The Counselor
By Jeff Provine
Jerry Matheson had been waiting for this moment for twenty years. The class of ‘82 reunion was well underway, and there was a lull in the entertainment while the guys of the band Flying Cheesy Pizza struggled their overweight bodies onto the stage for a reunion gig. Jerry straightened his tie and drained his cup of the final swallow of punch. He was fairly certain, had been spiked by Matt Henderson, the former class clown who now owned a used car dealership outside of Muncie, Indiana, and he hoped it was true. Even if the buzz he earned was a placebo effect, it prepared him to walk toward the aging Mr. Minter, newly retired high school guidance counselor.
Jerry could remember his last meeting with Mr. Minter so vividly that it still made him clench his fists with anger. He found himself remembering it, half-dreaming, whenever he had a night where he didn’t fall asleep immediately. It began when Mr. Minter called out “Matheson, Jerome” from his dark office and asked him what he had been planning for his soon-coming future.
“Well, sir,” Jerry began a little nervously, “I thought I’d like to be a cartoonist. I’ve got plans about art school, and then—”
Mr. Minter interrupted, clearing his throat in a concerned tone. “And what gave you the idea that such a career is feasible?”
Jerry paused in a combination of shock and a struggle to remember the definition of the word ‘feasible’ from last month’s vocabulary test. “My political cartoons in the school paper are rather popular, and it’s something I enjoy doing. I thought it’d be something I could really do for a living.”
“Yes, but you need to calculate the odds of actually achieving publication, et cetera. Then figure in the cost of living, supporting a family,” Mr. Minter droned on into details about the coming difficulties of life. Finally, he sat back with a creak from his chair and summed up, “Mr. Matheson, I feel you would make a splendid auto worker.”
Jerry gasped. “Auto worker? But I barely made a C in shop!”
“Here, I’ll give you some of the pamphlets Ford Automotive Company sent me,” Mr. Minter said, seemingly ignoring him. “The automotive industry has a great future ahead of it, you know.”
“Sir,” Jerry objected. “I’d really like to be a cartoonist.”
Mr. Minter shook his head. “You’ll never make it.”
Frustration made Jerry set his jaw. “I will.”
Mr. Minter sat up in his chair. “Fine, if you’re going to be obstinate about it, I’ll give you some applications toward art schools. I do hope you’ll reconsider and not throw your life away like that.”
The fiery anger that had filled Jerry for twenty years first sparked at that comment. He grabbed the pamphlets from the counselor whom he now ranked between Lucifer and Stalin and stormed out of the office.
From that moment on, Jerry had worked with livid vigor, making the goal of his life to prove Mr. Minter wrong. He enrolled in the best of schools, paying for them with whatever torturous manual jobs he could find, and worked night and day to hone his craft. Soon, his scathing political cartoons were appearing in newspapers, first at the college paper, then the local newspaper, and at last appearing in the Times. He had made quite a name for himself, and his salary stood higher than most of his classmates could dream.
Now he could rub it all in the face of his nemesis. Jerry approached the old Mr. Minter with a speech he had rehearsed thirteen times that evening. “Listen, Minter, I--”
The guidance counselor stopped him with a smile and a shake of the hand. “Ah, Jerry Matheson! I loved your series on deforestation in equatorial Asia. I knew you had a great cartoonist in you.”
Jerry’s voice went limp, and he stood completely dumbfounded. There would be only one moment in his life when he would be more confused. “But, you were saying… about the automotive industry…”
“Oh, that, yes.” Mr. Minter laughed as if he hadn’t thought about it in years. “Let me explain: When I first came to be a counselor, I was fresh out of college, idealistic and ready to point eager young students in the right direction. Unfortunately, some of the brightest young pupils I had were giving up and dropping out simply because they had no drive for it, nothing to prove, no passion to propel them. One day, after arguing with… young Mr. Walls, I believe, about how he could never make manager of anything judging from his lack of discipline in school work, I discovered that a little negative reinforcement could spur a student to accomplish his goals in life much more than a positive pat on the back. Mason Higgins from the class of ‘79 wanted to be a test pilot, but, after I was done with him, he was an astronaut on the Space Shuttle. And let’s not forget Phyllis Bobbins who, after I suggested she settle into life as a housewife, became a senator a few years back. Ah, they were such impressive students, and I shudder to think what might have happened to them if I had let them casually followed their dreams…”
This was the moment in life when Jerry felt his bitterest, most paralyzing confusion. Half of him wanted to thank the elderly man for being the unlikely cause of his success, and the other wanted to beat him unmercifully for the years of tormented nights and all the white-knuckled struggling he had suffered. Finally, he scooped Mr. Minter into a gracious hug and squeezed until he heard something crack.
THE END