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?

AUTHOR: I…no…well…yes.

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…

HOSIER: 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.

HOSIER: Macho?

AUTHOR: And a Republican.

HOSIER: Ha.

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.

*Lights up. It’s the end of the day. The AUTHOR is taking care of a few last things on his computer. He has headphones in and appears to be enjoying the music only he can hear. MR. HOSIER, who has been reading a copy of Civil War Times at the table, gets up and walks over, peering quizzically at the headphones and his friends gyrations to the music. He motions for the AUTHOR to remove his headphones, and he does so*

MR. HOSIER: What are you listening to?

AUTHOR: Social Distortion, the song’s called “Don’t Take Me for Granted.” Here, have a listen…

(he puts the headphone to MR. HOSIER’s ear…he listens sagely)

MR. HOSIER: Not bad, not bad…do the kids know you listen to such raucous music?

AUTHOR: They’re students, remember? (he smiles jokingly) And no, they don’t…at least not yet.

MR. HOSIER: They won’t take you seriously as a punk rock academic, will they? (he chuckles, they both chuckle)

AUTHOR: (slowing his laughter) No, I have my appearance to uphold as some sort of starched shirt…apropos lyrics though.

MR. HOSIER: Beg pardon?

AUTHOR: The song was written for a band member who had died unexpectedly. It’s sort of a musical eulogy, the singer’s sorry he took his friend for granted. I feel much the same way.

(a beat)

was I ever a friend?

MR. HOSIER: With time, I think you could have been.

AUTHOR: With time, huh?

(a beat)

AUTHOR: You didn’t come to my graduation party.

MR. HOSIER: I didn’t come to any graduation parties

AUTHOR: I understand that for the rest, for that rabble, for those miscreants. But why not me? I was your best student. I made you cut down on extra credit after scoring twenty-two over 100 percent! Why not?

MR. HOSIER: It didn’t seem right at the time. Had I known…

AUTHOR: I know. Still burns me up though.

(a bell rings)

MR. HOSIER: What was that?

AUTHOR: Last bell. End of the day. T.G.I.F. Time to go home to my studio apartment with my cat…at least I can cook, it’s not like it’s Boyardee over and over…I could go out, but I’m so sick of “people.” Yech.
(he shakes his head and starts packing up)
Sorry, I’m rambling. It’s time for me to get outta here. See ya Monday?

MR. HOSIER: No.

AUTHOR: (stops packing) What?!

MR. HOSIER: I’ve been here a month. We’ve covered it all. It’s time I go.

AUTHOR: No! But…no! You can’t! You can’t leave me! I’ve got lessons I wanna ask you about, I’ve got tests you should look over, I’ve got–

MR. HOSIER: You’ve got it. You’ve got it down, you know what you’re doing. You don’t need me, you never needed me. I was just here to help, and now there’s no more I can do. You’ve been on your own for years, and you’ve already passed me up. It wasn’t easy, but you did it, and I’m proud to call you my student. But… it’s time to go.

AUTHOR: I don’t want you to!

MR. HOSIER: But you need me to. It’s time to move on. I’m sorry it took so long for me to find you, I had other people I wanted to straighten things out with first. But now, you’re all right, and you were the last one. I wanted to make time, so you were last.
(a beat.)
You’re doing okay, kid. Better than I thought. It’s time I go.

AUTHOR: I’m not strong enough. I don’t want you to go away forever. Not again.

MR. HOSIER: You’re still here, and you put up with a hell of a lot. They treated you like shit in that school, but you refused to give in. I watched you, you got put through the wringer in that hellhole, I don’t know how you did it…but you did. You have my love, and my respect. You’re strong enough. Stronger than me.

AUTHOR: No way.

MR. HOSIER: When I took that gun to myself, I failed. I was weak. You could have done that, but you didn’t. You had more strength than I did.

AUTHOR: That’s impossible.

MR. HOSIER: Don’t be foolish. It takes more than football pads or a deep voice to make you strong, got it? It takes heart, it takes guts, it takes the ability to cope with something like my death… something I couldn’t do.
(he chuckles a little) You know, my life flashed before my eyes, just like they said. You were there: shorter hair, shorter goatee, scared and chubby but so full of promise. Just for a moment, then gone…but you were there. (he chuckles again, shaking his head) It’s been a great time, I’m glad I could see you again and work with you. I know you’d be good…but I didn’t expect this. I enjoyed it… but you don’t need me anymore. It’s time for you to move on…just don’t forget me, all right?

AUTHOR: Never.

MR. HOSIER: Do you forgive me?

AUTHOR: (starting to cry) How can I not?

(MR. HOSIER turns to go, but the AUTHOR clears his throat. MR. HOSIER turns around to see the AUTHOR’S extended hand. He wants a handshake.)

MR. HOSIER: But…I can’t…I’m not…

AUTHOR: Just do it. Try.

(MR. HOSIER approaches with caution, then rushes in. They connect, they touch for the first time, a firm but gentle friendly handshake, which soon turns into a strong hug. The two, now friends, agree to part. The AUTHOR is crying unabashed. MR. HOSIER ruffles his neatly combed hair.)

MR. HOSIER: So long, my little cherub.

(the AUTHOR can do naught but cry. The door out of the classroom opens, revealing a bright white light. The author gasps through sobs.)

AUTHOR: They…they let you in? But you…you… (he mimes a gun to the head, still sobbing)

MR. HOSIER: This was my penance. You were the last one. My “get out of hell free” card. So…thanks.

(the AUTHOR nods dumbly.)

MR. HOSIER: Hey, what was the Zimmerman Plan?

(the AUTHOR shakes his head, speech has left him)

MR. HOSIER: Ha. That one still stumps you.

(he departs through the glowing entranceway with a massive, sweet, kind smile)

(Silence. The AUTHOR sinks to his knees, sobbing.)

AUTHOR: I’m your worn in leather jacket…
I’m the volume in your fucked-up teenage band…

(A STUDENT enters through the now unlit door. He or she sees the teacher in a heap of tears and rushes to his side)

STUDENT: Oh my God! Are you all right?

(the AUTHOR keeps crying)

STUDENT: I’ll go get help… (he or she makes for the door)

AUTHOR: No. Don’t. (he starts to get up, wiping his eyes) I’m okay. I’m fine. Really.

STUDENT: (skeptical) Really?

AUTHOR: I will be…I will be. Why are you here so late?

STUDENT: Had a meeting, now I need the assignments I missed. I’m lucky you’re still here.

AUTHOR: You sure are.

STUDENT: What?

AUTHOR: Nothing, nothing. Um…American History, right?

STUDENT: Yeah.

AUTHOR: Ah, right. Here. Just gimme a paragraph on the Angle.

STUDENT: Angle, right…High Water Mark of the Confederacy?

AUTHOR: (shocked) why…yes. very good.

STUDENT: (eyes closed, concentrating hard) Pickett’s Charge, lead by Garnet, Kemper, and…

AUTHOR: (looking skyward, smiling through his tears)
Armistead.

Mr. Hosier – The End.

(Lights up. Lunchtime. The AUTHOR is at his desk, enjoying some home made delectables. MR. HOSIER, conversely, isn’t eating…for obvious reasons. Instead, he’s thinking, chuckling, leaning back in the chair near the coffee pot and philosophizing.)

MR. HOSIER: Nice job today.

AUTHOR: (swallowing) Thanks. It’s not often I can get that good of a lecture out of my ass.

MR. HOSIER: I always knew you’d be an improv teacher.

AUTHOR: You knew I’d be a teacher.

(they smile)

MR. HOSIER: In all reality, however, I was referring to your handling of the situation with Miss Lillian.

AUTHOR: Oh, that…it happens. (he continues eating)

MR. HOSIER: I never knew how to deal with the girls who had crushes on me.

(the AUTHOR nearly chokes.)

AUTHOR: Excuse me?!

MR. HOSIER: (knowingly) Ah, so that’s how you do it!

AUTHOR: (his lunch now forgotten) Do… what?!

MR. HOSIER: You just simply don’t realize it. You don’t even know it’s happening.

AUTHOR: No, no… she was just intimidated by the other students is all!

MR. HOSIER: She was intimidated, I’ll give you that…but only in class. Think of her out of class work.

AUTHOR: (non-committal) Good…

MR. HOSIER: Great. She wasn’t just going for an A here, chucklehead. No one who only wants an A will write something like (he rummages in a stack of papers for hers) “The cacaphony of cannon over Fort Sumter rang out as a bloody harbinger for four years of bloody conflict.” (he tosses the paper down) No one writes like that for a grade. They write like that, my little cherub, to impress.

AUTHOR: (flabbergasted) Impress…me?

MR. HOSIER: Yes indeed. Just a kid, just a silly kid. Apparently, still, so are you. (he grins)

AUTHOR: (indignant) We’re not allowed to call them kids. We call them students.

MR. HOSIER: Bah. When you’re my age, you’ll know they’re only kids.

AUTHOR: You’re like…thirty-two!

(a knock at the door.)

AUTHOR: Come in.

(the door opens, and a youth is uncerimoniously shunted in. This is DANNY, another walking stereotype of the high school world. Rough and tumble in all the right ways, the upper-middle-class oppression is all too apparent in his perfectly rebellious hair and clothes.)

AUTHOR: (deceptively chipper) Danny, come in. What brings you to my humble acadaemia?

DANNY: The Principal, that’s who.

AUTHOR: (still chipper) Well, that would be because you’re not coming to my classes…

DANNY: (ironically without respect) With all due respect, sir…fuck your classes!

AUTHOR: Oh, my, my, my…why would you want to FUCK my classes?

(his use of the f word, combined with his scholarly appearance, rocks Danny for a moment, the AUTHOR sees his opening and takes it)

AUTHOR: I could see why you might want to fuck certain aspects of my classes: Marie Antoinette, Nefertiti, Audrey Hepburn, cute things all…but why would you want to fuck the class? Like, everyone in the class, or just a few? I hope you don’t mean me, I don’t swing that way…

DANNY: Fuck you!

AUTHOR: (slamming his hand down on his desk) No, Daniel, you don’t listen! I don’t swing that way, you’ve got to listen! More importantly, however…you’ve got to show up!
(he begins walking about the room, hands behind his back)
You’re down in the art rooms again, aren’t you? Doing the rebellious thing, avoiding the “boring” classes, and immersing yourself in your “art” aren’t you? Sticking it to the man, breaking new ground, all of that good stuff, right? (he leans in close) Let me tell you something, Rembrandt…it’s no longer artistic and groundbreaking when you do what everyone else is doing!

(DANNY tries to protest, but the AUTHOR continues, unfettered)

AUTHOR: Look at you, Daniel. You look like you’ve stepped out of a John Hughes movie. You’re a parody, you’re a character. You’re not being an artist, you’re being what someone thinks an artist should be! You’re empty, you’re hollow, you’re just playing a part! You’re no more rebellious than the jocks, or the nerds, or the pimps or the sluts or the cheerleaders. You want to know some real artists, some real rebels, some real groundbreakers?

(DANNY nods dumbly. He’s quite taken aback by this new acidity)

AUTHOR: Come. to. my. class. Read Shakespeare, see Picasso, hear Beethoven! Know who came before, know who started it all, know who made it fashionable for you to call yourself an “artist.” Those who do not know their past are damned to repeat it, Daniel. And you, you don’t even have a past, ergo you have no future. You’re just some pictures you pulled off a screen… (he sits back down at his desk) and excuse me if I don’t call it “art.”

(DANNY slumps into the nearest chair, which MR. HOSIER has vacated, amazed.)

AUTHOR: Your class begins in five minutes. World History. Go get your things. (he adds the warmest of smiles) We’re starting the Renaissance today, I think you’ll like it.

(DANNY returns his smile, if a little wary, and leaves the classroom. MR. HOSIER walks over to the AUTHOR and places a hand on his shoulder.)

MR. HOSIER: Well done.

AUTHOR: (deeply emotional. he’s been waiting for that affirmation for years)
Thank you.

(the AUTHOR, frustrated, stomps SL to the small table. He picks up a cup, pours some coffe, and falls into a chair. MR. HOSIER remains SR, merely observing, knowing he can say nothing now. Silence reigns for a few tense moments, then)

AUTHOR: Well…what’s it like?

MR. HOSIER: What’s what like?

AUTHOR: You know…it. I can’t…I can’t say it yet.

(MR. HOSIER walks SL, walks over and sits at the table, leaning back and crossing his long legs with his enormous wingtips.)

MR. HOSIER: It’s nothing but a violet light and a light hum.

(he chuckles at his joke as the AUTHOR puts down his coffee and throws him a nonplussed look)

AUTHOR: That won’t do it, you know. You lent me that book, remember? The school library didn’t have it, so you let me borrow your copy.

MR. HOSIER: Why do you think I said it? (grins)

AUTHOR: (grins back, takes a drink) Fantastic story, really. Thanks.

MR. HOSIER: No problem, my little cherub.

(the AUTHOR nearly spits his coffee around the room in surprise and supressed laughter)

AUTHOR: You always called us cherubs, it was the weirdest damn thing! Half the class had to ask what the hell a cherub was, I remember.

MR. HOSIER: Ah ah ah, but those were the Chuckleheads.

AUTHOR: (nodding sagely) Of course, of course. (he takes a drink, ruminating) But…why cherubs though? I always wanted to kn–

(they are interrupted by a timid knock at the door. Both jump slightly, as if they’ve forgotten where they are.)

AUTHOR: (standing up, trying to look professorial) Come in.

(enter LILY. For her, let us speak in stereotypes, as we are in high school. Dressed matronly, she sports wire-rim glasses and an unflattering ponytail. Her steps are small and shuffling, and her arms are laden with a multitude of books, which threaten to snap her slim arms off at the socket. She slams the books down with surprising gusto, causing MR. HOSIER to jump ever so slightly. The AUTHOR takes a seat behind his desk.)

AUTHOR: Have a seat, Lily.

(she attempts to sit on MR. HOSIER. He looks…embarassed.)

AUTHOR: Not there!

LILY: (bewildered) Why?

AUTHOR: (smiling) Humor me.

LILY: Okay… (she sits in the now vacated seat.)

AUTHOR: (leaning back in his desk chair and steepling his fingers) Lily, I’ve brought you here to accuse you.

(LILY looks as if the AUTHOR has just run over her kitty, which coincidentally, is named Mr. Blinks)

AUTHOR: (chipper) Have some coffee.

LILY: You…you…

AUTHOR: I’m here to accuse you. I think, Lily, that you…are a fraud.

LILY: What?! How dare you–

AUTHOR: Exhibit A: Last Thursday’s in class worksheet. Your answer to the first battle of the Civil War? Antietam.

LILY: But–

AUTHOR: Exhibit B: Last TUESDAY’S take-home battle essay. Your choice? First Manassas, also known as First Bull Run. In which you mention its date of 1861 and, I quote, mention how it “paved the way for future bloody struggles in Gettysburg, Vicksburg, and” you guessed it, “Antietam.”

(LILY sits in stunned silence. The AUTHOR now leans forward)

AUTHOR: Now why would you do that, Lily? Why is your out of class work stellar, while your in class work is woefully mediocre? I am confused, Lily, do you see why I am so confused?

LILY: I…I guess so…

AUTHOR: Lily, what grade are you?

LILY: Junior.

AUTHOR: And yet you lobbied to be in my Modern American History class, which is usually an elective only class for Seniors. That gives you two American History classes in the same semester, one you’re not even supposed to be in!
So, this leads to a very peculiar situation. Why would you take both classes, do inexplicably well in one, and half-ass your way through another?

(LILY gasps)

AUTHOR: Yes, I said ass. Get over it.
Furthermore, taking this many history courses must exhibit some kind of affinity for the subject, wouldn’t it? You’re a junior now, so I bet you’re looking at colleges, possibly for a career in history? But how, how, Lily…are you planning on making it into a good program with mediocre marks in American History II?

LILY: I’m…I’m sorry, Mr–

AUTHOR: This has nothing to do with me. This is about you. I’m just here to keep you on the road, and right now you’re skidding all over the place.

(He gives a look to MR. HOSIER, who knowingly vacates the seat, which the AUTHOR fills)

AUTHOR: Look, Lily, I would love to help you get into a good history program. But I cannot and will not support you if you will not support yourself! No Historian can get by if they can’t interact with their peers. You’re an absolute firebrand in a class of seniors, but you’re a clam with your fellow juniors. It’s deplorable. You’ve got to learn how to deal with people you’re own age, even if it means simply accepting that you’re better than them. I’m not saying you have to be their friend, I’m saying you have to be yours, understand?

(LILY sniffles a bit and nods. Picking up her books, she makes as if to leave. The AUTHOR stops her.)

AUTHOR: Lily, hold on a bit… (he punches a few keys on the laptop and a nearby printer buzzes into life, producing a paper child. He hands it to her.)

AUTHOR: Pickett’s Charge. I’d like a report due Monday. Extra credit.

(he grins. she grins. she leaves. he sits back down at the table, back to his coffee, and we can see that he is drained.)

AUTHOR: (exhales deeply and swigs coffee) Damn, I hate going into that mode, it almost kills me.

MR. HOSIER: You’ll get used to it.

(a cacaphonous bell breaks the serenity)

AUTHOR: Aw, shit, that’s the five minute bell. I really don’t have a lesson plan or anything, jeez…

MR. HOSIER: (grinning) I look forward to seeing how you extemporate.

AUTHOR: You would…sadist!

MR. HOSIER: Chucklehead!

(The AUTHOR gasps, as if MR HOSIER has just run over his cat, which coincidentally is named Jefferson.)

lights down.

(Lights up. It is a classroom in an average midwestern small-town high school. The classroom, however, is anything but average. The walls are festooned with posters, pictures, buttons, cabinets, shelves, all displaying historical artifacts in a garish sensory assault. Upstage left is a door leading into the hallway, and upstage center is a small table with two chairs, some cups, and a coffee maker. SR is a desk, basic teacher fare, adorned with a laptop and other ridiculous historical bric-a-brac. At the desk is a young man, mid-twenties/early thirties, pouring over the laptop, typing animatedly. Every once in a while he will pause, lean back, gesticulate feebly, then continue typing as inspiration strikes. He is dressed somewhat eclectically, but befitting of such a brilliant classroom. In his sweatervest and small glasses, he looks every bit the turn-of-the-last-century scholar.
Behind him stands a man: tall, proud, confident, it is MR. SCOTT HOSIER. In contrast to the portly seated one, he is lankier, but his build also suggests an athletic background. Around mid-thirties, perhaps approaching his forties. He is clean shaven, as opposed to the other’s goatee; and his hair is short, slightly receding in a widow’s peak, opposed to the other’s middle-parted, longer coif. His shoes are enormous wingtips, and he rocks back and forth on them as he watches the other type. Finally, it appears as if the AUTHOR has hit a road block, and he begins to writhe slightly in frustration of a lost term. MR. HOSIER, grinning, leans down and whispers:

MR. HOSIER: Armistead.

AUTHOR: (startled) What?!

MR. HOSIER: Armistead. Brigadier General Lewis Addison Armistead. You’re trying to ask which three forces lead Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg. Garnett, Kemper…and Armistead.

AUTHOR: Right! Armistead. Old–

MR. HOSIER: Old Lo, short for “Lothario–”

AUTHOR: Which was ironic because he was a widower and not much of a ladies man.

MR. HOSIER: (nodding) Kudos to you.

AUTHOR: (grinning) I had a good teacher.

(a beat. The AUTHOR goes back to typing his quiz)

AUTHOR: (after a sigh) I’ve got to say, I always hoped we’d work together, but I never quite pictured it this way.

MR. HOSIER: That’s life. (he points to the screen) Armistead has an “a” there.

AUTHOR: Oh, right! Duh!

(a beat. He fixes the error)

MR. HOSIER: So, Gettysburg…

AUTHOR: Yep!

MR. HOSIER: Whatcha got?

AUTHOR: Oh, the usual: lecture, visual aids, a few letters…oh! And this…

(he reaches into the lower drawer of the desk and pulls out a shoebox, placing it on the top of the desk. MR. HOSIER eyes it quizzically)

MR. HOSIER: …a shoebox?

AUTHOR: (grinning) Guess what’s in it!

MR. HOSIER: I’m going to go ahead and say “shoes…”

AUTHOR: Not just any shoes! (he pulls out two mud-caked sneakers) Recognize these?!

MR. HOSIER: (shrugs) Not really…

AUTHOR: (mock sincerity) Oh, I’m crushed. (nostalgic bliss) No, seriously, I wore these shoes at Gettysburg. Remember how nasty it was that day, all muddy and rainy? Well, I brought my old work shoes just for the occasion, and they got messed up all to hell. Instead of chuckin’ em or cleaning them off, I decided to save ’em for when I started teaching. Gives a bit of a personal edge to the lesson, ya know? Like that old French bolt-action your uncle took off a dead Viet Cong!

MR. HOSIER: I guess that was pretty powerful, wasn’t it?

AUTHOR: Not as much as that Japanese war flag. I swear, that one took my breath away!

MR. HOSIER: You know what? Me too.

(they both smile. a beat.)

AUTHOR: How come you never let me in on any of your stash?

MR. HOSIER: What?

AUTHOR: Your stash of historical goodies. Rifles, outfits, hardtack recipies. When you…when you went out of the game…stopped teaching, I was never even thought of.

MR. HOSIER: Well, everything just got so messed up then…

AUTHOR: Well, it probably didn’t help that I went incommunicado for so long…

(a beat.)

AUTHOR: I really am sorry about that.

MR. HOSIER: Don’t worry about it.

AUTHOR: No, I mean it. Here I was, off gallivanting in college, and I just kinda…left you behind. You were my mentor, my inspiration, then I just…forgot about you.

MR. HOSIER: You were busy, starting a new life, you didn’t wanna get bogged down in the old dead-end town with your old teacher.

AUTHOR: (becoming agitated) I thought that too, and I figured you’d always be here to come back to. I figured I could be teaching some day, trying to do what you did for me, and if I was ever really stuck somewhere, I could call you and you could help me out! I was looking forward to create the best damn History classes the world had ever seen, we could have revolutionized it all… but then you quit!

MR. HOSIER: I didn’t quit, I–

AUTHOR: YES YOU DID! YOU QUIT! You were the best teacher I ever had, you were going to make me the best teacher some other kid ever had…then you quit…why?

MR. HOSIER: …

AUTHOR: WHY?! WHY DID YOU QUIT?! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO…TO…

(he stands up suddenly and whirls on MR. HOSIER who, despite being three inches taller, backs away.)

AUTHOR: Why did you have to die?