The Unsharpened Answer

The morning of my college interview at Clarke University started off in chaos. After waking up an hour late due to my alarm not going off, I sprinted to my car to rush to my interview, only to find my car battery had died. After frantically calling every family member and friend I could think of, I was finally able to get my car started. However, the chaos did not end there; upon arriving at my interview, I found I had forgotten my note cards for the interview and I slightly glance down to realize now I am embarrassingly wearing two different colored shoes as well.

Finally, I can calm myself down and gather my thoughts; I walk up to the front desk where an older, retired-looking Librarian sat looking at me over her seemingly out dated glasses.

“May I help you, my dear?” she said in a sweet, comforting voice.

Nervously, I responded, “Um… Yeah, I am Alex Stecklein. I am here for my Clarke interview?”

At this point, with all that had happened in such a small amount of time, I had no hope my day would turn around. Luckily, the sweet old woman was able to unknowingly turn my terrible day into a day I will never forget.

“Oh, yes, yes the interview. Unfortunately, the interview panel is running almost an hour behind schedule. I apologize for the short notice; you are more than welcome to sit and wait,” she said with a polite and empathetic smile.

I graciously grinned, and hurriedly made my way to the library to collect my thoughts and attempt to redo my notecards I had mistakenly left at home.

Upon entering the library I noticed an older gentleman who sat calmly and quietly, yet there seemed to be a mystery surrounding him. I quickly scanned the library for an open seat. Surprisingly, the only seat available was directly across from the mystery man I had come across before.

“Excuse me,” I said, hoping the mystery around the gentleman was not one of murder . “Do you mind if I sit here?”

The elderly man did not even hesitate to glance up at me as he briefly nodded and said, “I suppose so.”

I set my bag and papers down in relief. Trying hard to keep quiet, I rummaged through my bag for a pencil and a few notecards. Just when I had thought my bad luck had gone away, once I had cleared out my bag, I found there was no pencil or notecards in my bag.

“Pardon me, but do you mind? You are being ever so unkind,” the old man exclaimed in an unhappy voice.

“I am sorry,” I said in hushed tone, not only trying to apologize to him, but also to the rest of the library. “I am having the worst day, and even worse luck. Do you have a pencil I could borrow?”

“A pencil? You are making this much fuss over a frequently used utensil? Nonetheless, you come asking me, a stranger; how juvenile of you. As far as you know, I could be here to kill you,” he said in a stern voice.

I was taken back; I was expecting a simple yes or no answer, not an arrogant reply. However, something about his personality was familiar, I was unsure as to what part of him was, though.

“I am sorry, sir,” I said with a hesitant tone. Just then, I knew. The mysterious appearance, his ability to rhyme, and his complete pompous personality; this man was the famous Edgar Allan Poe.
“Excuse me, but would you by chance be Edgar Allan Poe ?” I quietly questioned, as if a mob were to show up if I asked any louder.
“Why of course I am he, who else would you think I to be?” he quickly replied, as if I should have known who he was from the moment I first saw him.
In utter shock at Poe’s presence, I inadvertently forget to introduce myself and I begin to ramble off questions: “Sir, I am a huge fan of yours. Is there any way I could have a moment of your time to ask you some questions?”
“Well, I guess my answer would have to be yes. However, I would be happy if you made them quick and snappy,” he said, eyes rolling in an annoyed manner.
I pull myself together and attempt to wipe away my boy-band-obsessed expression off my face, or in my case, famous-poet-obsessed expression, and ask the first question which comes to mind: “Is there a Mrs. Edgar Allan Poe?”
Poe glanced at me quickly as if he had no answer for my question. “Yes, I mean no. There was a long time ago. Actually, Mrs. Poe was my thirteen year old cousin, you know.”

Maybe I should have been more surprised with his answer, yet I was not. After learning so much about Poe’s life, a strange marriage with his younger cousin had not fazed me one bit. I nonchalantly continued to ask more questions. “What is a deep secret you have not shared with many people?”

“My secret, you see, would have to be my past coming back to haunt me. A lonely life I have lived, not to mention I was an orphan, ” I heard him say in a quiet voice, as I noticed his eyes glaze over as if he were mentally going back to a time in the past.

Ignoring the fact that Poe may not mentally all be here with me I took another opportunity to ask yet another question: “What is the story behind The Tell-tale Heart?”

“Why yes, The Tell-tale Heart, what a great piece to question in the start. Insanity is my best answer, for I have seen many deaths within humanity,” explained Poe.

“I apologize if I am asking too many personal questions, please stop me if I go too far,” I say, hoping he will allow me to ask.

Poe nods, giving me the “go ahead” sign to continue.

“In The Black Cat, please help me better understand what your story, The Black Cat, was intended to be about,” I ask in confusion.

Poe sits for a bit. I can tell he is trying hard to remember his train of thought when he first began writing The Black Cat.

“The story is simple: a cat is murdered by a man who is drunk, as you would say, however the cat comes back to haunt him one day. Through the eyes of the killer, is the point of view in my story, instead of the view of the innocent kitty.” Poe answers with a slender smile.

In complete surprise I answer, “Wow! I was confused about your story until now. However, now I understand the story line! Also, I am confused about another one of your stories, and who the character is based upon. In Eleonora, was there any relation to the story in your actual love life?”

Poe smiled and glanced at the floor as if he were waiting for me to ask this question, “Eleonora is obviously about my love for a member in my family. My first darling was my sweet Virginia; you could be blind not to see our love.”

In a way almost hearing his answer was unpleasing, I try and stray away from asking anymore questions along the lines of Virginia. “What is your favorite style to write in?”

Giving me the “this is an obvious question” look, Poe says with a deep sigh of annoyance, “My style of writing is plain to see, I write of horror, death and mystery. I am not your average everyday writer; instead I like to make you think as a reader.”

Trying my hardest to wrap up the unplanned interview, I quickly think of another question to end with, “Is there an unusual fact about you which not many readers would know?” I ask in a hurry.

Clearly thinking hard about my question, Poe seems as though I have stumped him.

“Ms. Stecklein, our interview session will begin in a few minutes if you would like to prep yourself beforehand,” said the elderly librarian.

Nervous and scared Poe will brush off my last question and not even attempt to answer, I give him one last glance and I can tell he is trying hard to not look up at me. Poe is forcing himself to look anywhere as long as he does not have to make eye contact with me.

“My dear, we are ready for you on the second floor, would you like me to show you your way?” politely the sweet little Liberian said.

“No, thank you, I can find my way.” slowly taking my time hoping Poe would give me an answer before I leave for my interview.

“Well,” I say, giving Poe one last chance to answer. “I enjoyed meeting you today. Thank you for answering my questions,” I say with a long and intentional sigh, praying Poe would feel bad and give me his final answer. Yet, he responds with nothing but a sniffle of the nose, which I took as a, “nice meeting you too” sniff.

I slowly and disappointedly walked off to my interview, not sure I could even focus on the questions I was about to be asked. At that moment my worry was not, “what questions will the college interviewers ask me in my interview;” however my concern was, “why did Poe not answer my question?”

Forty-five minutes later I walked out of my interview, having no recollection of any questions I was asked. All I can think about is Poe and my final, unanswered question for him. As I was about to walk out the doors to head to my car, I hear a faint voice.

“Ma’am, ma’am!” a quiet voice echoed in the Arboretum of Clarke.

I turned around to see who the voice was calling to when the old and fragile Librarian was heading in my direction; I began to walk towards her.

“Ma'am, this is for you,” she said handing me an envelope. “The older man had dropped this envelope off for you and asked if I could give this to you when you returned; I said I would be delighted!” she said with a warm smile.

“Poe?” I asked, as if she would know who the man was. “Thank you.” I said returning the warm smile. I headed for my car.

Once I arrived at my car, I opened the envelope and read the note:

“An unusual fact, I, myself am unusual enough for that. I will tell you about me just a little more. One fact about me is animals are what I adore. To make this letter swift and sweet, I will tell you quickly all about me. My rival would be Rufus Griswold; he has made me crazier and driven me up a wall. I started college at Virginia the University, and then went to West Point , that’s another story. Many people call me “father of the detective story ,” yet I am not one to bask in my glory. Now you know more about me, I left you a little gift, take a look and see.

Sincerely, Edgar Allan Poe.”

I glance down in the envelope to see a pencil with a tiny note saying,

“Not all strangers are this generous, but here is a pencil for your complete untidiness. I did not sharpen the utensil so you are aware, I do not know you, therefore did not care.”

I smiled and took the pencil out of the envelope, tied one end to a string, and hung the pencil from my rear view mirror. I will never forget the day I met Edgar Allan Poe.