“The poetry club is just dying for a writing class,” a woman named Mary-Kate tells me over Zoom. She’s recruiting me to teach a poetry class at the local retirement community and, while poetry isn’t my specialty, I agree. I think to myself, how hard could it be?

 

A week later, I arrive early for my first class to get a lay of the land and set up the classroom. As I step through the automatic doors into the lobby, I breathe in a mixture of moth balls and bleach.

 

“Excuse me,” I say to the receptionist hunched over her desk, long nails clicking away on her iPhone screen. She looks up at me, irritated.

 

“What?” she asks, maintaining a bored expression.

 

“I’m here to teach a poetry class. Do I need to sign in?” I ask.

 

The receptionist begrudgingly checks me in and hands over a guest badge. “Turn left, go to the end of the hall, walk through the double doors, turn past the water fountain, and take the elevator to the third floor,” she tells me.

 

I repeat the instructions to myself as I scurry away. When I finally find the elevators and travel to the third floor, the doors open to reveal what looks like a hospital wing. A frail woman with wrinkled skin and wispy white hair is stationed in front of the elevator in a wheelchair, and she stares into the distance while chewing on a tissue. I wander the hall until I find a nurse in scrubs and ask if she knows where the classroom is located. 

 

“Oh, don’t worry honey, you’re in the right spot,” the nurse tells me. “You walked right past it. See Miss Patricia over there?” she said, pointing towards the tissue woman. “The classroom is right behind her.”

 

I maneuver around Miss Patricia, push the door open, and enter the classroom – a glorified janitor’s closet with a lectern at the front and a few small tables set up beyond it. I get to work unloading my bag and firing up the presentation on my laptop. I take out the handouts I’ve printed and place them at each seat with a pen on top. 

 

All set up and ready to go, I look at my watch and see it’s 2:55 – five minutes until class begins. I take a seat and gulp water from my Hydro Flask, hoping Mary-Kate will stop by soon like she promised. 

 

As the clock beside the door ticks, I begin to sweat. I must be in the wrong place. Maybe there are several classrooms, and the receptionist steered me toward the wrong one. But just as I start to enter a full-blown panic, the door flies open. 

 

“Jessie! We’re so glad you’re here,” Mary-Kate tells me, sweat dripping from her own brow.

 

Before I can even open my mouth to respond, Mary-Kate flutters back to the door. “I’m rounding up residents now! Just give me a few more minutes, and then we’ll get class started.”

 

I look down at my watch again – 3:05. No big deal, I think, my students are probably all en route. 

 

Another five minutes pass, and I poke my head out the door to see if I can spot Mary-Kate. But the only person in sight is Miss Patricia, still sucking on her tissue. 

 

Five more minutes go by, and I start to worry something is wrong. Was Mary-Kate called away to an emergency? What if one of the members of the poetry group suddenly died? But then I hear Mary-Kate burst through the door again, this time pushing a man crumpled into his wheelchair.

 

“Jessie, this is Norman and he’s very excited for class,” Mary-Kate tells me. “I’m going to leave him with you for a moment while I round up a few more residents.”

 

“Hi there, Norman! Do you like poetry?” I ask when Mary-Kate disappears.

 

He lifts his head and glares at me. “No!” 

 

“Well, maybe I can change your mind,” I tell him. I swipe a handout off one of the desks and hand it to him. “Here are some of the poems we’re reading today.”

 

Norman furrows his brow and stares at the sheet. “I can’t read this!” he snarls.

 

“Alrighty, well I’m going to go make sure my presentation is ready to go,” I lie. I back away and pretend to be busy on my laptop.

 

A few minutes later, Mary-Kate flies back through the door, this time with her arm around a lady clutching a small white terrier to her chest. I wonder if she’s a member of the poetry club.

 

“Jessie, this is Miss Roxy. She’s dog-sitting for her neighbor so we have a furry student too,” Mary-Kate chuckles.

I look down at my watch – 3:20. 

 

As Miss Roxy gets settled in a front-row seat, I look to Mary-Kate. “Do you want me to get started? I know we only have until 3:45….”

 

“Yes, yes! Let’s begin! Hopefully more of these seats will fill up soon,” she chirps. Mary-Kate takes a seat next to Miss Roxy and looks up at me expectantly. 

 

I fire my presentation back up and return to my post behind the lectern. 

 

“Well, Mr. Norman, Miss Roxie, welcome to our first poetry class. I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell them.

 

As I present my first slide, Norman places his feet on the ground and starts scooting his wheelchair toward to door. He loudly maneuvers his wheelchair into the hallway and lets the door slam behind him, shaking the entire room. Moments later, a nurse rolls a scowling Norman back inside.

 

I cue up a video so we can listen to one of my favorite poets read her work. As her buttery voice oozes from the speakers, I watch Norman’s wheelchair inching back toward the door out of the corner of my eye. 

 

Mary-Kate follows him out this time, leaving me with my sole student – or two if you count canines. Miss Roxy’s eyes shift between me and the presentation, which I take as a good sign. But when I really looked into her eyes, I see that they’re looking through me. Her stare is blank, confused. She isn’t really here. 

 

I speed up my delivery, just wanting to get the hell out here and collect my paycheck. May-Kate returns sans Norman and sits beside Miss Roxy as I plug away.

 

Suddenly, Miss Roxy turns to Mary-Kate. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be taking from this. I mean, I was a teacher for 40 years, goddammit. What is the point?”

 

As Miss Roxy goes to continue, Mary-Kate interrupts. “Miss Roxy, did you skip lunch again today? Let’s get you some water. Jessie, please continue.”

 

My skin is now bright red – a result of the thermostat set to 90 degrees and Miss Roxy’s awakening of my imposter syndrome. I speed through the rest of the lesson plan and completely skip the writing exercise I saved for the end. I let the writing prompt flash onto the screen and tell Miss Roxy she can try it at home if she’d like. She continues to stare at me blankly while sipping from a kid-sized plastic bottle of water. 

 

Mary-Kate helps Miss Roxy into the hallway and returns a few moments later while I hurriedly collect my things. I feel as if these walls are closing in on me – I need air.

 

“That was PERFECT,” Mary-Kate trills. “Unfortunately, the poetry club was busy today, otherwise I think the room would have been packed.”

 

I open my mouth, wanting to ask how she does this every day. But all I can get out is, “I’m glad you were happy with it.”

 

I blink, and Mary-Kate looks down at her watch. “Oh no, I’m late for a meeting! Please excuse me, Jessie! I can’t wait for your next class.”

 

I flee the classroom where I find Miss Patricia still sitting in the middle of the hallway, her tissue now a gelatinous glob dribbling from the corner of her lip. I hit the elevator ‘down’ button and tap my foot against the floor impatiently. I can feel Miss Patricia studying my feet. 

 

When the elevator finally arrives, I rush in and hit the button for the ground floor. The doors begin closing in slow motion when Miss

Patricia and I lock eyes. She isn’t looking through me – she’s searching my face. With tissue remnants now oozing from her mouth, her eyes begin to water. The elevator doors finally shut, and we both disappear.