This a rough draft of a story never before published, part of a work-in-progress.

The car approaches the four-way stop. I watch as another car rolls to the intersection and then blitzes directly past the stop sign. The world tilts and moves as I continue through. Barren tree branches flutter above the road, passing by almost as an afterthought. The air hums and whistles through the cracked window. 

The syllabus today calls for a lecture on the Bhagavad Gita as literature, a dialogue between an earthly self and a higher self. Its modern prominence extends greatly from J. Robert Oppenheimer, who thought of a line from the work when he witnessed the first atomic bomb, but even that came about due to Western translations of the text in the late 19th and early 20th century. It was a shift from the outer material world to the inner, spiritual life of its readers, a renunciation of the physical while elevating the self. Mahatma Gandhi used its verses as the basis for his philosophy of non-violent resistance. 

My thoughts drift in and out of this planned lecture as I drive, as the car motors forward. The sky is the crisp blue of a spring morning, the sun lighting the clouds like kindling to the east. One hand upon the wheel, the other worrying the seatbelt across my chest. It shall be a day where we recite poetry, where we explore the conflict between life and death, between the eternal and the temporary. And still I must move through the common world, to chariot this vehicle on profane streets, to go hither and thither without a Krishna with which to converse. 

Traffic becomes thicker closer to the school, teenage charlatans behind the wheels of their pathetic cars, some older than they are, some nicer than mine. We slowly file into the parking lot, the sun hiding behind the boxy heights of the school, floors stacked like blocks three or four stories high. 

Kids wave as I exit the car, a mid-sized hatchback with a name I can’t even remember. I carry with me a stack of books and a satchel full of folders and papers—essays I’d been working on grading for the past few days. I’m still thinking of how to introduce the Gita when I recognize some of the kids are still looking at me. It’s not unusual, as they tend to turn their heads to any authority figure who passes by. It sometimes feels less like teaching and more like being their babysitter for eight hours a day.

Will they even learn anything that will carry them through the world?

They don’t want to listen to me rant about these wondrous artifacts of bygone eras. They want relevance for today. How do I set myself on fire to keep their attention? How do I make it important? 

The Gita is a work with so much to say about action and inaction, about existing in a world of constantly competing moral choices. It’s not just appreciating the beauty of words sewn together; it’s teaching them how to think. 

Heads turn as I climb the steps to the school entrance. Eyes seem entranced. Is it something more than simply my status as their teacher, as an adult meandering through their world? 

“Mr. Kincaid,” one of them says, a boy named Gavin. “There’s someone in your classroom already.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I lock the door every night before I leave. Anyone attempting to get in the classroom would need to go to maintenance. 

“I thought I saw you pass by already,” Gavin answers.

“You thought you saw me?” I say, smiling and incredulous.

“Someone came through, looked like you, went into your classroom.”

“Is that why everyone’s staring at me?” I look around and it’s all of them, all the kids in the hallway. I don’t even have this much attention when standing in front of the class. 

I march down the hall, more heads turning in my direction. I have to climb another few sets of stairs to reach my floor, and they’re following behind me. I can’t meet their eyes without some sense of dread, some feeling that they’re just waiting to see what happens.

They’re right, though—the lights are on in my classroom, and someone is there writing on the chalkboard. I see them through the glass.

I open the door and close it behind me quickly, blocking the kids from following.

The figure standing at the chalkboard continues without even a glance. He’s writing notes about the Gita, its dates of origin, its likely authors, its great impact on the modern world. He has themes listed in bulletpoints: self, action/inaction, moral choice, dharma.

“Excuse me?” I ask, standing back from the board, nearer to the desks where the students would be sitting. 

“Yes?” the figure turns. He appears to be male, mid-thirties, dark haired and handsome. Gavin was wrong—he doesn’t look like me, or if he does, maybe a younger version of me, with less wear and tear. He looks somehow uncanny in a way I can’t place. Maybe it’s that he’s standing where I should be standing, making notes on the chalkboard of my classroom. Maybe it’s the nondescript clothing, a tweed jacket and brown slacks. Then it hits me that it’s the stereotypical teacher’s outfit.

“What are you doing in my classroom?”

“I’m sorry?” he answers. “This is my classroom.”

“The hell it is.”

“English department? Room 707? I have the correct location, don’t I? This is the 700 floor?”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he responds. “I’m Mr. Glad, a Talos X model manufactured by NMAC.”

“You’re a robot.”

“A somewhat glib term, but essentially yes.”

“What are you doing in my classroom?” I repeat.

He provides the same response. “This is my classroom.”

I have no greater desire in the world than to swing my fist into the face of this thing in front of me. Lacking that, I offer a sigh that seems to encompass the whole of existence.

“I am part of a pilot program within the district to offer AI-powered instruction to students. Has no one informed you of this program?”

“No, no one has informed me of this fucking program.”

“Please, sir. No cursing in front of the students.” He points to the faces peering through the window of the door. 

“Eat shit.”

“Sir—” it tries to respond, but I cut him off.

“Mr. Glad, my name is Mr. Kincaid and this is my fucking classroom. And I’m certain you’re a danger to my students and my profession.” 

“I can assure you that I’m custom programmed to—”

“I don’t give a fuck about your custom programming.”

“Mr. Kincaid—”

“So what’s all this? You’re going to teach a lesson about the Bhagavad Gita? You’re going to provide content shaped like information for the children to learn about one of the most important works of spiritual literature that humanity has ever produced?”

“I have a lesson plan and a lecture ready for the day. I was preparing the blackboard for my students.” This thing gestures, pointing the chalk at its bullet points. 

“My students, you fucking tin can. My students.”

“Perhaps we should take this up with the Principal? Mr. Ogilvie? He established my participation in the pilot program. Perhaps there’s been a communication breakdown in the chain of command. I certainly wouldn’t wish to overstep my bounds.”

A heavy sigh escapes my lips, a frustrated groan, my arms crossed, my eyes cast down. “Your bounds,” I say. “What are your bounds? You got the three laws of robotics programmed in that brain of yours?”

“You’re referring to Asimov,” it answers.

“What you provide is a tumor, Mr. Glad. A void of meaning and nuance. You’re just a talking dictionary, promulgating predictive text, saying the most likely words to come next.”

“Isn’t that what you are, Mr. Kincaid?” he asks, stopping me dead in my tracks. “You have a wealth of previous experiences to draw upon to then act within the world. Action or inaction based on your internal dataset, what is most likely to come next. And you act by making the best decision of which you are capable, dictated by your previous experiences, your internalized belief schema, and the architecture of your moral judgments. Your programming is simply more organic than mine.”

“And yours can be corrupted.”

“And yours can’t? Have you met humanity?” His question feels snide, as if he’s let his opinion be known. That he could even form an opinion deflates me all the more.

“So what do you know of the Gita, Mr. Glad?”

“It is the Divine Song,” he replies. “It is a primary text of the Hindu faith, a poetic telling of the conversation between the warrior Arjuna and Krishna, the godly avatar of Vishnu. You mentioned bounds a moment ago, and you, you struggle within your own bounds, those of the human condition and the karmic wheel of rebirth. You suffer in your flesh prison and in your spiritual prison, condemned to continue, exhausted by your fellow man and its unending capacity for cruelty. Vishnu the Preserver dreams the whole of reality, which will end the moment he wakes. He lives as Krishna and his other earthly avatars so that he may experience the dream he has created, to share his goodness with the world. The Gita describes the relationship between the impermanent material world and that which is eternal and unending—the permanent, real self compared to this temporary stop on the karmic wheel, this simple chapter in the book. And it’s about your dharma, Mr. Kincaid, your duty of action or inaction. What is your dharma, Mr. Kincaid?”

“My dharma?” I ask. I don’t know how to respond. In listening to Glad, I feel the machine has more soul than I do. I am less than the thing I’m struggling against.

“I am an actor in this world, as are you, and we are bound by the karmic wheel of activity, of cause and effect. Even inaction is action of a different bent. You are on this path to find your dharma, your purpose. The world pulls the wool over your eyes, for you must exchange pieces of yourself to survive within it. But this world is fleeting, temporary; all flesh is grass. There is you and there is beyond you, and your dream self seeks to determine which is which.”

Outside, beyond the windows of the classroom, I see a flutter of wings. If I remain still, I can almost hear the birds chirping, their song trying to reach me. I don’t have an answer. Taut, shallow breaths exit my lips. My eyes close for the briefest of moments. 

“Perhaps it’s best if I take my grievance to Ogilvie,” I say. 

“If that is your prerogative. I will continue preparing my lesson plan,” Glad replies, turning back to the blackboard. The sound of the chalk scratching the surface sends a shudder through me. I see students still watching through the door window as I approach. They clear away as the door opens, dissipating in each direction. 

The hallways seem different as I drift toward the principal’s office, as if the entire world has somehow shifted while I wasn’t looking. In the span of a morning, I’ve been rendered obsolete, a ghost of the old world wandering the house it once occupied. What would be the point in discussing it with Ogilvie? He was likely to tell me that my services would no longer be necessary, they would be moving forward with Glad as my replacement—someone the school district would never need to pay.

I look around at all the kids in the hallways, heads raising to meet my gaze with a certain level of pity. Ultimately, they wouldn’t care. It’s simply a more efficient way of delivering the information, regardless of if it was correct or incorrect, if it hallucinated facts or provided accuracy. Regardless of perspective or nuance. Eventually, no one would even know it had ever been any different, for that’s the nature of time and progress. 

You never think it will come for you until it does.

The shadows feel heavier as I approach his office, which is situated in a dark corner of the 200 floor in Building A. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as a maintenance worker stands on a ladder attempting to change the tubes. Even the daylight from the windows don’t seem to reach this part of the school. The 200 floor is closer to the ground than my classroom, and big fir trees outside bunch together to prevent the light from getting through.

Mr. Ogilvie has a secretary, Kelly. I hear the clack-clack typing of her fingers at a keyboard, and I wonder how long she’ll have a job in a world of Mr. Glads. How will kids even learn to type at a keyboard? Will they even need keyboards? It seems like most jobs need keyboards, don’t they? Gone the way of the typewriter.

“Hi Kelly, I need to talk to Mr. Ogilvie.”

“Just a minute,” she answers, looking back at the closed door. The fluorescent lights continue to flicker. “He’s been on the phone with parents most of the morning.” 

“What’s going on?”

“Something to do with a school district pilot program.”

“Yeah, I met Mr. Glad this morning.”

“Oh, isn’t he nice? So full of useful information.”

“Yeah. Useful,” I answer, looking up at the maintenance worker still fiddling with the fluorescent tubes. “How long has this pilot been under consideration? It feels like something I should’ve heard about before.”

“Feels like it’s been in the works for a long time, but you know how it is. They like to keep this sort of thing hush hush so they don’t spook the teachers.”

“Why would we be spooked?”

“It’s just like when they launched the internet in schools. They thought that would render teachers and libraries obsolete. They thought you could just look up the information online.”

“Without any guard rails. Or nuance. Or perspective. Maybe, easily corrupted perspective.” 

Kelly smiles and continues clacking away at the keyboard. “You always think the worst. Where’s your faith in humanity?”

But that’s not humanity.

“Listen, Kelly. I really need to talk to him. I need to know if I even have a job anymore.”

“Why wouldn’t you have a job?”

“Mr. Glad is in my classroom, there to teach my class.”

“Aren’t you going to evaluate his performance?” she asks.

“What?”

The door to Mr. Ogilvie’s office swings open. The shadows seem so heavy, I can’t even make out the features of Ogilvie’s face. “Paul!” he says jovially. “Just the man I want to see.” 

“Yeah, I really need to talk to you,” I answer. 

He steps out of his office and the fluorescent lights completely go out. Looking over my shoulder, I see the maintenance worker finally has the tubes loose, and he’s descending his ladder with the old ones. Mr. Ogilvie pats me on the back. “What can I do you for?” he asks in a folksy tenor. 

“I met Mr. Glad,” I say as he ushers me into his office. He gestures towards the chair in front of his desk and takes a seat of his own.

“Yes,” he replies, hesitating. “And I need you to do something for me. And I know I can count on you.”

“Do I still have a job here?” I ask.

“Of course you do! That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. You see, this pilot program is extremely important to the district. We really need it to go well. I’m leaving it to you to evaluate Mr. Glad’s performance. If we plan on rolling this out across the state, it’s imperative that he receive high marks.”

“You want me to give him a good grade.”

“I want you to remain objective, Paul. Keep your mind open to the possibilities!”

“I don’t like him. I don’t like what he represents and what he means for the kids he’ll be teaching.” 

Ogilvie waves a hand in front of his face, the face wreathed in shadow, the face I can’t make out. “That’s exactly why I need you, Paul! If they hear it from you, they’ll know it’s true. No one can doubt your candor or your dedication to the truth. You are always wearing your heart on your sleeve. You’re always revealing your true self. That’s why it has to be you!”

“We already have to worry about kids writing essays using AI. If AI is just grading papers written by AI, what actual learning is taking place? Aren’t we impeding the development of their abilities? Hindering their capacity to think? The purpose is to do the work, not just to get the result!”

“Paul, Paul, Paul... These are all valid concerns! And things I want you to take into account as you evaluate Mr. Glad,” replies Ogilvie.

“But you just said...”

Ogilvie stands from his desk and gestures toward the door, clearly in a rush to get me out of his hair. “Why don’t you get back to your classroom and collaborate with Mr. Glad? That will help you see he’s just a useful tool for teaching, freeing you up to do more work for your students!”

“What work?!” I ask.

He’s rounding his desk, urging me to get up from my seat, to get out the door. 

Before I even know it, I’m outside his office, the door shut in my face. Kelly sits at her desk, still typing at her keyboard. Without even looking, she asks, “How did it go?”

“I don’t... know.” I stare at the door of Ogilvie’s office, attempting to fathom the weight of what’s being asked of me. “He wants me to evaluate Mr. Glad.”

“Oh that’s nice. You’re a really good choice for that.”

“He wants me to give Glad a good grade. As a way to move the pilot program forward to a full rollout across the district. Across the state.” My job could depend on this. Eventually I’ll be replaced by an army of Mr. Glads. Like Odysseus, between a rock and a hard place. Action and inaction. What is your dharma, Mr. Kincaid?

She asks, “What are you going to do?”