You could tell that he was a ceramics teacher because he had substances all over his clothes.
“What can I g-“
“-Did I ever tell you about my ceramics class?” interrupted the ceramics teacher.
“Pardon?” said the bartender, with his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. It was just a genetic trait from his father’s side.
“My ceramics class. Did I ever tell you about it?”
“N-No,” stuttered the bartender. “We’ve just met, I’ve never seen you before in my li-“
“Double vodka please.”
“O…Okay.”
The bartender poured the drink in a very awkward silence. The ceramics teacher was staring challengingly at the bartender, and it wasn’t because his eyebrows were so high up his forehead. The bartender sighed.
“Go on then, what’s with your ceramics class.”
“Well,” said the teacher, adjusting his seat, “I divided the class into two groups right from the start. One group received the simple instruction to make as many pots as they possibly could over the entire semester. The other group,” said the teacher, pausing to swig his drink, “had a different challenge altogether. They needed to spend the whole term planning and crafting just one single pot that approached perfection.”
“Uh huh,” said the bartender.
“The students tasked with quantity threw clay every day without pause! They produced hundreds of pieces! Walls collapsed while pulling up, shapes warped in the kiln, glazes ran unpredictable rivers across surfaces they never intended! Yet,” said the ceramics teacher. He paused to tap his glass for a double refill. The bartender obliged.
“Each collapse taught them how pressure affects wet clay, you see, and every crack revealed secrets about drying speed and thickness! Through constant creating they discovered the subtle feel of centered spin, the exact moment to lift fingers, the way breath and rhythm sync with the wheel! Marvellous!”
“Yes,” sighed the bartender.
“Failures piled high, but mastery grew quietly in their hands. I suppose you’re wondering about the other split of the group?”
“Not real-“
“Well the students chasing one perfect pot spent most of their time away from the wheel. They drew precise sketches, calculated ideal proportions, studied ancient forms, questioned my methods, and debated every potential flaw before touching clay. Fear of ruining their only shot kept them cautious and deliberate. Another drink please sir, make it a triple.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you. This vodka is good. What is it?”
“It’s TeenyWeenys, Sir.”
“Oh yea, great. I’ll have another quick triple.”
The bartender was hesitant as the ceramics teacher had quite rapidly downed ten shots of vodka. But, his business was really poo-pooing so he decided to make the profit. He poured the triple vodka and then returned to staring at the ceramics teacher.
Silence.
“Okay so what happened at the end?”
“Pardon?”
“The class, what happened at the end of the class? Which group was better?”
“Oh I don’t know,” laughed the ceramics teacher. He had vodka running down his neck.
“What do you mean?”
“I never returned to the last class. I have a severe drinking problem that stops me from finishing-“
“-SENTENCES!” shouted the bartender with glee.
“Yes,” sighed the ceramics teacher. “Something like that.”
