Chase Wright believed in the path of least resistance. It was the philosophy that had sustained his legal career and, more importantly, his morning sleep schedule. So, when he heard whispers of Professor Williamson’s Philosophy class—a course rumored to be less about the human mind and more about “feelings”—Chase knew he had found his sanctuary.
He stood at the back of the lecture hall, leaning against the doorframe as he watched a student approach Williamson.
“Hey, man,” Chase said, flashing his most disarming smile. “I’m looking to lock down my schedule. I heard this class was a cakewalk. You passing?”
Chase looked at the gaping maw of the mindless boy and asked. “Do you like Mr. Beast?”
The boy responded. “He’s awesome.”
“So far, so good,” Chase nodded.
Chase turned his attention to the front. Professor Williamson didn’t look like a philosopher. He looked like a man who had survived a shipwreck and decided he liked the aesthetic.
“Death!” Williamson suddenly roared, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “So-called! Is a thing that makes men weep. And yet a third of life is spent in sleep!” He slammed a hand onto his desk. “Open your textbooks to page sixty-seven.”
Chase reached for his bag, but Williamson let out a manic laugh.
“Now… close them and throw them away! Throw it away!”
Books flew. Thuds echoed. Chase watched, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
“For those of you who are new, the motto of this class is Carpe Diem,” Williamson announced, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying sort of joy. “Seize the day! No tests. No papers. You want an ‘A’? Live… in the moment.”
Jackpot, Chase thought.
The Dream Fund
The Orangeside study room felt smaller than usual today. The air was thick with the scent of Christina’s latest vape flavor—something that smelled vaguely like strawberries—and the rhythmic beep-beep-beep of Wilson Firestone failing to understand technology.
“Voice command,” Wilson said, staring intensely at his smartphone. Beep. “Voice command.” Beep.
“Would you please use the buttons, Wilson?” Christina snapped, not looking up from her notes.
“Okay, Grandma,” Wilson grumbled.
Tyrone let out a sneeze. It was high-pitched, delicate, and sounded like a kitten being startled. The table went silent. Wilson let out a bark of laughter.
“Oh, God bless you, dear,” Sharon chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Chase asked, sauntering into the room and dropping his bag. Tyrone let out another sneeze, this time getting Chase’s attention. A grin grew across Chase’s face and he pointed at Tyrone, “Hey, you sneeze like a girl!”
Tyrone quickly responded, “How about I pound you like a boy… That didn’t come out right’
Chase continued to address the group, “You guys, I found it. The ultimate blow-off class. Professor Williamson. He thinks he’s some TED Talks inspirational speaker. No tests, no work, just ‘day seizing.’ The deadline is tomorrow. I suggest you all sign up.”
“Some of us are here to actually learn things,” Amelia said, though her hand was already creeping toward her planner.
“I’m in,” Tyrone said quickly, clearly looking for a distraction from his sneeze.
“Learning things like philosophy,” Amelia added. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” Sharon added. “I love Robin Williams.”
Chase turned to Elvis. The resident film buff was staring at his notebook, his brow furrowed. “Elvis? You in?”
“I’d love to,” Elvis said flatly. “In every movie, there’s an authority figure that gets mad at him for making people laugh. But, I can’t. My dad only pays for classes that help me run the family Mexican Restaurant.”
Elvis’s voice was matter-of-fact, but Chase saw the way his fingers tightened around his pen.
“Covid 19 was basically the Covid-19 of the restaurant business,” Elvis continued. “He has my whole life planned out.”
“Are you even interested in tacos and burritos?” Christina asked, her activist instincts visibly twitching.
“I’m interested in making movies,” Elvis admitted. “But my dad says all the media is propaganda that negatively subverts societal standards.”
“Then he should see Breaking Bad,” Tyrone interjected. “Gus Fring was a bad-ass.”
Christina ignored Tyrone. She looked at Elvis, her expression softening into that dangerous look of someone who had decided they were going to “fix” something. “How much does a film class cost?”
“Same as what the Xbox Series S should cost, $249.99,” Elvis said.
Christina didn’t hesitate. She pulled out her checkbook, the ink scratching decisively against the paper. “For dreams,” she murmured, sliding it toward him.
“Christina,” Sharon warned, seeing the storm clouds gathering. “Isn’t Elvis’s dad… pretty old school? You sure you wanna get tied up in all that mess?”
“Are we going to study,” Chase interrupted, her voice tight with stress, “or keep getting involved in each other’s personal lives?”
Standing on Desks
The following day, the philosophy class felt less like a course and more like a cult meeting. Chase, Amelia, Wilson, Tyrone, and Sharon sat in the middle row, watching as Williamson paced like a caged tiger.
“Why are you here, Ms. Brenner?” Williamson asked, stopping in front of Sharon.
Sharon stood up, smoothing her skirt. “To get a degree in business so I can sell my baked goods and whatnot on the internet.”
Williamson leaned in, his face inches from hers. “Why… are you here?”
“Because,” Sharon’s voice cracked, a sudden, raw honesty spilling out, “I wasted fifteen years of my life on a man who left me with nothing but stretch marks and a foggy memory of two bland orgasms. And now it’s time to get what’s mine.”
The room erupted in applause. Chase clapped along, though he felt a flicker of unease. This was getting a little too “real” for a blow-off class.
“Day seized!” Williamson cried. He turned to Amelia. “Ms. Winters, get up on your desk.”
“I thought there might be a quiz,” Amelia stammered.
“Stand on your desk! Rise above the programming!”
Soon, the entire class was standing on their furniture, a sea of students wobbling on particle-board surfaces. Then, the inevitable happened. A desk groaned and collapsed. A girl hit the floor with a sickening thud.
“Ooh!” Williamson winced. “Go to the nurse. Seize the day.” He turned to the rest of them. “I want you to hug a tree and tell ten people that you love them. Class dismissed.”
Chase started to leave, but Williamson’s voice caught him. “Mr. Wright? A word.”
Chase turned, his “lawyer face” sliding into place. “What’s up, Professor? Is it Wilson? Look, he’s been in this school since its founding, pretty sure he’s just here to goof off. I’ll talk to him.”
“Actually it’s you, Mr. Wright,” Williamson interrupted, his eyes boring into Chase’s. “You have no intention of seizing the day.”
“What? Listen, I love you,” Chase said, testing the homework assignment.
“That’s one,” Williamson said dryly. “Nine to go. But listen well: if you don’t genuinely seize the day before the end of the week, you will be seizing an ‘F’ for the semester.”
Chase stood frozen as Williamson swept out of the room. He realized with a sinking feeling that he was going to have to work harder at faking “sincerity” than he would have worked at actually taking a real class.
The Documentary
Chase found Christina outside, but she wasn’t alone. Elvis was there, circling them with a high-end digital camera, his movements fluid and detached.
“How’s the film class, buddy?” Chase asked, adjusting his sports coat.
“Pretty good,” Elvis said from behind the lens. “Our first assignment is a documentary. They’re like real movies, but with ugly people.”
“That’s wonderful,” Christina beamed.
“I’m doing a movie about my dad,” Elvis added.
“And how did he react to you signing up?” Christina asked.
“That part hasn’t happened yet,” Elvis said, pointing the camera toward the parking lot. “Here he comes.”
A man with a stern, weathered face, thick moustache and eyes that looked like they had seen too much of the world marched toward them. Mr. Santiago didn’t look like he wanted a taco. He looked like he wanted a fight.
“You want to get involved in my family’s business?” he barked, his eyes landing on Chase. “Where do I find Mr. Chris?”
“I’m Christina,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m a woman with rights, and free speech.”
“Oh, I get it,” Mr. Santiago sneered. “Because I’m an immigrant, I must hate America. I love Americans. But I’m getting a major ‘See You Next Tuesday’ vibe from you.”
Chase stepped in, his hands raised. “Sir, you have a right to your culture, but Elvis is an adult and a U.S. citizen—”
“Fine!” Mr. Santiago shouted, throwing his hands up. “You want to raise him? You raise him! I’m out!”
He turned and stormed away, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
“Well,” Elvis said, checking his viewfinder. “That went well. I’ll have to make some adjustments to my film. Chase, I think you should play the role of my father.”
“I don’t want to be your father,” Chase snapped.
“Perfect,” Elvis muttered. “You already know your lines.”
Chase spent the next morning in front of his mirror, agonizing over an outfit that was supposed to look like he hadn’t spent a single second thinking about it. He settled on a pastel-colored sweater tied over his shoulders and a pair of vintage sunglasses. He looked like an extra from a 1980s sitcom, or perhaps a very wealthy person about to go on a light jog.
He found Christina at the Chi & Tea coffee shop, hunched over a notepad. She looked frazzled.
“Why are you dressed like a Batman villian?” she asked, glancing up as he approached.
“Professor Williamson comes by here every morning,” Chase said, checking his reflection in the napkin dispenser. “I need him to see me celebrating life. What are you doing?”
“Calculating Elvis’s expenses for the semester,” she sighed, tapping her pen against the table. “Books, meals, the camera rental… he needs spending money, too.”
“Um, all money is spending money,” Chase noted.
Suddenly Sharon appeared and took Christina’s attention after overhearing some of their conversation, “Christina, it’s amazing what you’re doing for him. Most people just talk, but you actually follow through. I love you.”
Christina froze. She stared at him for a long beat, her cynicism warring with a sudden, confused warmth.
“Sharon, thank you!” Christina chirped back.
“Bet that doesn’t happen to you a lot,” Christina muttered to Chase, satisfied with herself.
“Happened yesterday,” he replied, her eyes narrowing. “Sharon’s just doing her homework. Everyone in class is running around like cupid stabbed them with arrows.”
Elvis walked in then, his new camera held out in front of him like a dowsing rod. It was sleeker than the last one, covered in buttons and dials that looked expensive.
“Cool tie, Chase,” Elvis said. “Are you wearing that because you’re playing the role of my dad, or is it really Christmas?”
“Definitely Christmas,” Chase said. “Is that a new camera?”
“Yeah. It’s more expensive, but it lets me adjust settings that most people don’t think about. It captures the things you try to hide.”
“Hi, I’d like a latte,” Elvis told the barista, then looked at Chase. “Let me get you something.”
“I’m okay,” Chase said.
“Oh, come on. I got you.”
“No, really. I don’t need—”
“No, really! You’re insulting me!” Elvis pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, looking almost desperate to spend it. “Look at all this cash!”
“Okay,” Chase said, startled. “I’ll get a small, black coffee.”
“Boo,” Professor Williamson snapped, voice manifesting as if out of nowhere. “An ordinary coffee for an ordinary life.”
“Good morning, Professor Williamson!” Chase chirped, spotting the professor near him.
Williamson paused, looking Chase up and down. His expression was one of profound disappointment. “Sorry, Mr. Wright. These won’t cut it.”
“Shazbot!” Chase uttured.
Williamson turned to the counter. “I shall have… an ice cream cake!”
Sneeze Theory
In the student lounge, Wilson Firestone was leaning over Tyrone with the intensity of a diamond merchant.
“I’ve seen men in your situation, Tyrone,” Wilson said, his voice a low gravel. “I can help you with your image. First, lose the jacket. You look like a high schooler. But more importantly… it’s your sneeze.”
Tyrone frowned. “My sneeze?”
“Before I won the lotto,” Wilson said, standing tall, “I was a trucker and I had an array of masculine sneezes that asserted dominance. There’s the ‘oh shit’, shock-the-room-into-silence sneeze.” Wilson inhaled sharply and let out a deafening, incoherent roar that made a nearby student drop their laptop.
Tyrone stared, horrified and impressed.
“Or the draw-them-in sneeze,” Wilson continued, gasping convulsively for air until Tyrone leaned in close. Then, nothing. “Maybe I wouldn’t sneeze because I’m in control. You can even use a sneeze to drive home a point. Like… I think… the Seahawks are going to win it all this year!” He let out a violently clipped, sharp achoo that sounded like a gunshot.
Tyrone nodded slowly. “Tell me more.”
The Performance
Chase decided it was time for a grand gesture. He waited in the campus courtyard until he saw Williamson approaching, then launched his plan. He was flying a kite, laughing with a group of confused-looking freshmen, and generally radiating “spontaneity.”
Williamson stopped, watching the display for a few seconds. He slowly raised his hand and gave Chase a definitive thumbs-down.
“Sloppy,” the professor said as Chase jogged over, panting. “And considering the age of these girls, unwittingly creepy.”
“Professor, look at the amount of work I’m putting into this!” Chase pleaded. “Throw me a freaking bone!”
“Had I not already cried at the double rainbow this morning, I would be weeping right now,” Williamson said, his voice filled with a strange, poetic pity.
“What does THAT mean?” Chase asked exasperatedly.
“What does your life mean, Chase? How long does it take you in the morning to make it look like you have bed-head? Seize the day for real. Kiss a girl in the middle of the day. Fly a kite for yourself. Or you won’t just fail my class—you’ll fail life.”
Williamson handed a flower to Christina, who had just walked up, and swept away.
“That guy’s really got your number,” Christina said, watching Chase drop the kite string. “Look, I need to talk to you about Elvis. I went by his film class. He wasn’t there. He’s cutting.”
“Ask him why,” Chase muttered, still stung by Williamson’s critique.
“Every time I try, he just films me and tells me I’m playing the role of his mother. He’s not normal, Chase. I thought I was helping him, but he’s just… a parasite.”
“That’s what you bought when you tangled yourself in his life,” Chase said, feeling the weight of his own failing grade. “I’m trying to seize a day here, Christina! I don’t have time to be a dad.”
The Breaking Point
Later that night, the study group was gathered in their room, surrounded by steaming pizza boxes.
“Thanks for the pizza, Elvis,” Amelia said, taking a slice. “It’s like a family dinner.”
“It’s a study group and a pizza,” Chase corrected, though he was eating as fast as the rest of them.
“So, Elvis,” Christina said, her voice strained. “How’s film class?”
“Good,” Elvis said, not looking away from his camera.
“Did you go today?”
“Not really.”
“Well,” Christina said, her voice rising. “I’m paying for those classes. Don’t you think maybe you should go?”
“I was shooting my movie,” Elvis replied calmly. “My movie is more important.”
A delivery man walked in then, carrying a tray of lattes. “Seven lattes for Elvis?”
“I got that,” Elvis said.
“No, you don’t got it!” Christina exploded, standing up so fast her chair screeched. “I got it, Elvis! I got everything! What is wrong with you? All I want to do is take care of you. Why won’t you give me a straight answer?”
Elvis didn’t blink. He adjusted the focus on his lens. “Because this is the scene where you leave.”
Christina stared at him, her chest heaving. “You better believe it.” She snatched her bag and stormed out.
Elvis turned the camera toward Chase. “What do you think, Dad?”
Chase looked at the lens, feeling a cold shiver of realization. “I think you are really weird, Elvis. And I think the wrong person just left.”
Six Candles
The next day, Chase took control. He tricked both Christina and Mr. Santiago into coming to the study room under false pretenses.
“I lied to get you both here,” Chase said as they glared at each other across the table. “It’s time to communicate. The only reason this mess started is because you both want the best for Elvis.”
“You and your girlfriend got all up in my business,” Mr. Santiago growled at Chase. “You wanted to be heroes, and then you turned chicken when you found out it takes more than self indulgent speeches and a pretty face.”
“Look, I don’t think Christina’s speeches are all that great either, but thank you for calling me pretty.” Chase said, with Christina giving him a mildly annoyed look.
“Elvis may not be a great filmmaker,” Christina argued, “but he doesn’t want to make Tacos and Burritos! You have to let him make his own decisions.”
“Make his own decisions?” Mr. Santiago laughed bitterly. “You know who he is? You know how hard it is for him?”
“Guys!” Elvis shouted, cutting through the noise. “I’m finished.”
He gestured to the computer monitor. “Christina, Chase, Dad… please.”
They sat down, the room falling silent as the film, titled Gamers Delusion, began to play. It was a montage of footage Elvis had taken over the week—distorted, grainy, and overlaid with audio of their arguments.
But as the film progressed, the perspective shifted. It showed Elvis’s mother leaving. It showed a younger Elvis standing in a kitchen, a baby crying in the background, while a younger Mr. Santiago looked on with a face full of silent, crushing regret. It showed the world as Elvis saw it: a series of scenes he couldn’t participate in, only observe.
The film ended with a shot of the study group, and then a final, lingering image of Mr. Santiago’s face.
The room remained quiet. Then, Chase heard a ragged sob.
Mr. Santiago was crying. He looked at the screen, then at his son. “I never blamed you,” he whispered. “I never blamed you for what happened to our marriage.”
He turned to Christina and Chase, his anger completely gone. “My son is hard to understand. If making movies helps him be understood… then I will pay for the class.”
The Debt
After Mr. Santiago and Elvis left, Chase and Christina stood alone outside the library.
“I made that happen,” Christina whispered, though she looked more exhausted than triumphant.
“With the restaurant business as a fallback,” Mr. Santiago punctuated as he left.
Chase noted. He looked at Elvis, now with a knowing smile on his face. “He played us, you know. He used our drama to get exactly what he wanted from his dad.”
“It isn’t called ‘friend business,’” Elvis sighed. “It’s called ‘show business.’”
They stood in the silence of the evening. Across the quad, a loud, thunderous sneeze echoed—Tyrone’s new “masculine” roar.
“God bless you!” Sharon’s voice called out from the distance.
Christina looked at Chase. “I’m in your debt, Chase. You fixed this.”
“You owe me,” Chase agreed, his mind racing. “That cannot be comfortable for you.”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “It’s not.”
“So… how are you going to pay it off?”
Christina looked at him, her eyes searching his. “You should kiss me right now.”
Chase didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned in, and for a moment, the calculations and the lawyers and the grades all vanished. It was a real, grounded moment—the kind Williamson had been preaching about.
“Day seized!” a voice shrieked.
They pulled apart. Professor Williamson was standing ten feet away, beaming.
“We’re even,” Christina whispered to Chase, a smirk returning to her lips before she turned and walked away.
Williamson jogged over, clapping Chase on the back. “A-plus, Wright! I know a life-Cabaring kiss when I see one! Wowee!”
Chase watched Christina walk away, then looked at the exuberant professor. He had his passing grade. He had “seized the day.” And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t entirely sure if he had fooled the teacher, or if the teacher had fooled him.