what was inside. It was a beautiful landscape of a rural countryside with stone buildings and very old looking automobiles in the background. Wondering what era it was from, I lifted the paper back even further and searched the bottom of the canvas for a signature and hopefully, a date.
Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t make out the signature. It was just a scribble, undiscernible. But the date was written more neatly: 1937. Satisfied, I carefully put the paper back the way I’d found it and let myself out of the room before I accidently knocked over anything else.
I made a mental note to return to the small gallery another time, eager to see what other newly acquired pieces might be on display then. Then I left the building that housed the library and gallery only with a new appreciation for art, but also with a much-needed sense of calm.
O nce anger was no longer consuming my thoughts, I had a brainwave. It’s funny how that works. Sometimes the answer to a problem just dangles right in front of you and you simply are too close to see it. Sometimes all you have to do is step away and catch your breath…then everything suddenly becomes crystal clear.
I didn’t know if my idea would work, but at least it was something to try.
Purposefully , I made my way back to the sociology department. I felt renewed hope as I let myself in. The hallways were dark and quiet. Everyone had gone home. That was good…it was perfect, actually.
Normally I wasn’t one to snoop, but the career I’d worked so hard for was on the line. I needed to know what lies had been told about me if I was going to have any chance of saving my ass. So with a cautious glance out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear, I slipped into Mark’s office. Maybe, I reasoned, he’d saved a copy of my evaluation on his computer.
Every good instructor knows that having a secure computer password is essential. Otherwise students could sneak in at any time and try to get exams or, in some cases, even alter their grades. But Mark wasn’t a good instructor. He was a mediocre one at best. For that I was thankful, because I found his computer already booted and password-free.
“Come on,” I muttered under my breath as I searched the f olders and files on his hard drive. He mostly just had a bunch of games on there. Apparently while I was busy grading papers, doing research and prepping for class, he was playing solitaire in his office. I wasn’t all that surprised.
Defeated, I prepared to stand up. Then I had a brainwave – his email! The college was encouraging us to go pap erless at every opportunity in an effort to cut costs. Mark most likely would have typed up his evaluation and fired off an email to the head of the department.
Unfortunately, there was a password on Mark’s email.
With my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth and a look of utter concentration on my face, I tried to guess what the password might be. I started out with the names of Mark’s favorite video games. I put in the name of the fake breasted, bottle blonde movie star whose posters adorned the walls of his apartment as though he was ten years younger and still living in a college dorm room. Then I tried his phone number, his birthday and even his name. I thought they were all decent guesses, but nothing worked.
I recalled a newspaper article I’d read the other morning. Hayden had a habit of setting each section of the paper aside after he’d read it, and a caption around page 8 had caught my attention due to the sheer idiocy of it. The article h ad been about online scams and identity theft. There, in bold letters, it had noted that one of the most popular email passwords is 1234567.
I tried it. I got an error message.
“Dammit!”
I tried 12345678, just in case Mark’s IQ was a point or two higher than I thought.
It didn’t do the trick.
Pounding at the keyboard in
Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t make out the signature. It was just a scribble, undiscernible. But the date was written more neatly: 1937. Satisfied, I carefully put the paper back the way I’d found it and let myself out of the room before I accidently knocked over anything else.
I made a mental note to return to the small gallery another time, eager to see what other newly acquired pieces might be on display then. Then I left the building that housed the library and gallery only with a new appreciation for art, but also with a much-needed sense of calm.
O nce anger was no longer consuming my thoughts, I had a brainwave. It’s funny how that works. Sometimes the answer to a problem just dangles right in front of you and you simply are too close to see it. Sometimes all you have to do is step away and catch your breath…then everything suddenly becomes crystal clear.
I didn’t know if my idea would work, but at least it was something to try.
Purposefully , I made my way back to the sociology department. I felt renewed hope as I let myself in. The hallways were dark and quiet. Everyone had gone home. That was good…it was perfect, actually.
Normally I wasn’t one to snoop, but the career I’d worked so hard for was on the line. I needed to know what lies had been told about me if I was going to have any chance of saving my ass. So with a cautious glance out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear, I slipped into Mark’s office. Maybe, I reasoned, he’d saved a copy of my evaluation on his computer.
Every good instructor knows that having a secure computer password is essential. Otherwise students could sneak in at any time and try to get exams or, in some cases, even alter their grades. But Mark wasn’t a good instructor. He was a mediocre one at best. For that I was thankful, because I found his computer already booted and password-free.
“Come on,” I muttered under my breath as I searched the f olders and files on his hard drive. He mostly just had a bunch of games on there. Apparently while I was busy grading papers, doing research and prepping for class, he was playing solitaire in his office. I wasn’t all that surprised.
Defeated, I prepared to stand up. Then I had a brainwave – his email! The college was encouraging us to go pap erless at every opportunity in an effort to cut costs. Mark most likely would have typed up his evaluation and fired off an email to the head of the department.
Unfortunately, there was a password on Mark’s email.
With my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth and a look of utter concentration on my face, I tried to guess what the password might be. I started out with the names of Mark’s favorite video games. I put in the name of the fake breasted, bottle blonde movie star whose posters adorned the walls of his apartment as though he was ten years younger and still living in a college dorm room. Then I tried his phone number, his birthday and even his name. I thought they were all decent guesses, but nothing worked.
I recalled a newspaper article I’d read the other morning. Hayden had a habit of setting each section of the paper aside after he’d read it, and a caption around page 8 had caught my attention due to the sheer idiocy of it. The article h ad been about online scams and identity theft. There, in bold letters, it had noted that one of the most popular email passwords is 1234567.
I tried it. I got an error message.
“Dammit!”
I tried 12345678, just in case Mark’s IQ was a point or two higher than I thought.
It didn’t do the trick.
Pounding at the keyboard in
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