Foursome 1
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Four Little Words free porn video
The chatter died down as Professor MacNeal strode through the open door and thirty-two pairs of eyes regarded him. Back ramrod-straight from military service from eighteen to twenty-four, not a silvering hair out of place, dressed in his black wingtips, traditional three-piece charcoal grey suit, accented with a red and black pocket square and a curiously old-fashioned emerald green bow tie, Professor MacNeal, or ‘Sir’ as he was known to the group of third-year students seated in the classroom, made his way to the podium.
MacNeal taught completely from memory. His students never saw him with a portfolio. No notes, outlines or other ‘crutches’ as he referred to them collected on his podium. The large chair, backed with leather and stuffed to provide maximum comfort for long hours seated upon it, remained pushed into the desk’s alcove with no indication it had moved the entire semester. Certainly they had never seen him make use of it, he stood even during hours-long tests or his few but dreaded Socratic engagements.
For this reason, his students were surprised when he passed behind the podium, bent down, and opened the bottom drawer on the left side of the desk. The echoing scrapes of wood indicated emptiness, though MacNeal withdrew something from the interior before sliding it closed. He stood, regarded the object in his hand, and returned to the podium, laying it atop the sloped and finished surface. The paper rustled as he unfolded and spread it out before him. He adjusted the wire-frame glasses perched on his nose and glanced at it for no more than ten seconds, though in the silence and confusion of the class it seemed an eternity. Then, with a curt nod which could have meant either approval or reproach, he refolded it, slipped the paper into his vest pocket, and raised his head.
He looked around the room, meeting each student’s gaze like a drill instructor scanning recruits for signs of sloth or weakness, then cleared his throat.
‘As you are no doubt aware,’ he began in his carefully-modulated lecture voice, ‘this is the final day of studies for third year Law students at Kensington University.’ In any other classroom this would have provoked a celebratory outburst from those present, but his students remained seated, aware their professor looked down on such things. And even though it was the final day of classes, there was still plenty to be concerned about. Most students had exams coming later, drooping eyelids and pallid demeanors evidencing late-night cramming sessions. MacNeal had promised at the start of the term that his final exam would simultaneously be the shortest and yet most important one they would face in law school, but no blue books lay stacked on his desk for distribution. No assistants waited to pass out a test. No Latin-derived words with complex spellings and even more complex meanings were apparent on the computerized display projector, which sat in one corner, silent and dark.
‘Therefore, logic dictates today is the day for a final examination of some sort.’ He paused, scanning the room again with an unreadable expression. ‘Logic, as it often does in the legal world, dictates correctly.’
He folded his hands behind his back and walked from behind the podium until he stood in front of it, his suit a contrast to the light wooden stand. ‘Your exam this last day of Can Philosophical Insights or Empirical Knowledge Help Us Make Difficult Choices?, a name many of you doubtlessly equated to an easy passing grade upon submitting your ranking form, is not open-book. It relies purely on memory and your ability to condense complex thoughts into small, well-formed ideas.’ He paced, as he usually did when beginning a lecture, back and forth in front of the podium, a route designed to bring him around the center of the room to address each student in turn. ‘It will require of you one sheet of paper, and one implement of your choice with which to mark said paper: pen or pencil, black ink or blue, one knife and one pricked finger, the choice is yours.’
There was a general shuffle of noise as students opened portfolios and slid their preferred writing instruments out from pockets or behind ears.
‘Penmanship,’ MacNeal continued as he paced his route, ‘counts for nothing so long as you can read what you are about to write. You will not turn it in, and I will not view it. On the other hand, you should be prepared to share with the rest of the family,’ (Professor MacNeal always referred to his classes as ‘families’) ‘at the conclusion of the assignment.’
He stopped in the center of the room, hands still clasped behind his back, and regarded his charges. ‘Over the term, we have discussed a variety of philosophical and moral implications that, should you continue your career in law after graduation, you will find yourselves litigating for or against. One thing you no doubt noticed was that despite the differing views held concerning the merits of one behavior over another, there were few definitive answers to be found. That is not to say there are no wrong or right ones-far from it. This is not Moral Relativism as taught by the Philosophy department. This is legal theory, and thus there is always a better answer.’
He stopped, drew a breath, and continued. ‘But what you hopefully have learned is others do not always see things as we ourselves see them. In addition, with the experience of exposure, the passage of time, and the uniquely human ability to reflect on past choices, we know that we can change our minds. We can absorb the impact of our actions, learn from them, and modify them to cause less or, if desired, greater harm in the future.
‘All of life’s most vital lessons are imparted to us in this way. We touch the stove, we burn a finger, and we learn Mother was serious when she told us the oven is not a plaything. We say the wrong words to a friend, a fight ensues, and we learn politics is best not discussed in polite company. Indeed, one late payment and we learn how rapidly the interest rate on a credit card skyrockets. Admittedly it seems this lesson can take longer to sink in than others, for some reason.’ That got a few chuckles from the assembly.
‘Stop glancing at the clock, Mr. Bixby,’ MacNeal intoned, staring at one of his students. ‘I promise, you will complete this assignment with more than enough time to stress about the remainder of your day.’
He walked back to the podium, mounted it, and looked out over the room again. ‘You are to write a letter to yourself, not the future you or the present you, but rather the past. You are addressing yourself as you were at age twenty-one, with all the wealth of knowledge you have accumulated since, including your time here at Kensington. What you write is up to yourselves, but your success, as I mentioned before, will be measured by your ability to condense your thoughts into small, well-formed ideas. Specifically: four little words. Yes, Mr. Katz?’
The young man slowly lowered his hand, which he hadn’t even realized he had raised until MacNeal called on him. Resigned to a tongue-lashing, Katz stood and addressed his professor. ‘Begging your pardon, Sir, but which four words might those be?’
MacNeal raised an eyebrow. ‘Yours, Mr. Katz. Only you know what wisdom might best be imparted to your younger self. I, on the other hand, quiver with anticipation. You may be seated.’
Katz sank back into his chair.
‘Four words,’ MacNeal continued from his podium. ‘Four little words. Encouragement? Ridicule? Advice?’ He ticked the options on his fingers. ‘The choice is yours. But you have the next twenty minutes to select them and indelibly imprint them, both on your mind and the paper before you. When finished, you may read or study until I call time. Begin.’
Thirty-two hands took up their writing implements of choice and began the assignment. Several students finished in a matter of seconds, then dug into their notes or books, trying to squeeze in a few more minutes of study. For others there were a
series of false starts, new ideas, and a great deal of erasing, scratching out, and re-writing.
MacNeal stood at his podium, impassively watching as his students, his family, completed the assignment one by one. His gaze swept across the room, alighting periodically on the face of a student with a triumphant grin, or a solemn look of reflection. Finally, when the last student placed her pen on the desk and bent to retrieve a book, he tapped the podium with his open palm. ‘Time’s up.’
Again he made his way to the front of the podium and addressed the class. ‘Now comes the fun part. With the solemn knowledge that this is the last day of class, and I can hold nothing further against your grade no matter what you have written here, do we have any volunteers who would like to share their wisdom with the rest of the family?’
One young woman at the front of the class stood up, cleared her throat, and read. ‘Listen to more jazz.’
MacNeal nodded. ‘A newly-acquired hobby of yours, I assume, Ms. DeWitt?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Excellent advice. I recommend Dexter Gordon, if you’re unfamiliar. Mr. Morton?’
He stood. ‘Nine. Seventeen. Twenty-three. Twenty-eight.’
There were a few bemused snickers from the room.
‘Interesting…’ MacNeal deadpanned. ‘By some bizarre twist of fate, those were last night’s Daily Four lottery numbers, were they not?’
More laughs, including from Morton. ‘Uh… well, law school is expensive, so I figured, you know…’
‘Indeed,’ MacNeal said with a nod. ‘Financial security is no trivial matter, even for a tenured professor. Quite understandable. Ms. Upton?’
She stood. ‘Speed limits aren’t suggestions.’
Another round of laughs, and the sharing continued.
‘Never fold wet laundry.’
‘Call home more often.’
‘Live and let live.’
‘Live and let die.’
‘Feeling altruistic today are we, Ms. Hernandez?’
‘Only towards my exams, Sir.’
‘Don’t eat that burrito.’
‘Which burrito would that be, Mr. Warner?’
‘Trust me, Sir, we’re all better off without the explanation.’
‘World of Warcraft? No!’
‘Learn to change tires.’
‘Law school homework sucks.’
‘You’ll get there eventually.’
‘Professor MacNeal rocks, man!’
‘Flattery, Mr. Hagan, will get you nowhere at this point.’
‘You only live once.’
‘Really, Amanda? YOLO is the best you could come up with?’
‘How about ‘Don’t date Scott Storm’ instead, Scott?’
‘Newspapers won’t clean paint.’
‘Ms. Kreisman, what on earth would possess you to…? On second thought, there’s not enough time left in the day. Next?’
‘Study earlier, sleep later.’
‘Failure always comes before success.’
‘That’s five words, Mr. Featherstone.’
‘Just proving my point, Sir.’
‘Original thinking and willing to take a risk just to make a point? You’ll be a terror in some poor judge’s courtroom one day.’
MacNeal stayed at his podium, listening to the exchanges, sharing in the laughter, occasionally frowning to indicate his displeasure with a certain phrase or nodding to show agreement, interjecting when things got out of hand. As each student shared his or her four-word letter, the room came alive. Memories bubbled up in brains resigned to rote memorization and legal minutia for the past three terms. Chuckles, insults, cheers of support, statements of bravado, and phrases of such creative simplicity that MacNeal considered, not for the first time, compiling a book.
He banished that idea. These were private lessons, personal concerns, not for the consumption of the world outside his own classroom. As always, the next term would escort different ones in as he and his new family grappled once more with ethics, morality, and the legal applications thereof.
When the hour hand on the clock reached two, MacNeal rapped his podium again, and silence descended as laughter’s echoes swirled through the room and left behind the memory of its passage.
‘Ladies and gentlemen: it is my proud duty to inform every one of you seated here that you have, indeed, succeeded. Remember the advice you would have given yourselves when younger, remember the advice the rest of your family has dispensed, and learn from all of your mistakes. Remember that to be human is to be fully conscious of all the good, and all the evil, we are capable of extending to others. Now, go forth and sin in moderation. Dismissed.’
Thirty-two students, names and faces firmly etched into memory at the completion of this term, rose as one and made their ways jovially to the door. Thirty-one of them exited, and as they did so, Professor MacNeal pulled the chair away from his desk for the first time and eased himself into its cushioning embrace. He bent to the lower drawer and tugged it open, reached into his pocket, and was about to deposit the paper into it when he looked up.
Laura Trulock stood at the other side of the desk, her face all glasses, freckles and dimples, framed in mousy brown hair as she smiled. Family Law, thought MacNeal, could use a legion of earnest, idealistic Laura Trulocks.
‘Yes, Ms. Trulock?’
‘Sir, I was wondering…’
‘Ms. Trulock, the class is over. I can’t fail you no matter what you ask. Speak freely.’
‘Well, it just dawned on me,’ she said. ‘We all shared what we wrote, but…I was curious about something.’
‘I don’t keep a record, if that’s your concern,’ MacNeal said. ‘I assure you, nothing said within this classroom is repeated beyond the doorway.’
‘No, no, it’s not that.’ She smiled. ‘But I just wondered…how would you answer your question?’
He paused. ‘Ms. Trulock, you stand as a singularly extraordinary young woman. I have never been asked that question by a student before today.’
She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, Sir. But…I really would like to know. What would you say to yourself at twenty-one?’
Slowly MacNeal raised his arm and opened his palm. Inside sat the small, folded square of paper. ‘Ms. Trulock, I have maintained this exercise as my final exam since the first term I taught twenty-seven years ago. That year, when I was thirty-one, I wrote my answer. Each and every year hence, I have referred to it both before I asked it of my students and after. I wanted to see if my answer would change as the years went by and I heard new students offer their advice. It has not yet, nor will it after today despite a plethora of excellent options, yours included. But it is why I return to Kensington, year after year, to a new family.’
He held out his hand, and she lifted the square from it. Reverently she placed it upon his desk and unfolded it. Finally it lay flat, and she read the words carefully.
Four little words.
A silent moment passed.
Laura walked around the desk, wrapped her arms around Professor MacNeal, hugged him tightly and whispered, ‘I’m so sorry, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Ms. Trulock,’ he replied after she concluded the hug. ‘If presented with the opportunity, don’t make the same mistake I did.’
She sniffled softly, looked into his eyes, and nodded. ‘I won’t, Sir. I promise.’
MacNeal stood and extended his hand. She took it, and he gave an affirming squeeze. ‘I believe you, Ms. Trulock. You’ll make a fine lawyer.’ He broke the handshake. ‘Dismissed.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ She turned, slung her purse over her shoulder, and left the classroom.
MacNeal returned to the chair, placed his fingertips upon the paper, and rotated it 180 degrees. The letters, faded with time but still legible in their simple script, stared up at him as he mouthed them silently:
Kiss her, you fool.
Four little words. The story of his life.
Bree
- 11.11.2021
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