In one of my classes, I often sit behind one particular kid. He’s probably 19 or 20 years old, and tends to dress in a manner best described as “preppy” — crisp-collared dress shirts, sweater vests, penny loafers, sharp-edged slacks, and often a Ralph Lauren Polo jacket with a liner that appears to have been made out of Joseph’s cast-off coat. He doesn’t speak often, but when he does it is with the cautious, measured diction that comes of a prim upbringing. His movements and mannerisms are similarly restrained, even rehearsed-seeming.
This afternoon, about halfway through the lecture, he turned sideways in his seat. His eyes appeared to unfocus, and then he discovered his thumb, in the manner of an infant. Fixated on it, he drew his clenched fist towards his face, thumb pointed at him, and then he hungrily thrust the thumb into his mouth. He left the whole of the outstretched pollex in his mouth, fist covering his lips, for perhaps ten seconds, all the while leaving his eyes unfocused, apparently oblivious to his surroundings. Removing his thumb, he examined it briefly, wiped the coating of saliva onto his right shoulder, and then turned forward, once again following the teacher’s gesticulations attentively.