Education: A Collection of Short Stories

By Paul Donovan

A financial planner mistakenly believes he needs a multitude of gadgets to thrive in a modern world. But as his obsession with material items grows, he can only helplessly watch as everyone he loves begins to exit his life.

In short stories interspersed with diverse characters, Paul Donovan delves into the intricacies of modern relationships, religion, and passions. John Moore works within the world of education where he has finally secured a leadership position. But as rumors begin to circulate of a teacher restructuring, John—who is fueled by his romantic intentions toward another teacher—feels compelled to do everything in his power to stop it. After losing his job, Simon is diligently pursuing a master’s degree. But when he becomes distracted from his goals within the pages of eclectic books, Simon hopes that if he keeps reading, he will find the answers as to what is wrong with his life. Francesco Constantine is on a search for love. But the more he dwells upon the image of his perfect wife, the more unsettled he becomes.

Education shares an anthology of short tales set in Melbourne, Australia, that deal with crises at the core of modern relationships with intensity, humor, and pathos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: May 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504302500

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Copyright © 2016 Paul Donovan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5043-0249-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-0250-0 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 05/17/2016

Contents

STORY 1 Gadgets

STORY 2 Church

STORY 3 Faith

STORY 4 Love

STORY 5 Travel

STORY 6 Work

STORY 7 Quality

STORY 8 Money

STORY 9 Morality

STORY 10 Education

STORY 11 Connecting

STORY 12 Divorce

STORY 1

Gadgets

I drove down along the motorway at one hundred kilometres an hour. It was hot outdoors, but that didn’t worry me. I was in my new car with the air conditioning on high. My shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, my sunglasses on. I felt the freedom of the road.

***

The music was playing as I sat in front of the computer. I had checked my e-mails—or Gmails—for the twentieth time that day. I opened a web browser and headed straight for eBay. I followed the usual routine—men’s Swiss watches; tailor-made suits and business shirts; and then, of course, Italian, leather shoes.

Before long, I had wasted half an hour without purchasing anything, without even finding anything to take my fancy. I dragged myself away from the computer screen with a feeling of dissatisfaction and headed downstairs.

Before I left the room, I took my iPhone with me in case I might need it.

I walked past Nina and headed outside. We had just had another argument. We no longer knew what caused each new argument to arise. It seemed to be the same one played out time and time again. Whatever was the reason, we were not talking, so I thought I would leave her alone.

I walked over to the park, sat down on a seat opposite the lake, and looked across. I used to direct my prayers to heaven whenever I found myself in distressing situations such as this one, but now I simply gazed across the barren lake, the long, green grass an unappealing sight. I thought of what I might pray, but the words did not come to me. I tried to consider how I might speak to her when I returned, but thinking about it wearied me, and I stopped trying to work it out. Of late, when I had been beset with trouble, I turned to diversions rather than solutions. I tried to resist the urge to take out the phone, but my resistance proved futile.

It had started slowly, this obsession with stuff—my first smartphone, followed by my first computer. Hours were wasted playing video games on the tiny screen and then looking at e-mails and checking the latest news. There was a period of time when I read great books online on an iPad, iPhone screen, or a laptop—books filled with poetry, with great stories, or even the Scriptures. I thought the fact that I had downloaded a Bible app positioned me as a spiritual person, someone with a higher purpose—not someone caught up in trends or fads. But after a while, I found myself using the device for shopping, for Internet browsing, and for simply viewing as a habit, constantly checking e-mails, text messages, and Facebook.

I used to go to visit my mother at the end of each week. Sometimes, Nina would come with me, but often I travelled alone. I liked the feeling of driving down the motorway and then along the stretch of road that led to the marina where her house was nestled.

Nina and I had been together two years. Neither of us had wanted children right away, but we had often talked about it; it had been in the back of our minds, and we knew that eventually we would get around to it. Like marriage. We were always destined to be together, so marriage would eventually happen, just as the kids would come along in their own sweet time.

I looked at the screen. I could barely hear the birdsong in the background and was oblivious to the sunshine on my head as I looked at the latest apps available on the app store, before flicking to the available movies. There was a message from my mum asking me to come and visit her—in that guilt-inducing tone that only a mother can employ, that tone that makes you feel like a worthless son who has not only abandoned her but has also failed to live up to the expectations of his childhood in every way.

I had been working for several years at a mid-level accounting firm in Melbourne. Initially, I had found the work difficult—long hours; monthly inventory checks and reconciliations; and the painful commute to the city’s groaning, bloated public transport network.

But I threw myself into it, making rapid advancements. At the end of each day, I came home and read books on self-development or career advancement, and I carried out further studies, earning myself a master’s in financial planning and other various qualifications in taxation law. But since my studies had been completed, I’d fallen into a bit of lethargy. It was around this time that Nina and I had moved in together, and my life had begun to take on new meaning, so to speak. We had been dating off and on for three years prior to this, enjoying the high life, fancy dinners, trips to wineries, and late nights where she would fall asleep in my arms before I drove her home. It was inevitable that we would move in together, so we rented an upmarket apartment in an outer suburb.

We spent so much time together in those first months that nothing else was of interest. Sure, I bought things online, and I liked to have nice things for the home, but this was to complement the enjoyment I found in her company, not to substitute for it.

After the first several months, the arguments began, and I handled them in my usual fashion by just giving in and compromising. We began to be more reserved around one another and stopped communicating so frequently and affectionately. But like all young couples, we thought we were still fine—our sex life was vibrant and engrossing, and we still saw our future being intertwined.

I walked back to the house. I opened the door and breathed deeply. It was a Sunday, and as I walked past her, I saw she was preparing her clothes for work; she was ironing a shirt, and there were some clothes she had brought in from the clothesline. She was a lawyer in a local firm, which was probably one reason I could never win an argument with her. Not that I tried. She worked hard, and the work caused her a great deal of stress.

I walked to my office and sat down in front of my computer. The computer, which had cost me four thousand dollars, was custom-made and featured high-end graphics capability, enormous storage capacity, super-fast performance, surround sound, and a twenty-seven-inch screen. I had looked at various models online and had compared models from various manufacturers before I had purchased this. I was able to work from home, access movies, and play video games. I viewed this device as a lifeline, a sanctuary in the evening. The desk the computer sat on was a futuristic steel-and-glass construction, and the desk chair was an Eames replica. Around the room were various other items I had purchased online—a large-screen TV, gym equipment, and an original painting by an artist working out of Heidelberg.

I had a costly printer on the desk, an iPad, and another laptop computer, which I took with me to work.

I owned a collection of watches, most of which were of Swiss origin, and a series of leather wallets with brand names like Boss, Oroton, and Country Road. I walked over to the walk-in robe to look over my collection of Italian ties. I straightened the bright-red patterned tie and looked to the left where I kept my collection of sterling-silver cufflinks. I closed the door, resisting the urge to check again the rows of leather shoes, the jackets, the shirts, and the suits.

The need to own a good car in order to travel to work each day seemed a good excuse for the purchase of the C-Class Mercedes. Likewise, in order to get there safely, I needed a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses to shield my eyes from the sun, not to mention a smartphone with hundreds of songs to give me tranquillity of mind on the drive. When my father passed away and left the house to me, the several hundred thousand dollars just sat there for a while. I put some into the mortgage, but after a while, a new guitar appeared—which I rarely played—and new clothing arrived by the day.

Before long, I found myself on my computer or phone—one of the three I owned—almost every waking hour. If I was not checking items I had bid on, I was searching online retailers, checking the news, or rereading the hundreds of e-mails I was receiving daily. Many were work related, but many more were from retail sites I had joined or companies trying to sell me stuff.

Are we going to talk? she said.

At this point, I had my headphones on. I was listening to some blues music I had downloaded and was looking at Raymond Weil watches. There was one I had been particularly keen to buy and had been comparing and contrasting similar models in the Don Giovanni range, looking for one that was suitably priced.

We used to have decent conversations, she said. "We used to have conversations. It seems you just want to rush straight to your computer or your collection of European socks or whatever else it is you are stocking up on."

I took off my headphones and looked disconsolately up at her. You know I’ve felt down ever since my dad’s death.

You’re using that as an excuse, a cop-out. And I think you do a disservice to your dad. He was a hard-working, honourable man. He hardly spent a cent in his whole lifetime, so that wealth has now transferred to you. And you are using it shamelessly.

I need these things to cope—and to thrive in a modern world, I offered weakly. You know what it’s like. You can’t succeed in the modern world without these gadgets, without the right clothes to wear at work.

She looked at the screen.

Another watch? How could you possibly need another watch, given you can tell the time on this or this or this! She had pointed out the phone and the two computer screens I had open. One was on eBay and another on a clothing retailer of choice, a place that stocked the comfortable cotton underwear I had started to enjoy wearing. I guess she had a point.

She walked away calmly, a disappointed look on her face. I had no more to say. When she walked away like that and when that look of disappointment cast its pall on me, it hit me far harder than outright anger.

I put the headphones back on. I turned my attention to the screen. I wanted to go down to her, to embrace her, to reassure her. But I could not reassure myself. I looked at the screen once again for answers, checking the e-mails for the third time but finding no change. I then downloaded more songs, losing the impetus to go down to Nina. . I plugged the phone into the computer and transferred the songs.

My mother lived alone in a south-eastern beachside suburb. I had been avoiding her of late; the pain on her face had become too much. It was far easier to face the daily news—the tabloid reports of celebrities and their exhibitionist tendencies; the terrorists in Syria; the stale, rancid local politics. I had been frequenting these online news sites—I had subscriptions to four of them—but there was shallowness to my reading; I skimmed the news, and my shallow reading reflected the shallowness, the insubstantiality of the news itself.

I put on my Levis jeans, my imported leather jacket, and my recently purchased blue, leather driving shoes. I took the phone and made my way to the car, the pristine Mercedes. Day and night for the past weeks, if not months, all I had thought about was what I might like to buy. I had clothes in the walk-in robe I had rarely worn; some I’d not worn at all. I owned shirts that I had not taken out of their packets. Obsession seemed an inadequate word to describe my condition.

A week later, Nina would move out, and I would be left in my apartment with my stuff. For now though, as I drove along, I felt as though I was noticing things for the first time in months—clumps of elm bark trees; smaller, golden branches and leaves, bursting forth in colour in the spring sunshine; the blue sky; the signs above my head. It was good to look at things other than on a screen.

I drove down along the motorway, going at one hundred kilometres an hour. It was hot outdoors, but it did not bother me. I enjoyed being in my new car, the air-conditioning on high. My shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, my sunglasses on. I felt the freedom of the road.

STORY 2

Church

I sat down at my desk.

The sun was about to set and I looked forward to my screen time, a time where I could reawaken my gadgets following my return from church and the conclusion of God’s Sabbath.

The first device that normally captured my attention, simply because it was small, easy to grasp, and quick to start up, was my smartphone, an indispensable tool in this modern era—or a mindless addiction, whichever way you want to look at it.

I had bought a new phone recently, a Sony this time, rather than the IPhone I had always previously opted for. I had begun to like the phone already. I was getting used to it. The level of customisation was touted as a benefit to these non-Apple phones, but really it was a little overwhelming at first. Still, I was getting used to using it and had worked out the basics. I turned the fan on in the room, not that it would do any good. It was awfully hot in there, as it always was. I tried opening the window to the bedroom to cool the joint down. Whilst the air was fresh and cool, I sighed, as I knew it would take far