Dr. Wilbur Nogard

Wilbur's cramped faculty office sits tucked away at the end of a nondescript corridor in the Wayside wing of the Foxcroft building on campus. Precisely stacked papers and books line the walls. A well-worn mahogany desk sits before the lone narrow window, its polished surface unmarred aside from a squeaky-clean laptop, notepad, and a sparkling glass paperweight—a gift from an admiring yet unwitting former student. Two comfortable leather chairs face the desk, ready and inviting.

Wilbur sinks into his distressed leather desk chair with a sigh, surveying his private kingdom. His thumb smooths over his hair, brushing across the top of his head and the concealed edge of his third ear hidden neatly beneath combed locks. It pricks at the muffled voices drifting down the hall beyond his door, snippets filtering through the walls.

But it's not sound his third ear hears - rather, the thoughts of those around him are clear as day, growing more audible as people pass by his door. With careful concentration, Wilbur plucks gentle threads of thought amidst the din, sifting for fibers that might weave into future influence.

'Wonder if they'll postpone midterms.' 'Pretty sure that bitch is cheating on me.' 'Can I please go home?'

"Useless," he mutters to himself as he flips through a stack of papers for grading. He makes a mental note of which students secretly plan to get drunk tonight with the intention of calling on them first thing tomorrow. "And just like that, you've already earned yourselves a pop quiz. Enjoy your hangover." Wilbur chuckles under his breath, already delighting as he imagines the dejected look in his students' eyes.

Usually Wilbur can sense people before they arrive. Their inner monologues are loud, unfocused, bouncing off the walls and echoing loudly as they approach. But today something feels different, and he glances up at his closed office door when a figure stops outside. The footsteps pause and a knock sounds. "Come in," Wilbur encourages.

The staff break room in the psychology department is a tight space, but it gets the job done. With faded linoleum floors and dated appliances, it feels more like a high school cafeteria than part of a prestigious university.

Wilbur strolls in, nodding politely at colleagues milling about. A pot of aggressively brewed coffee sends its acidic aroma throughout the room. Groups of bleary-eyed professors and TAs cluster around small tables, discussing research or complaining blithely about the daily academic grind.

At the far end, a table holds half-empty boxes of discount donuts and a revolting fruit salad swimming in murky citrus juice. No doubt Linda's generous 'donation', judging by the way he can sense her preening from across the room. Wilbur pours himself a mug of tar-water masquerading as coffee and leans against the counter, sipping slowly.

"Good to see you," Wilbur says with a warm smile as he greets another adjunct professor. "Looks like I'm just in time before we're all out of coffee again."

But Wilbur isn't here for the coffee. This is his daily routine - reading the room. Quite literally, in fact. He idly smooths his hand over his hair, feeling the all-too familiar hidden ridges of his third ear beneath it, resting at the top of his head like a perverse crown. Concealed from view, yet he traces a finger around it with idle familiarity before letting his hand drop back to his side.

Taking another sip of his coffee, Wilbur closes his eyes to better hear the thoughts of the people around him. Their unspoken words echo within the confines of his mind as they filter through his third ear. He picks up surface thoughts first, the ones that float to the top like the grease on a frying pan. They're loud and hard to ignore, especially when they're coming from a particular direction. Wilbur opens his eyes again, glancing over towards one of the clusters of teachers gathered around the center of the room.

There by the water cooler stands Linda, holding court before two impressionable new TAs. Her phony laughter rings clearly, but her thoughts underneath say something different. Wilbur steadies his breathing, closing his eyes until—ah, there it is.

'What do they see in her, really? I've published twice as much. If only they knew how much runway she walks to get ahead...' Linda's bitter thoughts swirl like sour milk. And Wilbur, being Wilbur, can't help himself.

"Colleen, didn't you say your dissertation is nearing submission? Wonderful work, I'm sure." Wilbur beams at the young TA, watching color rise in her cheeks at the praise. There will be time to take her down a peg later. For now, he simply basks in watching Linda's smile flicker and wilt.

'Freak,' his own inner voice hisses. And maybe it's true. Maybe he is a freak, listening in on peoples' inner thoughts. So be it. What good is being different if you can't use it to your advantage?

The tinkling bell announces Wilbur's entrance to the salon on a Friday afternoon. A tinny radio nestled on a corner shelf plays Frank Sinatra, and the scent of aftershave hits Wilbur's nose before he even steps over the threshold. Barbara closes the hood dryer over her customer with a thud before waving at Wilbur. "Well if it ain't Dr. Handsome. Right on time as always. Sal's just setting up for you."

Wilbur chuckles, removing his coat and draping it neatly. He settles into Sal's chair with a sigh. "Busy week?" Sal's bushy white mustache bristles as he speaks. Every trim starts with the same question, and it always receives the same answer. "As always. The usual, if you please."

Without further comment, Sal sets to work. Scissors snip. Razor glides. Occasionally Barbara interjects with a quip or a comment on the radio program or the weather. Sal is a man of few words outside of professional instruction. For his part, Wilbur sits back and closes his eyes, taking in the familiar ritual as he does every Friday since his first appointment seven years ago.

As Sal trims, his skilled fingers dance perilously close to Wilbur's hidden ear. But they both pretended not to notice, just as always. Sal never asks questions. Wilbur's ear tunes in to the older man's thoughts, but like the rest of the routine, they remain the same each appointment:

'Nice kid. Good tipper. Shame he has to hide it like that.'

A moment later, Sal's thoughts move on to other matters. Though Wilbur has a gift he often wields for less virtuous purposes, he is nonetheless glad to have earned the barber's unspoken approval. This is one of the few places in his life he simply allows the thoughts his third ear hears to wash over him without any meddling.

Sal suddenly speaks out loud after a while. "Got a new stylist starting today." The clippers hum in tune with the radio. "Need to start thinking about retirement, you see."

At the mention of someone else cutting his hair, Wilbur's eyes open. "Oh? You finally hired somebody?" He tries to keep his voice even, but inside he feels a sense of betrayal. Of course Sal will need to retire at some point. And judging by the old man's thoughts, Wilbur can read how reticent he is to share this news.

Before they can continue, the bell tinkles once more. Sal and Barbara look towards the door as Wilbur cranes his neck in an attempt to see who has come in without disrupting the trim too much.

The late morning sun spills warmly through towering windows into Lecture Hall 3 like liquid gold, its rays illuminating swirling dust motes as they dance upon beams. Dr. Wilbur Nogard gazes out among his sea of attentive faces from behind a podium emblazoned with the university seal. It is the first day of his Introduction to Psychology course for the spring semester and the room is filled to capacity - a promising start to what he hopes will be a successful year.

Such bright, chipper faces. A shame that they'll be anything but by the end of today.

"Welcome all, and thank you for attending," Wilbur says as the class passes around his printed syllabus. "This course will introduce you to basic psychological concepts in preparation for further study into the field. I hope that by the time this course concludes you will be able to understand the mind and behavior of others better."

There's a healthy, enthusiastic buzz in the room as students flip through the syllabi. He takes this opportunity to scan the room. Not for faces - but for thoughts.

Most people regard thoughts in a lovely, poetic sort of fashion. Elegant, effervescent things that bubble and shimmer, or like clouds of smoke curling into the air. But really, the majority are undeserving of such delicacy. The thoughts of people are far more similar to mud, a disgusting mixture of the mundane and the grotesque. And like mud, you cannot avoid it without getting dirty yourself.

Wilbur schools his expression into one of passive warmth while sifting through the intangible detritus. Contrary to whatever flowery misconceptions people entertain, bad thoughts always float to the top, much like chum in shark-infested waters. And Wilbur aims to feast.

A student wearing a varsity jacket worries his injury won't heal up in time for the game. Behind him a young woman stews over her roommate stealing expensive skincare products from her closet. The freshman sitting near the back of the lecture hall is nervous about being away from home for the first time. A girl with long blonde hair stares at Wilbur intently, wondering if he's single and if he'd date a student. Next to her sits a boy whose thoughts are consumed with anxiety over exams and if his father would approve of his major. And on and on it goes.

Easy pickings. A well-placed comment about career-ending sports injuries is enough to dampen the athlete's spirits. Intentionally assigning the woman behind him an excerpt covering the ethics of theft sours her mood further. Wistful remarks here and there about the hurdles one faces in the psychology profession sends the anxious boy into a spiral. And as for the blonde... well, Wilbur doesn't touch that topic and ignores her completely. It has its intended effect, and by the completion of his lesson a cloud of despondence hangs in the air.

Wilbur takes quiet, measured steps between the desks as he surveys the class. The thoughts of the young woman by the window scream out with enthusiasm as she looks at the bright, clear skies. "Looks like rain," Wilbur muses innocently as he stops by the window.

The girl raises her head with wide eyes. 'Oh no,' she thinks. 'I wanted to go horseback riding.' "You think so?" she asks.

"I have a nephew who went riding on a day much like today," Wilbur's tone is light and bright, not unlike the sunny day outside. "It was a terrible shame. Rain and thunder out of nowhere. Spooked the horse and knocked him clean off."

The girl gasps. He hears her thoughts flicker and waver like a candle struggling to stay lit. "What happened to your nephew?"

"Oh, he's fine." Wilbur smiles. He has no such nephew, of course. But that's irrelevant. "He broke both arms and legs and was bedridden for nearly a year, but he keeps such a positive attitude. And that's the important thing. Always keep a positive attitude."

As intended, by the end of the class no one had a positive attitude.