Sherwood Anderson Wrote Weird Stories and So Do I

For the first edition of "Story Time with Clayfer," I give you a 500-word paper I turned in for a 200 level English class two years ago. Why do I do this? Because no eyes save my 200 level English teacher and my own have ever graced these words...plus I want some feedback. I love you guys.

A little background: Sherwood Anderson was one of the first "modern" style writers and really seemed to hammer down on describing the weird in every person out there. The odd personalities he describes in most of his short stories make the early 1900s seem that much more real. The following is from an exercise where I attempt to imitate Anderson's writing style. The dude in this story is based on a guy I saw everyday in my Classic Civ class a few years ago. I don't think that man is homicidal, but wouldn't it be neat if he was?

No, it wouldn't.

"Desperate"

Walter Tomes entered the enormous stadium seated auditorium and made his long descent to his seat in the very first row on the very left side. He had been seated on a bench just outside the room a good twenty-five minutes before class started as usual. He waited until the students inside would pour out, so he could take the seat of his choice for his own class. Hunched over so far he could easily make out the various perforations in his dated Reebok’s, his books clutched in both hands, he descended the length of the classroom’s steps.

Walter is a thirty-three year old man. A thin moustache that barely covers half of his upper lip is the result of a week that got away from him years ago, a mistake he decided never to correct. He dresses as one would expect an aging father of four to, though he has no children or family to call his own. He currently holds a full-time job as a janitor for the University of Tennessee, the same school he is currently attending part-time. He is an excellent student – and desperately lonely.

Walter is a man that feels the judgmental eyes of those around him every moment he steps from his home. Though he hardly ever speaks and is regarded by others as much as they would address the clouds overhead, he still carries this insecurity on his sleeve. This is especially true regarding the subject of his major, which is Classical Civilizations, a subject he finds interesting but utterly useless.

“They laugh at me because of it,” he could be heard saying to his closet of mops, “If they would think less of me for that, then I would think less of them.”

“They” refers to a group of students that sit on the opposite side of the room from Walter. They are young, good-looking, charismatic students who ask questions often and are known throughout the class. A recent remark made by his teacher in this very classroom before the entirety of the room, including them, has made Walter on the verge of hysterics like never before.

“Please, Mr. Tomes,” the teacher had said, as Walter was turning in a freshly completed quiz, “keep them for now – I will take them all up together.” This comment was accompanied by a snicker from one of them, Walter was sure of it. The comment devastated Walter, and, face flushed, he returned to his seat (and later to his home) with less self-confidence than he had ever experienced.

And that is why he has a gun with him today. It is in the right pocket of his jacket. His plan is to kill his teacher at the end of the class period.

“They will understand me then,” he had told his mops. “I will take back what my teacher took from me.” But of course he received no response.

A bead of sweat slid down from his eyebrow as Walter waited for the final moments of the class. He breathed heavily as his instructor paced back in forth in front of the crowded room, reviewing slide after slide of his PowerPoint lecture. From the corner of his eye, he could see them – all were in their seats as usual, sitting straight up, attentively.

“OK,” said the lecturer sometime later, “I’m going to pass back the papers from Thursday, and then you’re free to go.”

As his teacher approached, Walter could barely contain himself. He felt light-headed, but still managed to wrap his fist around the gun’s handle.

“Mr. Tomes,” the teacher said, extending a paper toward him. “Excellent work. It’s good to know someone’s paying attention.”

Walter blinked several times and said nothing. He didn’t even extend his hand to accept the paper, merely allowed it to fall on the desk in front of him. The compliment faded through him and restored his heart beat to normal, and as everyone in the room packed up to leave, he sat with his head down, hand still in his jacket, staring at the paper. He was the last person to leave that day.