Chapter 1: From Genius to Guard

During my direct-entry PhD interview, a professor leaned forward and asked, "So, why do you want to do a PhD?"

I answered, brimming with ambition, "I want to devote my life to fundamental mathematics."

The professors shared a look—one of those subtle, knowing glances, like they’d just spotted another starry-eyed recruit at a faculty mixer. I thought I saw a hint of pity in their smiles.

Five years later, after finishing my doctorate, that same professor looked me over and asked, "So, what’s next for you?"

Me: "I’m going to be a security guard."

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1

"You got your security guard license?"

"Yeah, took the exam last month."

"You look like you belong behind a desk, not guarding doors. You finish high school, right?"

"Graduated high school."

"Got a fire safety certificate?"

"Not yet."

"Alright, three shifts a day, two hours on your feet, six at the desk, $4,500 a month. Room and meals included, five days off, full benefits. That work for you?"

"I’m in."

"You’re young. You’re not gonna bail after a month, right?"

"No, I’ll stick around at least half a year."

"Good. Fill this out."

He handed me a clipboard and a cheap ballpoint pen—the kind that always runs out at the worst possible moment. I wrote my name carefully: Caleb Harris. Education: high school graduate.

The team leader squinted at my form. "Nice handwriting, kid. Bring your documents next Monday, sign the contract, and you’re in."

This was the easiest interview I’d ever had. The air conditioning rattled overhead, and the burnt coffee smell mixed with the faint tang of old cleaning supplies. I felt a strange relief, like I’d just passed a test I hadn’t studied for—and maybe didn’t want to.

The team leader looked me up and down. "You look a little skinny. If you weren’t over six feet, I probably wouldn’t bother."

He gave me a look that said he was deciding whether I’d scare anyone off—or just blow away in the wind.

Here, a high school diploma and youth didn’t make you special—they made you suspicious. The older guys swapped stories about Christmas shifts and Super Bowl Sundays, taking pride in never missing a beat. I learned fast that fresh faces don’t get much respect here.

From what I’d gathered, fire safety operator was the holy grail among guards. Too many people take the fire safety test, though, so I’d have to wait a year just to get in line. Missed my shot at the cushy control room gig. Guys who land those posts act like they hit the jackpot—no more freezing at the front doors in February.

Still, I ended up here, guarding an office building in Maple Heights. It sat between a strip mall and a few old oaks—just another concrete block in a city of them. Out front, the flag whipped in the wind while the sun baked the sidewalk.

Monday came, and I pulled on the uniform. The team leader walked me through the basics:

"Be on post during rush hour, lobby duty rotates, otherwise you can chill in the break room. Swap shifts if you need."

He handed me a plastic badge, clipped it to my shirt, and pointed to the ancient coffee machine. "Don’t mess with the settings, or the night shift will kill you."

I got assigned to the entrance with a guy in his forties.

"Hey, I’m Jerry. You new here? Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it."

"I’m Caleb. Nice to meet you."

Jerry gave me a once-over and grinned, his Red Sox cap pulled low over a face that had seen plenty of double shifts. Office workers filed in, swiping their badges. After 9:30, the lobby quieted. The air buzzed with the hum of printers and the faint smell of microwave oatmeal.

I started zoning out, my eyes fixed on a potted plant. I watched the second hand crawl around the clock, my mind drifting to the blackboard back at the university, then snapping back to the dusty lobby. Somewhere between boredom and relief, I felt almost asleep.

A black thrips crawled across a rubber tree leaf, lost and frantic. For a minute, I watched it, as if it held the secret to the universe—or maybe just to surviving this job.

Jerry broke the silence: "So, you’re pretty young. Why’d you end up here? The boss said you even finished high school."

I hesitated, then shrugged, feeling the weight of what I wasn’t saying. "My brain’s not that great. The places I wanted didn’t want me. Figured this would be easy."

He patted my shoulder, his tone easy. "You’ll be fine. This gig really is easy. Once you get your routine down, you can chill in the break room. Do whatever."

Jerry had a way of making everything feel less serious, like nothing was ever as bad as it seemed. "If I was some genius, I wouldn’t be here either. My daughter’s a straight-A kid, but my son’s got my brains—so, not so much."

He laughed. "Honestly, studying isn’t everything. I saw this video yesterday—PhD student lost it, threatened his advisor, couldn’t graduate. Wild stuff."

"Yeah, I saw that too." I jumped in, maybe too quickly. "How old are your kids? Got any pictures?"

As soon as he mentioned his kids, Jerry lit up and started flipping through photos. His lock screen was his daughter’s graduation, his son holding a soccer trophy.

I hit the usual compliments: "Cute kids. Really smart. Handsome, too."

I’d learned to nod, smile, and act impressed. It was way easier than defending a thesis.

Back in the break room, Jerry started watching TikTok, cackling at a dog in a hotdog costume. The sound bounced off the vending machine. A faded Garfield mug sat abandoned by the sink, and someone had stuck a passive-aggressive Post-it on the fridge: “If it’s green, it’s gone.”

I logged into Genshin Impact, cleared my dailies, farmed artifacts, and wandered the map. The break room TV played reruns of Judge Judy while I cleared my daily quests. It was almost soothing, the same grind that had gotten me through grad school nights.

I switched over to YouTube, checking in on my favorite streamers. The glow of the screen was comforting—just another day in limbo.

After that, I zoned out for a long time. The low hum of the fridge and the faint scent of someone’s reheated leftovers filled the air. My mind wandered in circles—no formulas, no deadlines, just static.

Besides not thinking about research, it wasn’t much different from grad school: waiting, routine, finding distractions anywhere I could.

That night, I realized how naïve I’d been.

The staff dorm was a triple. My roommates were Jake and Will.

At first, it was smooth sailing. They kept things pretty clean and invited me to play poker. Jake complained about the Wi-Fi, Will shared his instant noodles. It felt like low-budget summer camp.

But then, lights out. I was bracing for my usual insomnia, eyes closed for some late-night soul-searching, when I heard a snore—so loud it sounded like someone had started a chainsaw right next to my head.

Just as I was getting used to it, another snore joined in, like a duet—long, rising and falling. I stared at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling, wondering if anyone else was awake.

In this thunderous environment, my thoughts had to come down from the universe and the meaning of existence to the mundane world.

Unable to keep thinking, I—used to insomnia, giving up, and waiting for dawn alone in a single PhD dorm—now just wanted to figure out how to fall asleep and escape this powerful symphony in a shared dorm.

I got up and found some earplugs, a freebie from a mask purchase. Luckily, I hadn't thrown them away. I could barely hear my own sigh as I put them in.

Wearing them helped a bit, but not much. The volume was reduced—now more like white noise. At least now it sounded like rain, not a thunderstorm in my ear.

I tried counting sheep, but they all tripped over Jake’s snores. I tossed and turned, not sure when I finally drifted off. In my dream, I was falling again—thus ended my first day as a security guard.