I was in 4th grade when I first entered the tutoring studio a few blocks away from my house. 

It wasn’t like I was failing any of my subjects, I was a decent student who brought home good enough grades, it’s just that my parents wanted to give 9 year old me more homework so I didn’t play Minecraft all day on my iPad. But before they could thoughtlessly send me off,  they had to gauge my skill level and to find where I was at in school because pre-existing grades and report cards weren’t enough apparently. 

To do this they locked me in a room and gave me an hour to complete a test on something vaguely school related.

The test room consisted of the loud hum of the A.C, a cheap, white, plastic chair that hurt my butt and a framed collage of pictures of a man and the words RIP 2013 or 2012, the years are interchangeable in my mind. A lady may or may not have stayed with me during this time, but for the sake of brevity I’ll just say she did. 

So after I was done with the tests and handed the lady my papers she started up a conversation with me to kill some time while we were waiting for the results. Me, being young, bored, gifted with the attention span of a fruitfly and too dumb to be aware of personal bundaries, asked what happened to the man on the wall. 

In 9 year-old-me’s defense, it wasn’t really like I could ignore it. That would seem even more disrespectful.

Honestly I was surprised she even answered at all and with the truth at that. 

To give some context, the tutoring place had wide, open glass windows as walls with 4 or 5 concrete poles behind them, the tutoring desks and offices being situated further inside the building. 

To summarize, a few years back an elderly veteran with poor eyesight was driving through the plaza and somehow crashed into the tutoring building and ultimately killed a tutor in the process. 

“That’s why we have concrete poles at the entrances, to prevent another car from crashing in” she supplied after.

How was 9-year-old me supposed to expect something that horribly morbid and unlucky to happen to a regular guy. I just assumed he died from cancer since cancer was the only way someone could realistically die to young me.

I just thought he died normally since he seemed like a normal person. 

The lady took my silence as a response and continued talking about her day. 

I eventually left in 6th grade since I wasn’t seeing any improvement and my parents wanted to upgrade me to a private tutor now that I was in middle school.

That didn’t really help as well, but that’s beside the point. 

Flashforward 5 years and I’m in 10th grade currently failing chemistry and since we’re in pandemic-ridden times it’s not like I can really resort to a private tutor. 

So guess who’s back at the tutoring place.

The initiation didn’t require any tests this time, they just sat me down on a desk and gave me a Chromebook for online homework since I didn’t bring mine. 

My parents like the place enough so I came back again two days later, Chemistry textbook and tiny school Chromebook in tow this time since I didn’t want to keep borrowing theirs. 

The details are boring but basically my tutor forgot the wi-fi password and sent me to the receptionist who then gave me a torn sheet of paper with the passwords on it. 

The kicker comes from what’s on the paper.

Honest to God, I thought they forgot about him by now. 

The slip of paper that scrawled out RIPJASON1234 seemed to beg otherwise

When I first read it, I wasn’t really sure if I should laugh or grimace, so I just made a confused mess of both of them. I’m pretty sure I added a snort in there too. 

Having a dead guy, no less a dead guy that died here as a wifi password brings up some questions:

1. Is this necesarily a bad thing?
2. Is this necesarily a good thing?
3. Is this necessary?

I really can’t answer those questions as I’m still trying to comprehend where this lands on the blurred lines that is moral and ethical grounds. 

I was probably one of the lucky ones who got to hear the story(because let’s be honest, who’s telling this to the students without being prompted), imagine the rest of the kids who type in the Wi-Fi password mindlessly, here not to pay respects to Jason but the Wi-Fi he so generously gifts them.

Imagine poor Jason.

His legacy has been reduced to a wifi password at a kids’ tutoring club. 

To be fair, the only reason I remembered he existed was because of how he died.

They now remember him because he’s the Wi-Fi password.

Which reason sounds worse, be honest.

2 weeks later with Wi-Fi passwords and car accidents on my mind, I’m getting more questions than answers. 

Do the new tutors know about Jason? 

Have any of the students asked about Jason?

Why a Wi-Fi password?

Is the college of Jason still up on the wall? 

It’s been 6 or 7 years since the accident, 5 since I’ve stopped attending. The cast of tutors has shifted, the bosses and higher-ups exchanged, there’s only new faces here for me now. Realistically they should’ve forgotten about him, I mean I did at least. But I guess a Wi-Fi password helps serve as a reminder.