Michael Drinkman was almost the perfect student at Superior University. Almost. Nestled on the Wisconsin-Minnesota border near the great lake for which the school bears its name, Superior University is considered one of the most rigorous and challenging colleges in the Midwest, if not the entire country. And Michael Drinkman was seeped in this world. From fastidiously measuring out test tubes in his biology lab to effortlessly reciting Beowulf in its original text, Michael was a star on campus, and everyone knew he was going places. Med School? Law School? NASA? It was all on the table for Michael, and he knew his junior year was make or break.
There was just one problem. He stood 6'4", weighed a strapping 230 LBS, and taught Michael's postmodern literature seminar. Michael dreaded this class. Dr. Freeman was a difficult professor, assigning multiple novels to read in a week, and grilling his students endlessly about the text. Dr. Freeman was also a harsh grader; not only did he give Michael the lowest marks he'd ever received (outside of high school gym class, which he made up with volunteer work), the comments from Freeman's red pen cut to the core. "Pretentious", "Vapid", and "Empty" were three of his favorite remarks to leave on Michael's essays. Not only were the comments sharp, they were needlessly sharp. Were other students insulted for their work? Or could Dr. Freeman see through Michael? Was he a fraud all along?
Scraping by with a C+ might be good enough for his classmates, but to Michael the grading situation was untenable. He'd planned to apply for grad school after college, and a C+ would be the difference between the Ivy League or three more years in a sleepy Midwest town in the middle of nowhere. No, it was simply out of the question that Michael would finish with a grade this low. Dr. Freeman was the type to spend long hours meticulously grading papers in his office late at night, so Michael knew he could catch him there on Friday around 9 PM.
Never had an oak door terrified him so much. It wasn't necessarily the door itself, but to whom it belongs. Behind that door sat the man who'd caused him the most trouble since he'd enrolled at Superior. The man who'd caused him to anguish over his laptop while the other students were out partying. The man who'd shattered Michael's illusion of his own intelligence, academic prowess, and work ethic. He laid two soft knocks on the door.
"Yes," A booming voice answered.
"It's—it's Michael Drinkman sir. I was hoping you'd have a minute to talk about my grade this semester? I really think you should reconsider as I—"
The door swung open, and there stood Dr. Freeman. Michael estimated his age to be around 45-50, but there was a chance Dr. Freeman was even older. It was obvious from the way his meaty arms were trying to burst out from his dress shirt that Dr. Freeman kept himself in very good shape. There was a hint of gray in his full brown beard, and Dr. Freeman made no effort to die or hide it. At 6'4", he towered over Michael's scrawny 5'7" frame, and must've outweighed Michael by at least 60 pounds.
"You feel your grade is unfair?" Dr. Freeman said.
"Well, I, uhh," Michael stammered.
"Come in," Dr. Freeman said. Michael entered the room and Dr. Freeman quickly closed the door behind him.
As a certified teacher's pet, Michael had spent plenty of time in various Professors' offices, but none of them were like Dr. Freeman's. Rather than term papers scattered across the desk, Dr. Freeman had them neatly organized in stacks on his desk. His ceiling-high bookshelf, which held the likes of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Kafka was alphabetized and sorted by the book's place in literary history. A pair of Samuri swords hung on the wall. Dr. Freeman had spoken in class about his time in Japan, analyzing the work and of Yukio Mishima for his dissertation.
"Have a seat," Dr. Freeman said, and motioned towards a leather armchair. Dr. Freeman sat at his desk across from him. Michael sat down and starting looking at his hands.
Michael cleared his throat and said, "I feel that, I worked very hard in your class and my effort isn't reflected in your overall grade. If you took the time to reconsider—"
"I've heard enough," Dr. Freeman interrupted. "You feel that you worked hard enough to earn a better grade, so you've come here to beg me for an A?"
"I've got a 4.0 sir. If you give me a C+, I'll never get into grad school."
"Did I give you a C+, or did you earn a C+?"
"I'm sorry?"
Dr. Freeman stood up and started pacing around the room. "You know Michael, you aren't the first person to come by this week and beg me to change their grade. You're not even the first person today. Every year I deal with you whiny 20-somethings, blaming me for their own shortcomings."
Dr. Freeman stopped pacing and stared directly at Michael, "Let me tell you something, nothing is given in this world. You need to earn it. Earn your A+. Earn your way into grad school. Do you feel like you've done that, Michael?"
"Well, I—"
