I Want the World to Stop Selling

I hated college, but I liked going to Professor Kelly’s office. He had the messiest office on campus. It was a mystery how he worked in a room where thousands of papers covered the floor like fallen leaves on a sidewalk. Some friends made fun of the disorder in that room, but I thought there was something mesmerizing about it.

I could see Kelly across the hall. The door was half-open, and tiny dust particles floated around him. I stood at the door for a few seconds. Kelly spotted me and said “hey.” When I sat next to him, he asked what my “next step” was. “Maybe some kind of marketing job,” I replied. Kelly seemed indifferent to the ambiguous answer. He’d probably dealt with so many kids with half-baked plans. He put his left hand on his chin and stayed silent for a while.

“Why don’t you ask Professor James? He’s new but taught marketing for more than a decade,” Kelly said. Kelly took a pen from his shirt pocket and started writing James’ email on a scrap of paper. “I’ll let James know that you’re interested in meeting him in his office. You email James to set up a time.” Handing me the wrinkled note, Kelly showed me the biggest grin I’d seen in four years. It was our final meeting, and there was no goodbye. He seemed to relish the unburdening when he walked me out of the office.

Back home, I looked for James on ratemyprofessor.com. James had 4.8 stars from another university. “Professor James changed my life,” a five-star review said. Some of these reviews felt fake, but I kept digging. On one tab, I had James’ profile picture from his personal website. He was wearing silver glasses and a navy Olympic National Park hat. On another tab, I watched a year-old TED talk with 160,000 views on YouTube. Apparently, he was also on the board of huge companies like Tyson. I spent the night studying James. Past midnight, I emailed him for an appointment.

“So, Hyunjae, Kelly told me you’re interested in marketing. Why?” James was wearing a grey t-shirt with a fishing man logo on it. The man was bald and had no hair on his face. Everything about him was clean. He could pass for a Korean skincare model—no acne, no blemishes, not even a mole. His room contained only four objects: A clock, laptop, notebook, and pencil. I could only guess the books are stacked inside the white cabinets. To me, he seemed more like a guru than a professor.

I pulled myself back into the conversation and answered the question. “I went to a pharmacy the other day–on Grand Ave. The pharmacist handed me the pills in a small white bag. On one side of the bag, there was information about the pills that I’d been prescribed. On the other side, there were eight, I mean eight, ads about some restaurants and stores in the city. I felt ambushed. Ads weren’t supposed to be on prescription bags. I wanted to do something about it. I’d never felt more energized. I thought maybe I could even make money off it.”

I couldn’t tell if James was really listening. Barely nodding with a stern face, his eyes were closed. I felt like I was staring at a bust of him. I didn’t know what to say anymore. I could tell him I was busy earning my tuition for the past four years. I could tell him my mother died a couple months ago. I could tell him that I was lost searching for a place to be settled permanently. There was so much I wanted to say, but none of it mattered. I looked at a plant, maybe a fern, under his desk. Just like that, James and I sat in silence for ten minutes.