Plus One

11: The face of a black hole

11: The face of a black hole

“I hated school,” Taylor told me as the UCSF campus shrank and faded behind us. “It’s a gathering place of students who just want to leave and teachers who think they know the secrets of the whole damn universe. It’s terrible—everything about it.”

“How do you suggest we all gain knowledge? I don’t think you want a world where no one can write a sentence and everyone’s forgotten how to add and subtract,” I pointed out, nudging him lightly with my elbow.

He smiled gently, “I didn’t say I hated education. But I think it should be a choice, and I don’t think it should be approached with a one-size-fits-all mindset. Teach the writers English, teach the scientists chemistry, let the musicians study music theory and leave the historians alone with their wrinkled documents. The modern world is profoundly successful at mediocrity. We’re all programmed to have a basic skill set—some excel, some lag behind. We’re educated and bred to pass standardized tests and survive monotonous jobs, but imagine what it’d be like if people were allowed to pursue what they love with virtually no distraction. That would be a world worth living in.”

“What about those who don’t have a calling?”

Taylor blinked at me, lines of thought carving through the skin of his forehead. “Everyone is amazing at something,” he said finally. The sweet sincerity of his liquid voice restrained me from arguing; there was something about his subtle passion and his natural confidence that was inspirational. For an instant, my mind ventured to think that maybe at the end of the winding path I was following, my own future was waiting.

As we walked, I wondered what Adrian would have thought of Taylor’s liberal take on education. The professor was undoubtedly a man of great intelligence in fields apart from his own; surely, he thought equal emphasis on all subjects was the key to a successful future—at least until college graduation. Then again, it would have been more odd if the opinions of the two men had matched: Taylor himself said he distrusted teachers based on the assumption that they believed themselves to be superior. His logic, when strictly analyzed, had merit, but I couldn’t imagine respecting a teacher who didn’t hold himself to a higher standard of intellect.

I was on the verge of asking Taylor if his calling was music or painting when he flipped the course of our conversation. “Do you want to get food?”

“If you’re hungry, sure.”

His smile sparkled through his lips and his eyes. “We could make it like a picnic. Dom’s working late again, and we’ve got an hour or two until dark. We can pick up sandwiches and go to the park. You haven’t been yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” I admitted.

“I mean, we don’t have to go,” he rushed, excitement darkened by apprehension. “If you have plans, or if you’re too tired, I won’t take it personally. It’s just a suggestion, if you want. I hope it didn’t sound like I was—”

“I want to go, Taylor.”

“Oh. You do?”

“Yes. Let’s have a picnic.”

It was moments like these when I swore Taylor was still a child: the genuine enthusiasm that glowed in his face was so pure, so composed of perfect white light, that it shunned all shadows cast by maturity. His sincere happiness was the benefit of an odd childishness; on the other end of the spectrum, he seemed to lack the shield from nightmares that the rest of us build as we grow older.

I tossed the thought away, assuring myself that his good mood was here to stay, and we walked side-by-side into my companion’s favorite supermarket. He twirled and skipped down the aisles as if they were runways of open air—his long arms thrown out, his shoes tapping a light rhythm on the linoleum floor. He never slowed down, never lost interest in the vast expanse of fresh produce and colorful snacks spread about before him. Most people looked into a store and saw nothing more than what they needed to buy. Taylor saw color. He saw the miraculous gifts of nature. He saw mountains of ice cream and great walls of wine bottles.