There were only fifteen people enrolled in the writing class designed especially for students who did not plan to go on for the four-year degree. We all sat around a long conference table in a small seminar room. Nearly half the class were recovering drug addicts and alcoholics who wanted to be chemical dependency counselors themselves because of the gratitude they felt toward those who had helped them. Already friends who wanted to stick together, they had all enrolled in my English class. Because of their familiarity with group therapy they dominated class discussion. For two weeks, two hours twice a week, we just talked about possible subjects for their writing. The students of chemical dependency told story after story about the crazy things they had said and done and heard others say and do under the influence of intoxicants.

 

In the class also were two local police officers, Sgt. Marker and Mr. Carlson, both veterans of the war in Vietnam. Unlike all the others in class who dressed in casual clothes, Marker and Carlson wore business suits and ties and they carried their school materials in slim black briefcases instead of book bags and backpacks.

 

They said little.

 

In week two the discussion turned to violence.

Three students of chemical dependency had been present when acquaintances were killed in tavern brawls, shootings, and vehicular homicides.

 

Students offered the usual platitudes on love and life and death.

 

The talk grew philosophical.

 

I moderated.

 

I listened.

 

Booze—

Drugs—

Conflict—

Anger—

Cursing—

Beating—

Stabbing—

Shooting—

Blood—

Death—

 

Then a long pause in the conversation seemed to invite my reaction.

 

I didn’t think.

 

"I just hope I can get through my life without killing somebody!" I said.

 

It popped out.

 

"So far so good!" I added.

 

Marker jerked back in his chair like he had been slapped.

 

He reached down beside him for his briefcase and laid it carefully on the table. With his thumbs he pried loose its two latches simultaneously and opened it. He placed in his briefcase his syllabus, notebook, and textbook. Then he closed his briefcase, snapped shut its latches, and rose from his chair.

 

Marker stood.

 

Without a word he strode purposefully from the room.

 

I was stunned and confused.

 

Speechless.

 

Then Carlson did exactly the same.

 

Gone.

 

They never returned.