20 cents more
per hour. Ever since then I’ve been going to
school steadily.”
“How long has that been?”
“Well, let’s see...January, February,
March...it’ll be 14 years in June.”
“Fourteen years! But how did...where
was., didn’t you...”
“I got out of high school in...well, when
Howdy Doody was a household word, and I
went into the Navy as the Mediterranean
fleet’s epidermic maintenance coor
dinator...”
“What?’
“Requisitioning suntan lotion,” he said. “It
“...don’t be surprised to find
that the people aren’t mellow...”
introduce myself. I’m The Professional Stu
dent.”
“What?”
“I go to school as an occupation,” T.P.S.
explained. “It’s my job.”
“But going to school isn’t a job.” I tried to
recall the definition from my sociology class.
“To qualify as a job, an activity must provide
income and make a productive contribution
to society.”
T.P.S. chuckled and ran a hand through
was a snap, but I started to get bored so when
a friend recommehded the college racket it
sounded too good to pass up.”
I was beginning to understand T.P.S.’s
rationale but he seemed to be overlooking
two vital points: first, as evidenced by all the
griping students, going to college is hard work
— undoubtedly harder than most jobs in the
“real world.”
Which leads to the second point — that
college is not the real world. It is a false,
meaningless sham that keeps the student
from recognizing the realities of life. I voiced
these concerns to T.P.S.
“Have you been sniffing library paste?” he
snorted. “Siddown, you’re in for an educa
tion.
“As to the notion that college is hard work
— pure sweatsocks. Nothing is so irrelevant
to complaining as the object at which it is
directed, and college is no exception. Gam
to be here.” Suddenly he glanced around
furtively, and then he whispered, ‘‘I even
talked to a woman who said she was going to
vote for Gerald Ford.”
“It’s true. And she told me her husband
was thinking of voting for Reagan.”
“Come on, now,” I chuckled, trying to
control an icy fist of fear that was tightening
around my stomach, “next you’ll be telling
me that there are people out there who vote
“...when was the last time
you were out of Eugene..?”
plaining is one of the few instincts that civiliza
tion has not bred out of humankind, and at
the end of a lifetime of complaining I don’t
doubt for a moment that people’s disem
bodied spirits go right on griping about how
drafty the pearly gates are. No sirree Bob, you
might find me complaining right along with
the best of them, but when it boils down to a
choice between burying a hoedad blade in
the Oakridge permafrost and burying my
nose in a book, if s no contest.
“Regarding your second point, college is
stimulating, it’s exciting, it’s fun, so all in all, 1
must agree with you — it’s nothing like the
“real world.” He coked his head and
squinted at me. “When was the last time you
were off campus?”
“Huh? Why, I was off campus this mom-,
hell, I live off campus, over on 20th and...”
“No, no, no, no. I’m not talking about the
literal borders of the campus, I’m talking
about the ideological boundaries of the cod,
liberated, slumless, academic, tuned-in,
token-integrated, artsy-craftsy, goose
down-stuffed, my-dad’s-a-doctor campus.
When was the last time you were out of
Eugene altogether — in Alabama, or South
Carolina, or,” heshuddered, “GrantsPass?”
“To tell the truth, I’ve never.”
“That’s where you’ll find out what the Real
world’ is like. I go to places like that once each
year, to just remind myself of how lucky I am
against mass transit and don’t recycle their
cans.”
“You may believe what you wish,” T.P.S.
said, “but don’t be surprised if you step off of
a bus someday and find that the people you
meet aren’t mellow.”
1 tried to grasp the enormity of T.P.S.’s
statement and failed. People who weren’t
mellow? Why that was ridiculous, everyone 1
knew was mellow — even the cats of
everyone I knew were mellow. 1 shoved it into
the back of my mind to be pondered later.
“...so I’ve decided to stay right here,”
T.P.S. was saying. “I’m working on r
P.D.M.F.-S.A.L.M.S.V. — Post Doctoral
Masterful Fellow of Sciences, Arts, Letters,
Motor Skills and Volcanology...”
“When will you get that?”
“Well, let’s see... September, October,
November... yes, December 1994. But my
options won’t be closed then — don’t forget
the non-matriculant program. Yessir, I plan to
stick around, I’ve found my niche. You can
graduate and be washed upon the jobless
shores with the rest of the teeming hoardes,
but just remember — a dime and a diploma
will get you two-thirds of a cup of coffee.”
With that he turned and strolled away,
whistling “Pomp and Circumstance” at an
uptempo beat.