A Hypothetical Situation
Mark Keane
Beckmann’s e-mail was curt: Come to my office at 3 o’clock sharp.
I waited until three minutes past before knocking on his door.
“Enter,” he called.
I went inside and stood in front of his desk.
“Take a seat.” He waved his hand at a chair without looking up.
I sat, and he continued writing in a notebook as thick as a bible. His desk was bare apart from the notebook, a green mug that held an array of sharpened pencils, and a photograph mounted in a frame. In the photograph Beckmann posed on his haunches, one hand resting on the back of a Bassett Hound, sunlight glistening off his bald pate.
“How’s the Sterling contract progressing?” he asked, his eyes glued to the notebook.
“Fine,” I said. “Everything’s on track.”
“Good.” He nodded his splendidly smooth head. “We must keep the client sweet.”
He checked something at the back of the notebook. The quiet of the room amplified the susurrus of turning pages. I gazed out the window at the bare branches of the elm tree in the parking lot, and pictured the single daffodil at the base of its trunk. It caught my eye that morning on my way in, and I thought there was nothing as alive as that daffodil. The leaves on the ground around the tree were coated with rime and brittle as eggshells. Seeing the daffodil made me think that one day I would die.
“Right, that’s finished.” Beckmann shut the notebook with a dull thud, and capped his fountain pen. “What do you think this weighs?”
He handed me the pen, which was warm from his grasp.
“It’s quite heavy,” I said.
“But what does it weigh?”
“I don’t know, maybe thirty grams.”
“Closer to fifty. Caran d’Ache. A Christmas present from my in-laws.”
He held out his hand, and I returned the pen.
We sat in silence. I should have felt aggrieved by Beckmann’s behaviour. All I felt was a scratchy idleness.
“I can confirm you’re on a short-list for the promotion.” Beckmann pursed his lips. “Now we must reduce the number from three to one. This calls for something a little different. An exercise in critical reasoning. What do you say? Are you ready?”
"Yes,” I replied, thinking I should add something that expressed more than mere readiness.
“I’ll ask you the same question I asked the other two candidates.” Beckmann picked a pencil from the mug and ran a finger over its point. “Not a question with a yes or no answer. Not even a question as such. More a hypothetical situation.”
Beckmann paused. I waited.
“Here’s the situation. You are faced with an exam. Let’s say mathematics, something in calculus. Double differentials or parametric curves. That’s unimportant. What’s important is that there is only one question, and you have no idea how to answer it. Do you understand the situation?”
“I think so.”
“Let me be a little clearer.” Beckmann shifted in his seat. “You have three options. First option: you do your best, include all your half-arsed workings and doodles, whatever assumptions and formulas you can remember. You do this in the hope that the examiner will give you the benefit of the doubt when he marks your answer. And you do this in the hope of getting a pass mark. Is that clear?”
I nodded and watched as Beckmann lay the pencil on his desk and took a second one from the mug.
“Option two. You don’t attempt the question and receive a fail.” Beckmann placed the pencil over the first to form a T. “Option three. You copy the answer from a smarter examinee and receive an honours mark.”
“Are they the only options?”
“Yes, three options. No more.”
“I would try to find another option.”
“There are no other options.” Beckmann raised a hand, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. “It is a hypothetical situation. There are three options.”
“I see.”
“I haven’t finished. More context is required.” Beckmann brought his fingers together to form a steeple. “If you choose option three, and are then discovered to have copied the answer, you will fail the exam. I’m sure you’ll agree that is not a suitable outcome.”
“No, it’s not.”
“But it may be worth the risk. Receiving an honours mark means you can move forward. What do you say to that?”
“I would have cheated, which is a fail.”
“You circumvented the fail and all the obstacles and unwanted complications that it brings. You can always return to the maths textbooks and learn the correct way to solve that double differential. Study and practice until you are able to answer the question with your eyes closed. Copying the answer is hardly important once you can solve the problem with ease. You didn’t accept defeat, dealt with a short term difficulty and succeeded. Does that seem reasonable?”
“But I would have cheated in the exam.”
“Why does that matter? An unimportant event. In the end you can solve the problem, which is surely a much better result than facing rejection.”
Beckmann paused, took another pencil from the mug and placed it parallel to the second pencil to form a sideways H. His face was impassive.
“Yes, but it depends on the person in question…”
Beckmann tapped the desk. “There is no person in question. It depends on you.”
“All right, but it depends on me going back to those maths books to learn how to solve the problem instead of just taking the result and forgetting about the test.”
“Hmm, a most revealing response.” Beckmann ran a hand over his smooth pate. “Let’s take that a little further. You’re saying that there’s no point in learning how to answer the question. Fine. Maths or calculus is not for you, and it’s not for everyone.”
“Wait,” I said. “What happens if I try to learn the solution but I simply can’t understand the maths? No matter how hard I try, I can’t answer the question. And definitely not under exam conditions.”
“I see. You are taking the hypothetical situation in a different direction. Copying the answer has made you realise that you have no mathematical ability. Your talents lie elsewhere, and this is an opportunity to follow your particular vocation. Copying the answer then makes sense.”
“You don’t offer a realistic choice. These options are artificial.”
“I told you--it’s a hypothetical situation. Option one, mediocrity. Option two, failure. Option three, progress.”
“What if I know how to solve the problem and can answer the question without any of these options.”
“If that was the case, you would be on a short list of one.”
“So, you want me to choose one of those three options?”
“It’s not a question of what I want. I am interested in hearing what you have to say. Your thought process.”
“How much does this hypothetical situation contribute to the promotion decision?”
“I am not at liberty to reveal that.” Beckmann returned the pencils to the cup. “Who knows, if you are promoted you may well find yourself in my position one day. Then, you will offer your own hypothetical situation to potential candidates.”
“I see.”
“We should bring this to a close. Do you have anything else to say?”
The branches of the elm tree shivered in a stray gust of wind. Beckmann drummed his fingers on the desk.
I coughed to clear my throat. “There’s a single daffodil growing at the foot of the elm tree outside your window. I believe there is nothing more alive than that daffodil.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t keep you from your work. Keep me abreast of any developments with the Sterling contract.”
Beckmann opened his notebook and turned the pages.
I stood and left his office.
I waited until three minutes past before knocking on his door.
“Enter,” he called.
I went inside and stood in front of his desk.
“Take a seat.” He waved his hand at a chair without looking up.
I sat, and he continued writing in a notebook as thick as a bible. His desk was bare apart from the notebook, a green mug that held an array of sharpened pencils, and a photograph mounted in a frame. In the photograph Beckmann posed on his haunches, one hand resting on the back of a Bassett Hound, sunlight glistening off his bald pate.
“How’s the Sterling contract progressing?” he asked, his eyes glued to the notebook.
“Fine,” I said. “Everything’s on track.”
“Good.” He nodded his splendidly smooth head. “We must keep the client sweet.”
He checked something at the back of the notebook. The quiet of the room amplified the susurrus of turning pages. I gazed out the window at the bare branches of the elm tree in the parking lot, and pictured the single daffodil at the base of its trunk. It caught my eye that morning on my way in, and I thought there was nothing as alive as that daffodil. The leaves on the ground around the tree were coated with rime and brittle as eggshells. Seeing the daffodil made me think that one day I would die.
“Right, that’s finished.” Beckmann shut the notebook with a dull thud, and capped his fountain pen. “What do you think this weighs?”
He handed me the pen, which was warm from his grasp.
“It’s quite heavy,” I said.
“But what does it weigh?”
“I don’t know, maybe thirty grams.”
“Closer to fifty. Caran d’Ache. A Christmas present from my in-laws.”
He held out his hand, and I returned the pen.
We sat in silence. I should have felt aggrieved by Beckmann’s behaviour. All I felt was a scratchy idleness.
“I can confirm you’re on a short-list for the promotion.” Beckmann pursed his lips. “Now we must reduce the number from three to one. This calls for something a little different. An exercise in critical reasoning. What do you say? Are you ready?”
"Yes,” I replied, thinking I should add something that expressed more than mere readiness.
“I’ll ask you the same question I asked the other two candidates.” Beckmann picked a pencil from the mug and ran a finger over its point. “Not a question with a yes or no answer. Not even a question as such. More a hypothetical situation.”
Beckmann paused. I waited.
“Here’s the situation. You are faced with an exam. Let’s say mathematics, something in calculus. Double differentials or parametric curves. That’s unimportant. What’s important is that there is only one question, and you have no idea how to answer it. Do you understand the situation?”
“I think so.”
“Let me be a little clearer.” Beckmann shifted in his seat. “You have three options. First option: you do your best, include all your half-arsed workings and doodles, whatever assumptions and formulas you can remember. You do this in the hope that the examiner will give you the benefit of the doubt when he marks your answer. And you do this in the hope of getting a pass mark. Is that clear?”
I nodded and watched as Beckmann lay the pencil on his desk and took a second one from the mug.
“Option two. You don’t attempt the question and receive a fail.” Beckmann placed the pencil over the first to form a T. “Option three. You copy the answer from a smarter examinee and receive an honours mark.”
“Are they the only options?”
“Yes, three options. No more.”
“I would try to find another option.”
“There are no other options.” Beckmann raised a hand, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. “It is a hypothetical situation. There are three options.”
“I see.”
“I haven’t finished. More context is required.” Beckmann brought his fingers together to form a steeple. “If you choose option three, and are then discovered to have copied the answer, you will fail the exam. I’m sure you’ll agree that is not a suitable outcome.”
“No, it’s not.”
“But it may be worth the risk. Receiving an honours mark means you can move forward. What do you say to that?”
“I would have cheated, which is a fail.”
“You circumvented the fail and all the obstacles and unwanted complications that it brings. You can always return to the maths textbooks and learn the correct way to solve that double differential. Study and practice until you are able to answer the question with your eyes closed. Copying the answer is hardly important once you can solve the problem with ease. You didn’t accept defeat, dealt with a short term difficulty and succeeded. Does that seem reasonable?”
“But I would have cheated in the exam.”
“Why does that matter? An unimportant event. In the end you can solve the problem, which is surely a much better result than facing rejection.”
Beckmann paused, took another pencil from the mug and placed it parallel to the second pencil to form a sideways H. His face was impassive.
“Yes, but it depends on the person in question…”
Beckmann tapped the desk. “There is no person in question. It depends on you.”
“All right, but it depends on me going back to those maths books to learn how to solve the problem instead of just taking the result and forgetting about the test.”
“Hmm, a most revealing response.” Beckmann ran a hand over his smooth pate. “Let’s take that a little further. You’re saying that there’s no point in learning how to answer the question. Fine. Maths or calculus is not for you, and it’s not for everyone.”
“Wait,” I said. “What happens if I try to learn the solution but I simply can’t understand the maths? No matter how hard I try, I can’t answer the question. And definitely not under exam conditions.”
“I see. You are taking the hypothetical situation in a different direction. Copying the answer has made you realise that you have no mathematical ability. Your talents lie elsewhere, and this is an opportunity to follow your particular vocation. Copying the answer then makes sense.”
“You don’t offer a realistic choice. These options are artificial.”
“I told you--it’s a hypothetical situation. Option one, mediocrity. Option two, failure. Option three, progress.”
“What if I know how to solve the problem and can answer the question without any of these options.”
“If that was the case, you would be on a short list of one.”
“So, you want me to choose one of those three options?”
“It’s not a question of what I want. I am interested in hearing what you have to say. Your thought process.”
“How much does this hypothetical situation contribute to the promotion decision?”
“I am not at liberty to reveal that.” Beckmann returned the pencils to the cup. “Who knows, if you are promoted you may well find yourself in my position one day. Then, you will offer your own hypothetical situation to potential candidates.”
“I see.”
“We should bring this to a close. Do you have anything else to say?”
The branches of the elm tree shivered in a stray gust of wind. Beckmann drummed his fingers on the desk.
I coughed to clear my throat. “There’s a single daffodil growing at the foot of the elm tree outside your window. I believe there is nothing more alive than that daffodil.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t keep you from your work. Keep me abreast of any developments with the Sterling contract.”
Beckmann opened his notebook and turned the pages.
I stood and left his office.
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Mark Keane has taught for many years in universities in North America and the UK. Recent short story fiction has appeared in The Interpreter’s House, Paris Lit Up, Culterate Magazine, For Page & Screen, Shooter, untethered, Night Picnic, Granfalloon, and Into the Void. He lives in Edinburgh (Scotland).
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