What Everybody Wants

By Samantha Knight. Published in borrowed solace, 2018

What Everybody Wants

By Samantha Knight

A cold rain plummeted into the streets of Vancouver as the wind blew garbage from one block to the next. Scraps of newspapers came to a sudden halt on the windshields of stopped traffic. Passing bicyclists attempted to shield their face by looking down and keeping only one squinting eye open on the bumpy road ahead—until they noticed what the commotion was about.

Around a sky-rise, vehicles have parked, and the drivers gathered in the courtyard in front of the building. The building was a bank, and the people stood in awe and shock as they stared at the roof where a man in tattered clothing stood—shreds of his garments blew away from his body, his right shin visible even from such a distance.

Bystanders gossiped amongst each other; nobody moved or attempted to do anything, they simply watched. Police stood nearby examining the situation, calling into their radios and discussing the best solution. Time was critical.

“What does he want?” But did he have to ‘want’ something? Did such a spectacle inherently evoke this question? One bystander wondered. And if he did indeed want something, would it matter to them anyway?

A woman replied to the question, “Someone said they heard him hollering about money.”

“Oh, I see… because it’s a bank. My, my.”

A policeman leaned through the passenger side of his squad car and spoke into the radio, “We have identified the jumper as a man, maybe late thirties or forties. Likely homeless, or an addict,” a sigh escaped, “possibly mentally disabled…” A nearby onlooker, who could overhear the officer, frowned at him, compelling the policeman to turn away and continue more discreetly. “But he’s made demands about money. Daniels and Morris have gone up to assess the situation. We may need back up, stand by for updates.”

The man—indeed homeless, but not an addict or mentally disabled—shivered in the rain and wind, which felt like needles from the elevation. He nervously glanced behind him and then back over the ledge, anticipating an arm to grasp him from the precipice or, startle him into making the leap. The height was higher than he had anticipated, and being on the edge of death, staring it in the eye, was like no situation he had ever expected to be in. He could not only see his breath, but he could hear it as loudly as the wind howled in his ears.

In the distance, a single sailboat pushed onward through the choppy waves to the open ocean, despite the storm that continued to build. It reminded him of back when he had the choice to either stay in the safety of the shelter—and continue working odd jobs that paid too little to save up—or risk everything in order to make things happen in his own, quicker, way. Still, he felt conflicted, but had come too far, and his little girl was depending on him.

“Give me the money, or I will do it!” his voice stuttered, but was loud enough for the crowd to gasp.

“My blood will be on your hands! On the hands of the police force and the bank owners! I have no choice, she needs…” The last of his cries were carried away with the wind. But he didn’t necessarily want to die; the public setting, consistent hesitation, and the fact that he was making demands suggested as much. But he did know that he needed money, quick, and did not want to wait until honest work had earned him what he needed sooner than later.

“Shit, where is Daniels? He should be up there, should have radioed down by now.”

“What do you want to do, Sarge?”

A younger man in his late twenties approached the two officers. He wore a gray suit with a name tag, identifying him as the bank’s assistant manager. He was oddly calm, and his top hat kept his thick brown hair from blowing about, though he had to hold his hat to his head.

“What is it that he wants, if you don’t mind my asking?”

The officers looked at each other, then back to the bank assistant manager, who cocked his head in genuine curiosity.

“Does it matter when he’s making threats—” a look from his superior had his grumblings trailing off.

The sergeant asked the bank employee, “Is your manager here? We will speak to him.” He carefully closed his notepad as he continued to examine the young man.

“No, sir, he is away on vacation until next month. But he has left me in charge. Is there anything I can do to assist your efforts, Officers?” Was this some sort of underhanded way of goading their sense of duty? Mentioning their “efforts” while they stood by doing nothing notably productive? The sergeant wondered.

The second officer hesitated before clearing his throat and stepping in. “Have any of your employees said anything about the man? Did he approach them before he got up there? How did he get up there anyway?”

“No, he did not approach my staff, not to my knowledge. As for his position, we have restrictive access that he wouldn’t have been able to breach. However, there are other businesses in this building, and all of them have roof access.” The employee paused, removing his hat to scratch his head. “But I wonder… This isn’t a typical sting-up for cash; it seems to me that this was not a planned threat, but one of spontaneous desperation.” He glanced up at the homeless man on the ledge, biting his lip, and then looked back to the officers. “Seems this is a time sensitive situation.” He didn’t want to seem condescending, so the man swiftly went back to his initial offer. “Again, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Something ought to be done sooner than later, or we will all have a bloody crisis on our hands.”

The officers rolled their eyes.

The employee went on in a hushed tone, “I have heard some of the whispers…but what does—”

“Money,” the Sergeant sighed.

“Hm,” the bank assistant manager pondered this for a moment.

“Well? What do you suggest?” the officer blurted out sarcastically, scoffing faintly under his breath.

“Give him what he wants then,” he answered pointedly.

The officer choked back laughter, while the sergeant shook his head in disbelief. “You want us to bend to his threats and give him money? We don’t typically tolerate extortion, let alone yield to it. And it’s your bank, you will be the one who will get fired for making such an idiotic decision, among other possible lawsuits.”

The Sergeant cut in, “Anyway, we’ve already sent someone up there to reason with him. I can’t be condoning this sort of behavior and rewarding it with cash, and in front of all these people? Rubbish,” he sneered.

The assistant manager’s face was contorted with bewilderment. Taking a cautious—entreating— step toward them, he replied, “Forgive me, but isn’t a man’s life more important than currency, or policy? Especially when time is a pressing matter.” He cleared his throat nervously, but continued in a bold fashion. “I think his family, if he has any, would agree. Not to mention the possible lawsuits against the police department for handling such a situation without consideration for safety first and foremost.” If he was insulting them, he didn’t care; after all, there was an obvious humane solution—a time-sensitive one whose window of opportunity was gradually closing. The memory of his older brother, who had died under similar circumstances, motivated his next words. “Gosh,” his eyes widened as he covered his mouth with his hand, “if the worst were to happen here, I imagine that that would be quite the black spot on your reputations.” And what an example it would set for the people… he thought disdainfully.

The officers glanced at each other, stunned. Torn between feeling insulted, embarrassed, and offended, the Sergeant inhaled deeply though his nose. With tight lips, his eyes narrowed on the man’s vacant and unchanging expression.

“I will gladly take full responsibility,” the assistant manager added, breaking the tension. He returned the hat to his head. “So, if you will permit, I would like to offer him the money that he’s asking for. At the very least, it will put an end to this life-threatening spectacle atop my bank.” He paused, and then met their judgmental eyes with a kind smile. “His life is clearly derailed, and he’s probably not thinking straight. Perhaps he will come to his senses and offer a reasonable explanation once safely apprehended. But if you honestly think that denying him what he wants in this moment, despite whether you think he needs it or not, will change anything for the better, you are mistaken. That outcome will only end in blood.”

The massive clock tower beside the bank began to dong the seventeenth hour of the day—closing time.

***

The large theatre is breezy, and the lights dimmed, except for the stage which is brightly lit. Students flood in through the two doors at the top of the stairs and settle throughout the many rows of chairs.

“Welcome first-year students, to Philosophy 101!” The Professor begins, even though the chatter has not died down. “For some of you, this may be your first course, and for others, you’ve probably had a taste of the pain and agony you’re about to endure for the next eight months. But, this is what you all signed up for, and I am here to follow through.” He pauses before grinning at the mass of young adults in lecture theatre 201 of the Fipke Building. The professor is in his late fifties with a wispy salt and pepper comb-over, and he is wearing an outdated gray suit with a purple tie; he typically dresses more professional than other professors, certainly more so than the Fine Arts ones.

He strokes his trimmed mustache before continuing. “I am Professor Andrews,” he announces, turning away to slide one of the white boards over the other, which reveals a board full of neatly written notes; there is a projector and screen, but he prefers his old-school ways of teaching.

“You may call me ‘Professor’, or ‘Professor Andrews’. My assistant has already emailed the syllabuses to you all, meaning that you should have gone over it on your own prior to coming to class. We shall begin immediately.”

He turns back around to face them with a stern look on his face. “Phones, laptops, iPods, iPads, and any other gadget that has an I in it is prohibited in my class. You shall write your notes, as it is a more efficient way of learning and maintaining information. If you miss a day, and I don’t give a rat’s ass why, excuse my French,” he smiles at his own joke, “you will have to copy them from someone else.”

An indistinct chatter again echoes softly throughout the lecture theatre as students complain under their breath to their neighbor; most of them indeed have laptops already glowing before their disgruntled faces, and the sounds of them snapping shut gives Professor Andrews an odd sense of satisfaction.

One student with a floppy green tuque sits in the front row. He glances around the room uneasily, realizing he is only one of the four students sitting in the first two rows. One of those students sits beside him, wearing a Vancouver Canucks hat, and not only has he no laptop, but no notebook or pen either. In fact, most of the students have not come prepared, though some of the cleverer ones begin taking discreet snapshots of the board notes on their phones.

The guy in the tuque leans over inconspicuously and whispers in his neighbor’s ear, “Well, this course is gonna suck. I might even drop it. I need the credits, but I don’t want this shit.”

“Yeah. I’m only here for an easy A.”

Professor Andrews looks at the two guys in the front row, who hastily straighten up in their chairs as if they were never engaging in a conversation.

“Ah, the first out-of-turn speakers of day. It’s interesting that I heard one of you mention what you ‘need’ versus what you ‘want’, because that is exactly the philosophy we will be discussing today.” He draws his attention back to the entire class and announces loudly, “With all the choices that we have in our privileged society—and more specifically, at this University—you all chose to take this class. Perhaps because you wanted to take philosophy, or maybe you just need the credits,” a pointed look at the student in the front row. “Choices don’t always encompass our desires in the moment, but they may be necessary, and they do influence the bigger picture: what we will want. And vice versa.”

The theatre goes quiet. One student raises her hand cautiously; her many bracelets bunch up at her elbow.

“But, Professor, what about the concept of ‘need’? Is there not a big difference between what we want and what we need?” Under Professor Andrews’ vigilant gaze, her voice breaks on the last few words. The other students stare at her, impressed at the bold question that arose in the first few minutes of the first class.

The professor finally blinks, then smiles as he re-positions his hands behind his back.

“Glad that you asked! Indeed, there is a difference, but that is a fine line you are drawing in the sand, Miss…?”

“Kelly.”

He doesn’t respond, and an awkward silence stills the room.

“Kelly Linburg.” Her face is now red and her knuckles white as her interlaced fingers tighten.

“You do make a fair point, Miss Linburg. The two concepts indeed have different technical definitions, and our own life experiences often help further define them as well. So, it’s natural that we differentiate ‘want’ and ‘need’. But this kind of thinking tends to result in a greater importance placed on our needs, triggering a practically automated societal acceptance, regardless of the particulars.” He pauses, detecting a general lack of understanding among the students. “Let’s say that someone steals a box of diapers from the store. A crime is a crime, and is it not suitable for the offender to be caught?” With raised brows, he shrugs. “And when they are, of course their explanation involves needing them for a child, and so people are more forgiving, agreeable to the crime even. Because needs are often associated with necessity—though they are not always interchangeable—while our desires tend to carry negative connotations of greed or selfishness… However!” A few students are startled from their near dozing states. “Unless it’s food and water—the fundamental necessities that we need for survival—people’s perception of what is ‘needed’ can be subjective, and it does not exclusively comprise the bigger picture. In fact, that is where the ‘want’ comes in, generally playing a bigger role that’s justified under the guise of ‘needed’. And although needs and wants are not always interchangeable, that premise does leave room for the possibility that they can be synonymous, at times.

“The offender may have needed diapers for their child, but because, and most importantly, they didn’t want their child to soil their clothing. Or they are too proud to accept donations and don’t wish to wait for their next cheque. Or they do not want to exploit the timeless, and economical, method of handling an infant’s excrement: cloth. Whatever the situation, or reason, they want diapers in order to fulfill a need to keep their child hygienic. Or, conversely, perhaps you need something to fulfill a desire.” He turns away to add a new point on the board, before returning center stage. “But we always have a choice—for the most part anyway—and believe it or not, it’s what we want that frequently drives our impulses on an everyday basis; it’s in our nature. And sometimes, the two concepts can reflect one another, as I have demonstrated, but it’s the label we use that defines how we will act to accomplish it.”

The students remain silent, some frantically taking notes—unsure if it’s test material—while others staring blankly at their professor as he stares back.

“I hope that answers your question, Miss Linburg.” Professor Andrews walks back towards the whiteboard, stopping just under a spot-light, which makes the tattered, moth-eaten qualities of his suit noticeable. He uses his red pointer to bring their attention to their first assignment.

“You will each write four research papers throughout the duration of the term, and each one corresponds to the chapters that we will discuss. The various topics and requirements are outlined in the syllabus. However, not noted in the syllabus are the due dates for each paper. This is because you are adults and I’m giving you the choice to write and hand them in when you want, though you will need to complete and submit them before the final week in order to pass.” He smiles as the philosophy of his subject begins to enlighten their faces. “I suspect that, after all this, some of you will not return, despite any wants or needs.” His grin widens as he winks.

The students watch attentively as the Professor makes his way to a desk in the corner of the stage, settling into the chair and propping open a book. The class is ended in ten minutes, and uncertainty has some scribbling down all the notes, as instructed at the beginning of the class, while others quietly stealing from the lecture theatre.

***

The leaves on the campus trees have grown back in bright colours, some green, some purple. Socializing and completing homework, students gather around the fountain in the courtyard, which flows rapidly once again, washing away the dirt and rubble of winter’s debris.

Papers litter the walls of the Fipke 201 lecture theatre, all of which list student numbers and their corresponding marks for Philosophy 101. Before taking their seats, the students push and shove one another to see their final mark, a greatly anticipated moment after a long and odd course. But, curiously, there is more to be noticed than one’s own grade, and nearly every student sits down in utter confusion after staring at one of the papers posted on the wall. A simple word had been typed beside every student number: Pass.

Professor Andrews, in his regular tattered gray suit, stands center stage, patiently waiting for them to settle before addressing their confusion. But for a few, it is instead irritation, since some were more diligent in handing their papers in prior to the final day, after having toiled in their efforts to exceed all the others—or at least they think so.

“You have all made it. Congratulations on your new educational experience, and on passing the course!” The professor turns his attention to the white board, and the overview of topics discussed throughout the course; many of the students sigh in relief at the confirmation that there will be no surprise final tests.

A student raises her hand without hesitation, determined to confront what she is sure her peers are also concerned about.

“Professor? I have a question before we start. I think many of us are—”

“Wondering if the final marks are correct?” he finishes for her, smiling broadly. “Many of you may be content with your passing grade alone. But I’m speculating that some of you would like clarification as to why there are no alphabetical grades, no percentile structure to rank you all from best to worst, and no failures. Is that correct, Miss Linburg?”

Kelly swallows hard, slowly lowering her hand onto the desk. “Um, basically, yes. How can there be no differentiation between the final marks? Our papers couldn’t have all been… perfect.” Though her tone is cautious, modest even, as she glances around the room uneasily, the question itself causes others to roll their eyes.

The professor chuckles under his breath. “‘Perfect’? Well, that's a bit of an overstatement. Passable, yes.” After a brief pause, he continues, “Indeed, the conventional way is to utilize exact numbers to speak to your level of education and intelligence—sometimes, despite one’s best efforts.” He clicks his tongue. “In other words, it’s a systematic way of herding a diverse group of individuals, who think and learn differently and at varying paces, into one narrow assembly line to be taught, assessed, and graded in a cookie-cutter fashion, so to speak.”

Though some listen attentively, most of the students sag in their seats upon realizing that this is turning into one last lecture.

Professor Andrews inhales deeply before continuing. “Perhaps not all of you understood the material the way I had intended you to, and maybe some of you excelled more than others, in my opinion. But it is my belief that your intelligence and comprehension should not to be dissected and categorized by my opinion. At least not in a course like this, which is based less on fact than it is on thoughtful speculation on the fundamental questions that concern humanity, and the general nature of things—to put it quite simply. For some areas of study, a numerical grade is appropriate; there is no speculation when asked what two plus two is,” he smiles, but the students can no longer be bothered to pretend at humour. “Nevertheless, that system still assumes that you all think and learn in the same way. That you can comprehend and finish uniformly, without taking into account schedules, personal obligations, individuality, etcetera.

“At any rate, it’s adequate completion that matters in the grand scheme of things—not that I’m encouraging you to strive for the bare minimum. But you all needed to pass this course, and I gave you the choice, as adults, to write and hand in your assignments when you wanted to. In the end, what you needed and what you wanted ended up giving you the same result. Except I’ve found that if you allow a person the freedom to decide for themselves, and merely help them achieve what it is they are trying to accomplish, I get better quality assignments back.” A wink at the students who were now beginning to comprehend. “So, you all completed this course with a simple ‘pass’ mark, because the point wasn’t for me to determine your degree of education in comparison to your classmates; that will be determined in the level of success you each achieve on your own in the future, inevitably. My goal was to help you understand the material, which you all do now, judging from your four assignments. And let’s face it, you were all going to choose what you wanted to do and the effort you were going to put in to this course no matter what letter grade I gave you in the end.”

Some of the students have already left, but others, including Kelly, remain antsy in their seat, clicking their pen or shaking their leg. Professor Andrews can see this, and he smiles; he is nostalgically thinking about when he first learned this valuable lesson.

“Let’s consider one last situation to put this course into perspective.” He draws in a deep breath through his nose, recollection softening his face, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “He’s a seemingly desperate felon, or a suicidal outcast, or a homeless addict who may be mentally impaired… because those are characteristics commonly attributed to a man standing on the ledge of a tall building in front of a crowd. We don’t know him, or his past, or his reasons, but they have influenced his drastic choice to threaten his life in public. You can presume to know what you don’t and try to dictate what he needs—say, to be pulled from the ledge by force, arrested and then thrown into some institution for either criminals, patients, or the homeless…

“But what he wants is far more pertinent in this desperate moment, because desires are inherently more powerful, they can drive a man, or a woman, to do just about anything. What should you do?”

A long pause ensues. Though a few students reflect thoughtfully on the question, most have taken to napping in their chairs, inconspicuously checking their phones, or have summoned the courage to walk out altogether.

Kelly’s distant, contemplative, gaze falls upon the professor as she responds, “Well, if helping him means giving him what he wants, then perhaps that’s also what he needs.” Her eyes narrow as she chews over her next words. “He needs to be saved, so… I’d give him what he wants. At least for now.”

Professor Andrews grins. “And what does everybody want?”

...

The students are eager to exit the lecture theatre upon the closing of this final class, except for one.

“Professor Andrews?” Kelly stands before him as he re-reads the papers on his desk in the corner of the stage.

“Something else?” He gives his full attention, crossing his hands gently on top of the papers.

“What happened to the man on the ledge?”

A large air duct in the ceiling above their heads rumbles, and the vent blows a cold chill down both their spines. The theatre is quiet otherwise, absent of student body.

“I gave him what he wanted… and he didn't jump. Turns out, it was what somebody else really needed.” He took a breath. “Afterward, I asked about his life, and why he made such drastic choices. The struggling man had a daughter, who he was not in custody of and rarely ever saw due to his living circumstances.

“Unfortunately, she was battling leukemia, and the medical expenses for the best treatment exceeded the mother's wage and coverage. So his daughter’s life would only deteriorate. That’s when he knew he needed to make a decision that would help his child in a time-sensitive situation—yet another life-threatening circumstance.”

Andrews recalls that rainy day, the crowds, the judgement, the bank… He has never been particularly proud to have been a bank assistant manager for much of his youth, but his choice that day revealed a gilded path to helping people, and later, students.

But he continues, “I then helped him succeed in what he needed to do, but in the right way. My bank made a generous contribution to the Children’s Leukemia Foundation, and sponsored his daughter, who received all the treatment she needed. And he went on to pursue what he always wanted to be: a father. This also happened to be what he needed out of life anyway.”