Last night I dreamed I was co-teaching a college course on health and mixed martial arts with Eliot—the bearded jazz musician who moonlights as a Trader Joe’s clerk. He was fired up like a preacher at a tent revival. I, on the other hand, had the enthusiasm of a dogwalker who’s just spotted a fresh pile and no bag.
Eliot, bless his plaid soul, had prepped a morning exam for his students—neatly typed, stapled, and probably color-coded. Meanwhile, I forgot I was even supposed to give a test. My lectures were improvised jazz solos, long on flair and short on structure. I’d wander into class and riff about cholesterol, Muay Thai, or the history of granola, depending on my mood or what I’d eaten for breakfast.
But here’s the kicker—I had better material. Buried under the kitchen of my imaginary mansion was a secret archive: white binders filled with decades of syllabi, obscure readings, quizzes, interviews, and errant genius. I never used them. Too lazy. Too proud. Too me.
Eliot, the eager grasshopper, somehow discovered the hidden staircase that led to the front porch—don’t ask how dream architecture works—and climbed it with evangelical zeal. I watched from my perch in a bathrobe, coffee in hand, while he scaled those steps like a man training for the Tour de France. When he reached the door, breathless and bright-eyed, he begged for the archive.
So I gave it to him—several white binders, edges fraying like the conscience of a plagiarist. He held them like sacred scrolls, eyes gleaming with the same reverence I once had before tenure made me soft and cynical. I felt a flicker of gratitude. At least someone would use them. At least the work would live on.
Then came the twist.
He informed me, with the officious glee of a parking enforcer, that according to some obscure clause in the college handbook, I’d have to sit for his early-morning exam to renew my credential. Me—the man who had literally written the test’s DNA. I considered studying, briefly. Then I took a nap instead.
The exam was held in the middle of a chaotic street fair, somewhere between a kettle corn booth and a band playing off-key Fleetwood Mac covers. Wind tore through the papers like it was auditioning for a disaster movie. Test pages flew like startled pigeons, and students chased them in panic. It was academic absurdism, pure and uncut.
And me? I was at peace. I knew—somehow, with prophetic clarity—that there would be no consequences. That the wind, the noise, the anarchy, would camouflage my ignorance. Eliot’s students would struggle. I’d bluff. The test would become performance art, and no one would remember the score.
What separated me from Eliot wasn’t intelligence or experience. It was weariness. He was still playing to win. I was waiting for the buzzer. He taught with the fire of the newly converted. I taught like a man allergic to rubrics and enthusiasm. He saw a future. I saw a pension.
And maybe, in that dream, I realized I had already started to retire—from effort, from purpose, from caring about the difference between good teaching and showing up with anecdotes and gumption. Eliot wanted to be me. I wanted to be gone.
Cinemorphosis 
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