i have alternate dreams of tsunami style waves that i somehow survive by either eluding them in a pharmacy with automatic doors or by holding my breath once the board has left me, thoroughly shaken but still alive.
the other being of the "held down," sleep paralysis variety, the worst a recent sting ray suffocation that turned into my best friend kneeing me in the back as i struggled for breath, feeling every sharp puncture into my spinal region, knowing that crying out means no repair in dreamland.
"prey for rain
lose your name
and watch all your dreams fall through"
i'm back for 2018.. couldn't bring myself to acknowledge the 17.
Week 1212 & Beyond
Monday, February 5, 2018
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
2007.5:: the first unedited pages of the novel i wrote this summer
“In the red lights and cathedrals there’s a
sign,
Don’t we always wish we had more time.” –
3EB
My impetus
for writing this: I don’t want to add to the slow and deliberate manipulation
of my generation and the ones who follow -- to collect the blood and the money
-- by writing something romantic or mythical, fictional or unsubstantial. I’d like to say ‘fuck you’ to all the ones
who wanted me to change this, make it different, not so irreverent, saying
things like ‘glorifying drugs is not the attitude we want to sell right now,
try writing a book about vampires, or zombies, a twist on those old time horror
movies. But in the vein of honesty I
will admit that there are, maybe one or two things in the pages that follow that
aren’t true, or embellishments of some sort, and that’s largely because looking
back seven years ago is hard and also my highly imaginative brain has actually
caused fantasy and reality to blur to a certain point.
--
My dad spills the raspberry Smirnoff drink
I placed precariously by the side of the pool and I quickly right it up to
preserve the rest. “Why do you have it
right there,” he asks me. I shrug and
ask where his is. He tells me it’s on
the table, where it belongs. I explain
that then I would have to get out of the pool to take a sip, like it would be
the biggest inconvenience of my life.
“When your
sister gets here, we are going to Valley View so be ready,” he instructs
me. I’m not even sure I want to go
because I don’t really eat seafood but my dad has been excited to try this free
buffet for signing up as a member for a awhile now. He thinks there is going to be lobster there. “Have you heard from Mom recently?” he asks
me. My mother took off like two weeks
ago for Europe and took two of my sisters with her. It is supposed to be an educational trip;
like usual, she neglected to tell my dad about it until two days before the
plane departed.
“Couple days
ago. They are in Vienna, I think.” He
nods. Even though he is annoyed by the
deception and spending, he accepts it in stride. I think that it helps that I came down from
Los Angeles. I just quit my job in
Westwood because I’m starting law school this fall. My bosses gave me two weeks’ pay extra
because they are so nice. It will help
pay for my trip to Boston and New York later this month.
I’m in the passenger seat and my
sister, her boyfriend and our mutual friend are in the back seat. My dad is driving. We all registered for these Valley View
membership cards and they come with a free buffet dinner. Our family tried to do this a few years
earlier, but we didn’t realize the eighteen years old restriction. Now, we are all over eighteen.
Gavin
giggles suddenly from the backseat. I
turn my head a little and catch my dad’s eye.
He rolls his eyes and gives me the impression that he is irritated. My sister brought Gavin and her boyfriend
Ryan along. Gavin and Ryan are
whispering and giggling and shrieking back there. My dad absolutely hates silliness. He generally likes Ryan, my sister’s
boyfriend since high school, but this is the first time he’s meeting
Gavin.
We park at
Valley View and begin to walk in. Gavin,
my sister and Ryan are walking ahead of us.
My dad leans in and tells me he doesn’t like how Gavin is making Ryan
act all silly. I nod but make no
comment.
The food is
better than I expected. It’s a buffet
and I’m not really sure what to grab so I just grab things that I
recognize. I’m not very adventurous when
it comes to food and I’m not much of a carnivore. I try some of the shrimp. “Do you want to try this lobster, Blair?” my
dad asks me. I’m tempted to say no out
of fear but I say yes. He has these
metal scissor looking things and he breaks it apart. I hear the cracking and tearing and it makes
me grimace. He breaks off a claw and
hands it to me.
“What am I
supposed to do with this?”
“Pull out
the meat and eat it.”
“I’ve seen
these washed up dead on the ocean.”
“These are
fresh. Just try it.”
I try it and
it’s actually pretty good. But it is way
too much work to walk up there and get one of my own. Gavin opens some of the lobster scissors and
starts snapping them at Ryan. They are
being silly again and my dad notices. My
sister doesn’t seem to think much of it.
I don’t know if my dad realizes that he has met Gavin before, that he
used to date one of my best friends, but I don’t say anything. My dad is a disapproving type and nothing
really can change his mind.
The next day, my mom leaves a message
on the answering machine. They are in
Lyon and she had food poisoning. The
older of my two younger sisters had to share a room with her that night. She is fine now. I kind of feel like they should have invited
my dad to go with them. My mom always
just assumes he doesn’t want to do anything, which is kind of annoying. Whenever I ask him to go somewhere with me,
he always wants to. My mom is kind of
short-sighted that way.
I go downstairs
to the garage to tell my dad about the call.
He nods and informs me that he is heading out to check out a job. He owns his own plumbing contractor business
and he has to scout jobs before he can bid for them. This job is in Encinitas. “What are you going to do today?” he wants to
know.
“I don’t
know. Probably tan, swim, maybe write a
little later on.”
“You should
read some of the cases the US Supreme Court will be deciding this summer,” he
advises me.
“Dad, I
haven’t even started law school yet, I need to have fun this summer.”
“That’s the
problem with your generation, all you want to do is have fun. But then the fun ends and you don’t have a
job.”
“Okay dad.”
“You should
also register to vote. You are the only
person not registered to vote.”
“That’s not
true and also I don’t care about politics.”
“Then why
are you going to law school?”
“Nothing
else to do.”
“You need to
care about politics. Your future depends
on which presidents are chosen to lead the country. You don’t want a bunch of liberals taking
over, making all your choices for you.”
“I’m not
worried about it.”
“Blair,
you’re twenty-two years old, you need to start participating in the democracy,
or you will find yourself in a communist world where you won’t have the choice
to do anything.”
“Okay dad.”
Up in my room, I find the little
novelty skull that opens at the top that I got in Chinatown in Los Angeles, or
maybe it was a Dios De Los Muertos celebration in or around Union Station, I’m
not sure exactly. I went with my sister
Michelle who dates Ryan and went to USC with me. I think we had to go for some project I had
at USC. Anyway, I bought the skull
because I thought it was cool and now I keep my bud in there, in a tiny baggie
in an old film canister, black with a silver top. This bud came from my friend Evan, who gave
me about a gram because, I’m not sure why.
I load my
pipe to the brim and blast off. I like
to get high and then swim and it’s easy since I’m the only one home. Michelle went back up to Los Angeles to the
apartment with Ryan and Gavin. I hope
they are not going into my room. They
are probably using my bathroom. I
consider it for a second but then I realize I don’t really care and I light up.
I play with
my computer until I find a good song on the playlist and I put up the WinAmp
visualizations that it comes with because I am too lazy to look for other ones
and also the ones that come along with the download are pretty cool. I always have this great idea about how
things are better, clearer, with more meanings when I’m stoned. Everything has a secret meaning, or secret
meanings, and I feel like I would not be able to see them unless I am high.
I put on my
bathing suit and head out to the pool.
It’s still early in the summer and I’ve barely a base tan so I choose
the 30 SPF tanning sunscreen lotion to protect me but also give me some
color. I’m in a perpetual tanning
contest against my mother and my friend Samantha. I always have won in the past.
The next day, my friend Keri stops by
to hang out and swim. She’s on vacation
from university in New York. She goes to
Syracuse. My mom always likes to talk to
her about it because she went there too.
But my mom is now in Venice or some place with my sisters and she’s
enjoying it because it was the one place in Europe she never visited. My sister Michelle and I were there two years
ago but we didn’t think a ton of it. We liked it OK I guess.
Keri wants
me to bring down my pipe so I go upstairs to fetch it. My dad is just getting home from work and he
sees my pipe. He doesn’t really care
that I smoke but he doesn’t like it waved in his face. He smoked until he was thirty-three and
starting his business and I remind him of this every time he tries to get on my
case about it. “Just don’t get in
trouble over it,” he tells me.
“Who puts
weed in the illegal drug category?” I ask him.
“Plenty of
people. The feds.”
“Fuck the
feds.”
“Alright,
that’s nice.”
I walk out
to the pool and Keri is already swimming.
“What took you so long, fucker?”
“My dad was
talking to me.”
“He’s cool,
right?”
“Yeah.”
I load the
pipe and set it at the side of the pool.
Keri asks for the lighter and I give it over. She takes it and then blasts off a pretty
generous hit. She blows out this
perfectly beautiful smoke line, like a slithering snake into the air. I watch it, amazed. I have never been good at making smoke
poetry.
I slip into
the pool and grab the lighter and the pipe, blasting off. My smoke refuse is messy and inelegant. It comes out in a pile, like a big smoke
cloud that I can’t feel proud of.
“How do you
do that fancy stuff?” I ask her.
“It’s
innate.”
“Uh huh.”
She punches
me in the arm, hard, and takes another hit.
Stoned Keri and drunk Keri are both violent Keris. “I got a game. We gotta swim from one side of the pool to
the other, underwater, and when we get there we take a hit.”
“Why?
“Why not?”
“Alright.”
My dad wants to go to Red Robin for
dinner. My sister is back from Los
Angeles again but she is over at Ryan’s house.
We invite them to meet us and they do.
“Did you know that I am featured on Google Maps?” Michelle tells us after we order.
“You are?”
“What does
that mean, Google Maps?” my dad asks. “Is that an Internet?”
“Yes
dad. If you Google Ryan’s address, you
will see me outside washing my car.”
“Oh did you
see the Google car drive by? I want to know.
I always look for it.
“No.”
“That is
pretty cool. You are famous.” I point
out.
“What is
this Google Maps, Google Car, what are these things?” my dad wants to know.
“It’s on the
Internet,” I tell him, knowing that he won’t ask further questions about
it. He does not understand or want to
understand the Internet.
“You would
like it. You can see anywhere in the
world,” Ryan chimes in.
The waitress
brings some fries to the table and my dad asks my sister what classes she is
going to take this semester. She says
she has not registered yet but will soon.
“Are you going to move to Orange County or stay in LA?” Ryan asks
me.
“I’m going
to stay,” I tell him.
“It’s not
too long of a commute,” my sister justifies.
“We’ll
see. I’m not worried about it yet.”
I
have been having several reoccurring dreams for awhile now but the most
prominent one recently has been this one where I turn on the television that is
no longer really in my room anymore and when I turn it on it is on a buzzy
channel, unstable static making weird, scary signs and the snow is all jumping
around in a frenzy and then zigzags and it’s black and white and different
color greys and my heart pounds and I feel the blood rushing through my veins
and I turn it off really quick. I feel
relieved for a second and then the television turns back on, of its own accord,
and my eyes widen and I quickly turn it off again. Then I wait.
Then it turns back on and I know that I’m haunted.
I hide my eyes as the static in the
television hops and zigs and zags malevolently, and I turn it off again, and it
turns back on again and I try changing the channel, but they are all buzzing;
they are all dead static channels and I’m so afraid. But I never leave the room.
Finally, I creep on my hands and
knees, underneath the television, trying not to listen, trying not to look at
it, the loud oppressive sound and the broken up picture and I hate whoever the
person was that invented what static should look like. I reach underneath the television stand and
yank the cord from the wall. The
television turns off and there’s peace once again. This time, it doesn’t turn back on and I wake
up. That television hasn’t been in my
room for a long while.
I wake up sweating even though my
window is open and I realize it is going to be a hot one. I check my phone for the weather and it
claims to only be 73° right now but I figure it is a
lie. By noon, it says it will be 97° which
I consider to be more truthful. The day
after tomorrow, I leave for Boston with my friend Andrea. We are going to visit Keri, who just flew
back, and then we are going to go down to New York. I should think about packing soon, but it’s
too hot.
Instead I go
downstairs and make some eggs, bacon and throw it into a taco and eat it. Then I run on the treadmill until I get
bored. I like to keep in shape but the
treadmill we have at our building is haunted by this mean old Asian woman who
likes to talk shit to us. Michelle and I
have had confrontations with her before.
She has hate in her heart.
My mom is
still in Europe with my sisters and my dad is at work so I decide that I can
invite this guy Troy over to swim and whatever.
We have been sort of hanging out since I had this agreement with this
guy, Cason, but he just told me he found a girl that might lead to girlfriend
that might lead to wife and mother of his children, and all that nonsense that
guys who are twenty-eight start to want.
He wants an intellectual equal but also someone who is financially solvent
and has a career and knows what she wants to do and has a five year plan and a
ten year plan and whatever, so that was never me. We only fucked here and there, but now that
he’s off the market, I can have Troy over and fuck him without guilt.
Troy is
really hot but he’s only twenty and so not a serious prospect for me. He says
immature things all the time, like to whatever comment you say, like that
sunset is cloudy, he will say “your face is cloudy.” It’s always “your face” to whatever you say. It gets annoying fast. Otherwise he’s pretty intelligent and anyway
I don’t have to like our conversations to enjoy hanging out with him.
He knocks on
the door and I answer. I am so glad my
mom isn’t here because the last time Troy came over, she saw him and later she
remarked that I should “give him to my sister” because she was younger. That was annoying because I had already
technically slept with him and I don’t like the idea of sharing men in that
way. It creeps me out big time.
“Let’s smoke some bud,” I suggest and
he is amiable to the idea. I grab the
pipe, the skull and the lighter and we head out to the pool. He has blue swim trunks and as soon as he
takes off his shirt, I playfully push him into the pool. He immediately gets out to seek revenge.
After some
play, we blast off in the pool. The bud
I have isn’t great, kind of stale, since I’ve been trying to lay off. I’ve gotten, I feel, somewhat addicted this
year. It’s not in the way that I feel
like I need it, but in the way that I feel like when I don’t have it, I get
these negative side effects. Sometimes
when I am driving and I haven’t smoked in a few hours, I feel my throat
tightening up, the sensation where I might not be able to breathe. I start to flex my throat and the feeling
doesn’t really subside. It freaks me
out. I am kind of worried about having a
scene on the plane to Boston. Bud has
been such a constant in my life, to lay off, almost makes me more paranoid than
when I’ve smoked too much.
Troy takes a
large hit and passes the little water pipe over to me. There’s still some smoke in the chamber so I
take that first, before lighting up.
It’s a nice little refuse high.
Then I blast off and feel that head high feeling indicative of
sativa. I always try to make people
aware that I don’t want to buy indica, like ever. This is sativa, I’m pretty sure.
Troy doesn’t
seem at all affected by the bud. I guess
that’s what twenty means. I remember not
being affected my first time but faking it because the two kids I was in the
car with were, at the time I was thinking, really experienced in smoking and I
didn’t want to disappoint them. Maybe
Troy is like that. Maybe not.
We start to
make out in the pool and I feel him getting hard. I make a joke like, “What’s that?” and he is
very serious with his answer. We make
out some more until I suggest we go upstairs.
I’m really down to bang Troy but it is more for the experience than
anything else. I’ve never been with a younger guy before and he is also
probably the hottest guy I’ve hung out with.
I feel like there is no reason for him to like me, since San Diego has
no shortage of bleached blond, orange faced girls, slightly chubby girls giving
it up. So why would he want a brown
haired, brown eyed, skinny and only mildly tan older girl? Maybe because I’m different and also the fact
that I’m leaving soon. I don’t mind it
at all. Actually, my perfect guy in a
lot of ways.
We take a
shower and move it to my bedroom. Troy
is tan everywhere, like he’s been out nude, and not like the fake spray on tan
or UV shit, the real outdoors stuff. I
do sort of want that freedom. We fuck
for about twenty minutes which is probably ten minutes too long for me. I like it when I get off after seven or eight
minutes; after that, it’s just chafing.
But I don’t want to be an asshole and say something and also I know guys
like to take their time because it’s all pretty much guaranteed in the
end. Lucky bastards.
I’m getting a ride to LAX from my
sister who was down in San Diego. She
came down to see my dad and Ryan’s parents and use the pool and the laundry
machines. She hurries me as I try to
think about whether I packed everything for the trip. I’m a classic procrastinator, waiting to the
last minute to make my lists and see if I have everything I need. Finally I am ready and I put everything in
the truck and we get on the road.
Ryan is
driving and Michelle is in the passenger seat and she doesn’t mention anything
about Gavin. I look out the windows and
wonder if I smoked enough weed to help me get through the drive without being
too anxious. I don’t like to be cooped
up in small spaces. “So is Gavin gonna
get anymore X,” I ask, to be obnoxious and also because I am genuinely
interested.
“I don’t
know, I barely talk to the guy,” she says, which I know is definitely a lie.
“What do you
care, you will be on the east coast,” she adds.
“Just
wondering,” I respond.
My bedroom is pretty much the way I
left it except someone used my bigger water pipe, the one I don’t travel
with. They didn’t clean it out either,
like they wanted to get caught or were too indifferent to care. I’m not going to make a big deal out of it
because early tomorrow morning I need a ride to the airport.
I walk
across the room to the bathroom, dump out the water, and begin to clean the
pipe. It is harder to clean the longer
you let it sit with that bad water and that brown residue that builds up along
the edges. Michelle comes in and tells
me a bunch of people are going to meet over at the Golden Gopher. “Alright, give me five minutes,” I tell
her. She is annoyed but I figure she
will wait for me. If not, I really don’t care.
I clean the
pipe, fill it to the brim and take a hit.
The smoke comes clean in and I think about nothing. There is nothing to think about. I set the pipe down on my desk and change my
shirt. Then I take another massive hit,
perhaps too massive, and blow the smoke out the window. I catch the lit up Orpheum sign in yellow
neon across the way to Broadway Street and I wink. Then I look a little to the right and see the
red neon Jesus Saves sign and I sneer.
We take Hope
Street to Eight and head East for a few blocks until we hit the Golden
Gopher. The Golden Gopher is a dive bar
but I like it. Downtown LA is lacking in places to hang out; there is only
Casey’s, Golden Gopher, and some place on Grand and 7th that is
either called Grand on 7th or 7th on Grand or something
like that. We like the Golden Gopher
because it’s low key.
Golden Gopher has old arcade games
from 1980s, a glass case of shirts that you can’t buy because no one is ever
there to fetch them out, a bunch of rocks instead of usable windows behind the
bar, and a smoking area that is penned in by high rises on three sides. What is not to love? I’m with my sister and Ryan and Gavin and
this guy Frank and some girl named Emily who has a twin sister who she doesn’t
hang out with very much. She went to USC
and graduated the same year as me, last year.
Her twin did as well but I never knew her. She is going to Santa Clara law school and
she’s in her second year. She gives me
some advice about being a 1L. I don’t
really listen because I feel like I know everything that is good for me. Nobody likes to hear other people’s advice
anyway.
We get our
drinks at the bar and make our way out to the smoking patio. There are some open seats because it is such
a bad area to hang out. I hate
cigarettes and the smell of cigarettes but my drink is helping. The pot I smoked earlier is also
helping. Emily talks with Gavin about
some pretentious douchy thing. I sit
there, not talking to anyone, and look up at the brick buildings all around
me. The space is so small and the
buildings are all around; all I see is a very small patch of twinkling
stars. Ryan and my sister are somewhere
else. I think about leaving. I want to leave.
Emily says
something about a Supreme Court decision that is important and Gavin chimes
in. I know what they are talking about
but I don’t let on because I don’t want them to engage me. I don’t like it when people talk to me about
that kind of stuff. I chug the rest of
my drink and tell them I’m heading home.
Skid Row is
really east of here but we get some bleed over.
As I make it to the light at Eighth and Grand, a black lady with a long
coat approaches me, her hair is disheveled and she has wild eyes. I nod politely and keep on walking but she
continues along with me. “Did you know
today is my birthday?” she asks me. I
shake my head curtly.
“Well today
is my birthday!” she exclaims.
“Happy Birthday,”
I relay unenthusiastically. I know where
this is going and I suspect it is not really her birthday.
“Do you
think you could spare some change for a lady on her birthday?”
“I only
carry credit cards,” I reply dismissively and hurry off. I wish people wouldn’t accost me in the
street.
Ryan takes me to the airport in my
Jeep. We don’t really talk on the drive
there, mostly because there is nothing to talk about. Or maybe we do talk about things, I don’t
really know. Maybe he asks me about what
we will do in Boston or New York, or maybe I ask him if he is going to be in LA
or in San Diego. Maybe we talk about
what classes he will take this year at USC.
I think he’s a business major, like Davy.
We get to
LAX and I have plenty of time. I thank him
for the ride and he assures me he will get my Jeep back to the apartment
safely. I do not worry about it; he is
one of the only people I know that still knows how to drive a stick shift
transmission. It’s a lost art really.
I hoist my
backpack and grab my old man suitcase and head inside to print my ticket. After it spits it out of the machine, I look
around for my friend Andrea. I don’t see
her so I text her to find out where she is.
She doesn’t respond in five minutes so I decide to just go through the
security checkpoint and wait for her by the boarding area. Andrea is pretty punctual so maybe she is
already in there.
As I am waiting in the security line, Andrea
finally texts back. She just got
here. I tell her I am in the security
line so she comes up and finds me. Andrea
sneaks under the black rope and this older, fat lady makes a harrumph sound and
rolls her eyes. The line is not very
long.
“Ready for
Boston, Blair?”
“Uh-huh.”
I’ve never been to Boston before and New York, I’ve only been to the airport
two years ago when we returned from Paris.
We had to stay overnight but we never left the airport.
“More
excited for New York though.” Andrea had been to Boston with her parents when
she was a kid and they did the Freedom Trail.
This is all she remembers.
“Do you
think Keri will remember to pick us up?” Andrea wonders aloud as the line
advances.
“Yeah. But it will be on Keri time.” Andrea snickers and then nods.
We have to
show our IDs and our tickets at the first station before we are allowed to
advance to the checkpoint and metal detectors.
I am ready but Andrea fumbles for her ID. She swears she has it and I hear her mumble
an apology to the fat lady behind her. I
also hear another harrumph.
I place my
sandals, my cell phone, my beanie and my belt in the basket and I lay my
backpack and my suitcase on the rolling track.
A security guard asks me if I have any electronics in my bag. “A laptop.”
“Please
remove it, as the sign indicates.” I
look up at the sign and then back at my bag.
“Alright.”
Andrea
finally comes up and begins to lay her things on the track. I take out my laptop and think about asking
the security guard if he’s happy. But I
refrain. There is nothing to be gained
from that.
I wait until
the security guard waves me to come through the metal detector. When he does, it dings and he tells me to
remove my belt. Everybody is annoyed
with me. I take off the belt and put it
into a separate container and then I walk through and it doesn’t ding again but
they pull my luggage aside and explain they have to look through it
anyway. Now I’m annoyed.
They don’t
find anything and there is nothing to find anyway. As we walk down the corridor to our gate
number, Andrea asks me what that was all about.
I shrug. “You didn’t pack weed, did you?”
“No, I told
you I quit smoking.”
“Yeah, but
nobody believes that.”
“Really. I did.
I felt like was addicted. I felt
like it was causing me to have panic attacks.”
“I thought
weed was a non-addictive drug.”
“Maybe. But
my throat felt like it was closing up.”
“Psychosomatic.”
“Whatever. I’m starting law school soon. I’m quitting.”
…
…
Civil Procedure is my first class of
the day. The professor is forty
something and horribly ugly, disfigured really, with blotchy red cheeks
indicative of alcoholism and long curly brown hair, unkempt, and she was never
pretty. She also seems kind of mean and I am early enough to get the spot in
the corner right by the back door and Brennan comes in, spots me and sits next
to me. We nod our recognition and I talk
about the bad drive from LA and she says something about “that’s what weed is
for” and I laugh.
The
professor talks about what she calls “Housekeeping” for the first five minutes
of class, basically saying about how she doesn’t have tolerance for people coming
in late or not being prepared because “judges won’t tolerate it.” She acts like she is doing us a service by
being an asshole. I feel glad I got the
corner spot since in her class, there’s definitely a seating chart.
After
“housekeeping” she starts a lecture on what Civil Procedure means and the
difference between federal courts, which have limited jurisdiction and state
courts, which have general jurisdiction.
She hints that the bulk of the class will be deciding what cases
rightfully belong in state court and what ones rightfully belong in federal
court. Federal court only takes federal
question and diversity cases. Federal
question have to do with challenging the Constitution and diversity is when the
two litigants are from different states.
She also talks about venue. I
play solitaire and win two games.
I go to the library to get some of the
cases read for torts and contracts and civil procedure, but all I really do is
play solitaire for fifteen minutes, read one case about torts that I slink into
my Barbri outline and look around the other cubicles to see who is here.
This place
is too quiet and I get the feeling this is exactly what it would have been like
if I had gone to libraries in college and then I decide to get up and
leave. After I drop my things at my
locker, I walk down to the circle and get some coffee and water, wait around to
see if this girl Lindsay who wanted to buy weed from me will show up, she does,
right by the hair salon we make our trade.
As I’m
walking back to campus, I’m kind of sad because I sold the rest of my stash so
it won’t tempt me, but I’m also sort of glad because at least I won’t have that
feeling like I could have it whenever I wanted it. I really have to focus.
Legal writing starts at 1:15 and I’m
wary of being taught to write legally since I’ve always had an interest in
writing legendarily, scary sort of grasp on the English language, and as I’m
walking toward the classroom, I’m thinking, she can’t teach me anything about
writing that I don’t already know. I’m
twenty-two.
The whole
row in the far back is empty so I’m super glad and I take the one near the
aisle, unfortunately no outward escape.
This class is also a breakdown of our track of 100 or so students, to 30
or so students, so really I have no hope of going unnoticed.
The
classroom fills up, mostly in the first, second and third rows, and the last
row, the fifth row, is where I sit and play Solitaire and try to be
unremarkable and only one other kid tries to sit in this row, a kid named Tommy
and I don’t look over or up at anyone as I look at the nine of spades, wondering
how to move it even though I know obviously it is covering both red tens,
hearts and diamonds, and it’s also covering the six of spades, and I realize
it’s an impossible game and that this in fact a clear metaphor for my life.
“Why don’t
you two move up a row?” The teacher calls out.
I’m still in denial about the nine of spades, hoping that there will be
a possible way to move it and win the game.
“You too!”
I look
up. The legal writing professor is
staring right at me and the kid named Tommy has already started to gather his
stuff to move up to the next row. I
close my laptop and start to move my stuff as well.
I think
about asking, “What if I don’t want to?” but it doesn’t seem like the mature
law student thing to do, so I quietly obey.
Tommy took the place by the side near the aisle, which is where I wanted
to sit, so I hate him now.
This
professor is young, probably thirty-five or thirty-six and she seems pretty
nice. I still don’t think I’m going to
like this class because she talks about how legal writing is so different than
all other writing, especially creative writing and she says you have to be
brief and get to the point. I think
about how I will probably ramble on and on just to waste her time. If I ever get through law school and become
an attorney, I think I’ll do the same.
My property class is in the same
classroom as Civil Procedure and I want to take the same seat near the door but
there’s already some kid sitting in it.
So I sit next to him and scowl.
He says he knows me from Contracts and I nod. The classroom is filling up, and this kid,
Seemer, is logged onto Ebay and reading descriptions on cell phones. He explains that he sells them.
The
professor walks in and he’s one of those nerdy east coast snob types, thirty-something
pushing forty-something and someone tells me that he’s mean and used to be
fat. The first thing he does is pass
around these index cards for us all to write our names on. After he collects them, he shuffles them
menacingly at his podium spot and calls on a name. I’m glad it’s not mine.
He asks the
kid some bullshit question that was meant as a trap and as the kid stutters and
fumbles for an intelligent answer, I open up a solitaire game and smile when I
see the nine of spades.
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