AUTHOR: Schindler’s List.
HOSIER: Good movie.
AUTHOR: You remember?
HOSIER: Yes. It bothered me.
AUTHOR: I know. My Mom told me.
HOSIER: That would be your mother.
AUTHOR: You know why I did it?
HOSIER: Yes. But that doesn’t mean I forgive you.
AUTHOR: I was sick of always being the only one to answer a question! It just got boring, I felt like there was no point. You knew I knew the answer, I knew you knew, and we both knew the rest of the class didn’t care. They probably didn’t even notice she was in color.
HOSIER: But you didn’t say. Why?
AUTHOR: I got sick of always being the one to say.
HOSIER: You were afraid of what they thought?
HOSIER: Good, that’s perfectly normal. Everyone feels that, but I wanted to see if you were ready to ignore it. You were still tied down, still pressured a lot.
AUTHOR: I was seventeen.
HOSIER: True, but I always knew you could do more.
AUTHOR: Sometimes I wonder, I really do. I sure wish you were around to talk to. I had all these dreams: working with you, sending my kids to you, watching you grow old and lose your teeth…and I know I stopped talking to you for so long, and I feel really bad about that…but I was at college, I was busy, and…
AUTHOR: And I figured you didn’t want the little geek who worshiped you in high school hounding you. I figured it was time I moved on or something. I guess I just always thought you’d be there when I was done…and I miss you. I took you for granted, thought you’d always be there, and now you’re not, and I missed out on so much. Just because I didn’t want to appear weak. You always were macho, I figured I would bother you somehow.
AUTHOR: And a Republican.
AUTHOR: Honestly, every day I teach I wonder if you’d be happy, if I’m doing you proud, because of all the other teachers I met, you’re still the one I come back to.
HOSIER: I appreciate it. Either that, or you had some awful college teachers.
AUTHOR: Little of A, little of B…why did you do it?
HOSIER: I can’t tell you that.
AUTHOR: Of course you can’t, because I don’t know and you’re just a figment of my imagination. At least my insanity is conversational.
HOSIER: You’re not insane.
AUTHOR: Then why did you do it? I want to know why you did it.
HOSIER: I can’t…
AUTHOR: What were your thoughts when you held the gun? Did you think of all the people who cared about you? All the people who thought you were a God? All the parents who were amazed at what you did to their children? Did you ever think that someone might miss you, that I might miss you? Did you think of me? I know it’s selfish, but I want to know!
HOSIER: You can’t know.
AUTHOR: No one can, and that’s what’s so sick about it. You were God to me, man! You were a genius and you knew everything and you made it look so damned easy. I wanted to be you. Hell, I still do. God doesn’t kill himself. God is strong, God can rise above. God isn’t supposed to die and leave his followers alone!
HOSIER: Think about what you just said.
AUTHOR: …it’s not the same.
HOSIER: In your mind, I think it is.
AUTHOR: I just want to know why. I want to know what you were feeling. I want to know what it all means. I want to know how someone I thought as so intelligent and impregnable could be so hurt to do something like that.
HOSIER: Would it help you if I said it’s all part of some big plan?
AUTHOR: Not particularly.
HOSIER: Good, because that’s all bullshit.
AUTHOR: Ha. Thanks.
HOSIER: So why was she in color?
AUTHOR: You’ve got your secrets, I’ve got mine.