First Day of College Classes, 2036

By John Sheirer

 

“Good morning, everyone,” the professor said looking out at the enthusiastic room full of vibrant young people. She pulled up a class roster on her palm-sized tablet. “When I call your first name, please raise your hand. Okay? First up is Ashley.”

“Here,” a woman in the back row called out.

“Donald?”

“I go by Danald,” a male student said quietly.

“Understandable,” the professor replied. “Pence?”

A woman in the front row raised her hand. “I just had it legally changed to ‘Hillary.’”

“Hillary?” the professor asked.

Five young women scattered around the classroom raised their hands and simultaneously said, “Here!”

“Oh, my!” The professor laughed. “We’ll have to sort that one out later, maybe assign nicknames.”

The whole class chuckled.

“Donalda?”

“Just “D,” please,” another woman said sharply, eyes fixed on the sunshine outside the window.

“Flynn?”

“I prefer to be called ‘Duckworth,’ ma’am,” said an ROTC student in fatigues.

“Eric?”

A burly, white football player from Alabama said with a southern drawl, “I go by ‘Barack.’”

The professor squinted and stuttered the next name: “Ja … Jar … Jarvanka?” There were audible gasps from around the room.

“Call me Michelle, please,” said a student with a strong, clear voice. “Yes, I hate my parents.” The gasps turned to chuckles.

“I think we’re all with you on that one,” the professor said.

Then she paused for a brief but noticeable instant before calling the next name. “Wall?”

“Yeah, I prefer ‘Wally,’” a soft-voiced man said from the back corner.

“Wally it is,” the professor repeated. “Good work making lemons into lemonade.”

The professor hesitated again, brought the tablet closer to her face, shrugged. “Is this a misprint? Maga? M-A-G-A?”

“I’m transitioning to ‘Maggie,’” said a tall, attractive woman.

“Congratulations!” the professor beamed. “Tweet?”

“Please call me ‘Instagram,’” a stylishly dressed man replied, tapping his oversized smartwatch.

“Budi … Budda … Buja …”

“Buttigieg,” called out a bright, optimistic student who looked too young to be in college.

“Sashamalia?”

“Here!” came the energetic reply.

“All right, thanks everyone. I’m glad we have that out of the way,” the professor said, tapping a set of controls on the instructor’s console. “Let’s begin the course. My name is Professor Reagan Bush-George, but please call me by my initials: RBG. Welcome to Political Science 200: Chaos to Enlightenment, 2016-2020.”

The lights dimmed slightly, and a hologram appeared at the front of the classroom, slowly rotating for a 360-view. It depicted a life-sized man slouching in a shabby black suit and oversized red tie. His ruddy face was caught in deep grimace beneath a ridiculous flop of unnatural hair. The students recoiled an almost imperceptive degree as if they subconsciously sensed toxic radiation.

Hovering near the holograph were internet headlines reading, “Improbable Electoral College Victory,” “Record Low Approvals,” “Foreign Collusion,” “Impeachment Debate,” “Ousted in Historic Landslide,” “Multiple Counts of Obstruction of Justice,” and “First President Jailed After Leaving Office.”

When the hologram pivoted to reveal the man’s back, the students saw that his wrists were restrained by handcuffs. Their hackles relaxed as they nodded in satisfaction.

The students powered up their touch-screen desks, synced them with their handheld devices, and focused their attention on Professor RBG’s words. After class, they’d do what college students have done since college began: meet up with friends, discover the best places to hang out, blow off energy, have conversations that would pivot from deep to shallow in an instant, possibly drink too much, perhaps even begin a fun but meaningless relationship. But for this moment, they were all determined to learn everything they could to avoid the mistakes of the past and help create a better world in the future—especially the Hillarys.

 


John Sheirer (pronounced “shy-er”) lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with his wonderful wife Betsy and happy dog Libby. He has taught writing and communications for 26 years at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, where he also serves as editor and faculty advisor for Freshwater Literary Journal (submissions welcome). He writes a monthly column on current events for his hometown newspaper, the Daily Hampshire Gazette, and his books include memoir, fiction, poetry, essays, political satire, and photography. Learn more about John at JohnSheirer.com.

Photo from the U.S. Library of Congress.

Horror Story

By John Sheirer

 

After a year of making hundreds of calls each day, wearing out another pair of shoes every few weeks, and knocking on more doors than he thought could exist in the whole country, David planned to take his family for a well-earned weekend in the country on the first Saturday of November.

As he watched the famous buildings of the capitol city fade in his rearview mirror, David nicked a tiny patch of early morning ice and spun his car through the railing of the Virginia side of the Francis Scott Key Memorial Bridge. His wife and kids slipped through the windows before the car dipped beneath the water. They had only cuts, bruises, and a terrible scare.

But David had to be pulled from the Potomac River’s chilly water by the strong hands of a local fisherman who happened to be a former college swimmer. His plunge sent him into a coma that lasted for two long months in a sad wing of the city’s largest hospital.

When he unexpectedly awoke, the medical staff sprinted for the room’s television, clicking off a shouting match on a news program that he couldn’t quite hear. Dark expressions hovered above the lab coats crowded around his bed.

“I’m alive?” he asked.

The faces nodded but remained troubled. David grimaced, swallowed hard on his arid throat.

“My wife?” he croaked. “My children?”

“They’re fine,” the nurse told him, expelling a held breath. She encouraged him to drink slowly from a small plastic cup. The icy water burned.

“Why?” he asked between painful sips. “Why do you all look so terrified?”

“We have some—” The head physician halted. His gaze found the floor.

The nurse rescued his sentence: “Some bad news.”

She inhaled a long, slow, deep breath of filtered hospital air and spoke two hushed words: “Trump won.”

David’s screams could be heard all the way to Pennsylvania Avenue.

 


John Sheirer a teacher and author who lives in Northampton, Massachusetts. He has taught writing, literature, and communication full-time at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, for the past quarter century. His books include memoir, fiction, poetry, essays, political satire, and photography. His most recent book is the satire, Donald Trump’s Top Secret Concession Speech, available in print and as an audiobook read by Mike Hardeman (Rocky Mountain Mike of the Stephanie Miller Show.) Find John at JohnSheirer.com.

Photo credit: Mike Maguire via a Creative Commons license.