“Mitch,” he said softly, “you know that I’m dying.” I knew. “All right, then.”
Morrie swallowed the pills, put down the paper cup, inhaled deeply, then let it out.
“Shall I tell you what it’s like?” What it’s like? To die? “Yes,” he said.
Although I was unaware of it, our last class had just begun.
It is my freshman year. Morrie is older than most of the teachers, and I am younger than most of the students, having left high school a year early.
To compensate for my youth on campus, I wear old gray sweatshirts and box in a local gym
and walk around with an unlit cigarette in my mouth, even though I do not smoke.
I drive a beat-up Mercury Cougar, with the windows down and the music up.
I seek my identity in toughness—but it is Morrie’s softness that draws me,
and because he does not look at me as a kid trying to be something more than I am, I relax.
I finish that first course with him and enroll for another. He is an easy marker; he does not much care for grades.
One year, they say, during the Vietnam War, Morrie gave all his male students A’s to help them keep their student deferments.
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