Final Exam

Final Exam

Ralph Moore

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph Moore

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part, in any form, through any medium.

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CHAPTER 1

I’m starting this off with an introduction. I do this to explain why I’m doing this book. I never intended for the story to ever get out. I thought that what I had written for my master’s degree thesis should remain unpublished and even unknown. It was a biographical piece and the subject of the thesis is dead and the story I uncovered should remain untold. Let the dead lie buried and their bad deeds forgotten. But, should some word of the thesis be discovered, I write this introduction so people can read my thesis, if they so desire, and see the true story it exposes and see why I wanted it to be untold. And, to fill a just in case necessity, following this is the story of my thesis. It should be read if the thesis is to be read, and please take the story for what it is meant to be.

* * *

There I was, Kenneth Harris, at the end of the third and last quarter of my first year in graduate school. I had completed my classes. Others were now taking exams. My courses this quarter had no exams, just papers, and I finished them well before the end of classes. My degree, the M.A. in Liberal Arts and Sciences, was in the English department and my focus was on literature. As papers for my last three classes I did an essay, a biography, and a short story.

So I finished my class work. Now came the hard part: the thesis. I still had a good two weeks before the summer term began, time enough to get a thesis proposal written. But I had to get to work on it without wasting much time.

I was attending a small private college in Boston, just inside the city limits. It was a good school, with a great faculty and a good offering of what was a kind of establishment education. There were some students there on scholarships, but the majority had money or came from families that could well afford the tuition and the cost of living in the Boston area. I don’t think anyone could carry the studies and work for his living at the same time.

I didn’t have money, but my family did. I came from the Chicago area where my father had a manufacturing company making electric motors, some large and many small. I had four uncles who had worked there when it was getting started but who now had their own businesses. Theirs are not in manufacturing. One has a big firm in finance and I am his favorite nephew. One is an M.D.; one is a college professor; and the fourth, the richest, is a V.P. in a large conglomerate. My father paid my college tuition. My favorite uncle paid my graduate tuition. On top of this, when I started college, my father gave me a trust fund which pays me regularly a basic living allowance. He also gave me the freedom to discover for myself what I wanted to do with my life.

I’d known for quite a while what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to have fun, and I wanted to be a writer. The art and craft of writing was what I studied in college. Now I was doing what I thought was the necessary thing for my chosen career by trying to get the M.A. degree in graduate school. When I get the M.A., I can devote my time to having fun and, if I can, to writing about life. I think that would make for an enjoyable as well as productive life, a good employment of the wealth my family had worked so hard for and so generously provided me with.

The school had some good housing possibilities for the many students who came from distant homes. They had two large old houses converted into residence halls, one for men and one for women. They also had a few old apartment buildings in different locations but close to the campus. I shared one of the apartments. I lived there since my freshman year. I had one roommate that year and another in my sophomore year. They were good guys, from good families, and I got along well with them, but they left the school, each for some personal reason. My roommate who came in my junior year was more secure in knowing what he wanted to do, and he stayed through the rest of my undergraduate studies, and he was still there through my first year of graduate studies and planned on staying there through his senior year. I planned on finishing my M.A. in the summer following my first year of graduate classes. My roommate’s name was Ian MacDonald, and he was a good man and a good friend.

Well, I’d finished my morning visit to the campus, checking my results for the courses I’d taken for my last quarter of classes. I faired rather well: three A’s. One couldn’t really ask for more. And how lucky I was that, there being few students enrolled in the courses and the required papers completed and discussed in the classes before the end of the quarter, the professors had been good enough to quickly determine the final grades and to post them on the bulletin boards outside their respective offices. Now I was free to do what I wanted for the rest of the exam week—and for the following week. True, I had to present my thesis proposal before the summer quarter and get it approved. And, of course, I had to write the proposal. After the topic of the thesis was approved, I would be able to start on its research and writing. But in spite of all that, I could, for today at least, afford to take a small break from thinking of academic problems.

I decided to go for a coffee, then to the apartment to clean up things for the coming thesis work. My roommate, Ian, had an exam at ten and would probably be done and back to the apartment before noon. We could talk a bit about his expected exam results and then decide on where to go for some lunch.

So, first, to Mario’s. Fortunately it was close to the building which housed the English department, just a block off campus itself.

I turned to cross the grass, a short cut to the sidewalk along the street in the direction in which I was going, and quickly arrived at Mario’s. It was just about ten in the morning and there were a number of people hanging about its entrance door. I walked through them and in and was surprised to see the place packed. Mario’s was a rather large place, occupying what used to be three retail shops. The part on the east, facing south, on the corner with a side street, had been rebuilt so that in the summer the windows above a low brick wall, about three-foot high, could be removed to provide open air for what acted as an outdoor café. The windows could be quickly and easily replaced at night or in the event of rain, and it would then be as it is most of the year. That day it was still the regular Mario’s.

I walked around and through the tabled portion and saw and greeted a number of friends, but there were no free chairs. A lot of people were standing with their coffees, talking to seated friends. This was all too much for me so I left and headed for my apartment.

I got to the apartment and began to organize my work. I had a system which I employed each year at the end of the last school term, at the beginning of summer, before going home to Chicago. This year I planned to do the summer term. With any luck, that would be my last term of school if I could finish the M.A. thesis during that term. Then it would just be doing the required paper work and document processing to end my formal education. I definitely did not want to go for a Ph.D. I wanted to get on with becoming a writer and living the life of my ambitions.

My method of getting ready for the next stage in my life was somewhat draconian. I set out two precepts for my task. First, You can’t take it with you. Second, "It’s stupid to try to acquire things." These would guide me and also strengthen me.

First, I would pull out all of my papers, of whatever type. Then I would go through them one after another and throw out whatever I felt was not worth keeping or of no future use. That first pass completed, I would do it again with whatever remained. And so I would continue until I got to a pile of papers, notes, and momentos that were of value, or still of use for my next life stage, or were such that I would not let anyone take whatever it was from me without a fight. I applied the same procedure to my books. I was stuck with what remained, in paper or book, and I put all of that into some safe storage area or in a proper place in my filing cabinet or on my book shelves. I applied myself with no mercy, and I got rid of about eighty percent of my books and papers and could then begin acquiring books and papers for my next life stage: in this case that meant things for doing my thesis—nothing more.

I finished collecting the trash for throwing out or giving away—usually to the Salvation Army—just before 11:30. I washed up in the bathroom and changed to some decent clothes for going out to lunch.

At twenty to twelve Ian came through the door. Ian looked like what I thought was a typical Scot. He was very tall, about six one—actually six one and a half. He was well built, with broad shoulders and good muscles. He had big bones in his arms and legs, but his limbs were not large or heavy. He was slim overall, not muscle-bound, and not on any part of him could one see fat. He was very athletic, always ready to join in a game of some kind. But he didn’t participate in school athletics, at least not games of our school with other schools. There were students who did that, and the school was insistent on having only students (no professionals) on the teams. Ian played only in free or intramural sports. He always said, It’s just a game. He played for fun only.

As I said, he came through the door, looking rather pleased with himself.

Well, how did it go? I asked him.

I don’t know. Pretty well, I guess.

You don’t have any idea?

No. And I would rather not think of it. I have the next exam, at two this afternoon, to get ready for.

Going to hit the books? I thought you might want to go somewhere with me for a good lunch.

No. I’m following the method you taught me. I had a light breakfast this morning and some good coffee an hour before the exam. I’m going to take a nap in a while, and drink some more coffee at one o’clock, one hour before my next exam. I’m not thinking about any exam, or doing any studying before an exam. That’s what you do, and you taught me to do it, and I’m doing it, and I expect it to work out well for me. So, I’m not having lunch. I’m going hungry to the exam. But I might be persuaded to go out for supper.

Okay, I said. Good enough. I’ll try to get Julie for lunch. And I wish you luck for your afternoon exam, though you probably won’t need any with the determination you have to do things right, or at least as I suggested, before an exam. You’ll probably end up with straight A’s this term. So, I’ll just call Julie from my room and go out quietly while you catch a nap.

* * *

I called Julie and she was just at that time getting ready to go to lunch with her roommate, Alice, and suggested I was welcome to come with them, to which I readily agreed. They were going for pizza at a little Italian place we often went to, and that seemed perfect for me. Besides, I liked Alice. It was always nice to go out with the two of them, as well as Julie and I with Alice and her boyfriend, Fred. I got some extra money for my wallet, for I truly intended that they be my guests, and quietly crept out of the apartment.

The Italian place didn’t really have a name; everyone called it Luigi’s, the name of its owner and manager. His whole family worked there: his wife in the kitchen, with occasionally the help of a son and a younger daughter, the older daughter helping out waiting on tables or at the cash register. They sometimes employed female college students (usually from some college other than mine) to help wait on tables. Luigi’s even delivered pizzas during the school year, with students making the deliveries. That activity, however, was very limited in customers and Luigi’s could never be big in the business until he got some large, modern, and specially designed pizza ovens. He currently had stone ovens and put pizzas in and pulled them out with a huge wooden paddle. I always feared that if he got too successful it would ruin the charm and atmosphere he had, as it was, and that might ruin his restaurant, his family, even his inner self.

I got to Luigi’s and found Julie and Alice seated at a table in the corner to the far right. They had already had two glasses of wine served them (Luigi had a beer and wine license). I went to the table and greeted first Julie and then Alice and then I pulled back a chair and sat down. A young girl come over to the table and asked if we were ready to order or was someone else coming. Julie said no, no one else was coming. I seized the lull to suggest that the lunch was on me since I had no exams and was as good as on vacation now until the summer term started.

They both said Thank you . . . and a few more things and then began to consult the menu to select what they would order. Julie went first, setting the standard for us all, ordering a small sausage pizza. Alice also wanted a sausage pizza, so she suggested they go together for a medium one, to which Julie agreed. I suggested that since I also would enjoy a sausage pizza, why not make it a large one, or two medium ones. Julie said I should decide since between them, the girls, they could only handle one medium. I agreed to one large one, if they had one, or two medium ones. I also asked if she, the waitress, could bring three small tossed salads with vinegar and oil dressing, and I said I would also like a glass of red wine—the wine immediately.

The wine for me served, Julie offered a toast to myself for having completed the class requirements for the M.A. and I then countered with a toast to Julie for having done the same with her B.A. requirements. And then I toasted Alice for being so nice a roommate with Julie. We had only taken sips of the wine so that it wouldn’t adversely affect us for the rest for the day. I knew that Julie had another exam at 2:00 in the afternoon; I didn’t ask about Alice.

We sat back to rest a bit from that activity and Julie announced that she had not finished all of the requirements for the B.A. and would have to stay on in the summer term to make up an incomplete she had in one class. She would still be allowed to go through the graduation exercise. She said that was because she had a very generous teacher who guaranteed that she would make up the incomplete. The incomplete was for when she had been sick for a few days and missed doing an assigned paper. Being sick carried no blame, but everyone else had done the paper, so she would have to do it also. There would be no difficulty in doing it over a weekend, so she, too, knew she would easily do the required paper.

The conversation then switched to me when Alice asked what I had to do for the M.A. I said, The department gave me a paper with a list of its requirements. Paramount is the thesis. It has to be 25 to 30 pages of text. The project has to be some original contribution in a specific field of inquiry. I have to work out what it would be with my advisor and another professor who will act as the chairman for the final, oral examination.

Alice asked, Who is going to be your advisor?

I replied that, of course, it would be Wallace. "He was my academic advisor for the residency period of my M.A. studies, and a long time friend and advisor in my undergraduate studies. He is a good professor, and strict on a student seriously meeting any requirement of performance in his academic work. He could be hard on me, but I have always been able to meet any requirements he saw, so he and I have had no problems, academically speaking. And . . . fortunately . . . he will give the final approval and grade for the thesis.

But, I added, I still have to come up with a proposal for the thesis topic before the summer term begins. I have to submit it to him for approval as the first item of business for the summer term. After it is approved, I will begin the work of research or writing to get it done as soon as I can so that I can get the M.A. and start that part of my life I’m so anxious to begin.

What is that? asked Alice.

You’re asking a lot of questions, I said. Don’t tell me you’re planning on getting an advanced degree too.

I certainly am. You’re not the only one who wants to get up in the world and do something with yourself.

Well, I rejoined. That’s good for you. Go as far as you like and do what you want. You’re at least doing the important thing for life. You’re planning to live it. Ask anything. It just might help me in finding out for myself what I would like to do, or what I should do, that is, for the thesis. I’ll try my best to produce a good answer, or at least one that might lead to the formulation of a good answer.

So, began, again, Alice, what is your thesis topic going to be?

That, I said, I really don’t know yet. I have to sort of discover it. It has to be related to literature. And it has to be somewhat like other theses.

Are you hinting that we should suggest some topic? introduced Julie.

No, not specifically, nor particularly, I replied. I have some ideas of my own which should help focusing in on some acceptable topic.

Such as? asked Julie.

Well, I clumsily began, I don’t like to work, so the project should be easy. I don’t see any particular merit in doing something that entails a lot of work. It is in the product that the value of a project should be found.

So, continued Alice, Have you some ideas of topics to consider?

Not yet of topics. Rather, ideas of work parameters, I responded.

What are work parameters? enquired Julie.

Well, first, I don’t want to do a lot of work. Then, I would like to finish the thesis in the shortest stretch of time possible. And the project should produce a small product. It has to be no more than 25 to 30 pages long. I should like to do a thesis closer to 25 pages if I can. And, if it can be done, I would like to have some fun in doing the thesis.

You’re serious about all of this? asked Julie.

Of course! Why shouldn’t doing a thesis be fun? Anything worth doing is best if it is also fun. And if it’s not fun, why do anything? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

It’s not what people generally ask of a requirement for an advanced degree.

But if you want doing a thesis to be fun, and it turns out to be so, why should that be undesirable? Anyway, I put in as a condition to that parameter the stipulation, ‘if it can be done,’ didn’t I?

Alice came to my rescue with, "I think it’s all right to have fun, if it’s possible, so long as