Wednesday, August 25, 2004

My day began, (as I see it) after I left work. I hopped into my trusty Tercel and sped despondently in the direction opposite of my home. No, I had an Italian class to attend on a campus I had never been to before.

The class was being taught on a high school campus. I found the school with relatively little trouble. Er, I found it with relatively little trouble after I had called Beno and he had gotten online to find directions.

I pulled into the parking lot. Shading my eyes against the sunlight, I could see the sihlouette of a cross atop of a small, domed building. I made my way towards it to investigate further.

Shortly after stepping through a gate painted the color of rust, I was hailed by a small, wizened man. He had the uncertain bearing of a campus security guard. A badge shined dully from the shirt of his unkempt uniform. "Excuse me sir, where are you headed?" he asked.

"I am here to attend Italian 201," I said.

He seemed to relax. He pointed out a building and told me class was in there. I thanked him and continued on my way. I noted that the only footsteps I heard were my own. I approached the classroom and through the large windows I could see that a class in session. Not my class, though. I had arrived very early.

I turned away. "It's right in there!" the little security guard yelled, pointing again. He hadn't moved from the spot where we had spoken, as I had assumed, and was still watching me.

Annoyed, I looked levelly at him. He continued to point. I turned away from him and walked over to a small, concrete amphitheater, where I sat down and began to read my copy of Starship Troopers.

A half-hour later, I stood up. I stretched and returned my book to my satchel. The nagging guard was nowhere in sight.

Time to affirm his fears.

No, I had no desire to wreak havok on an unsuspecting preporatory high school. I was merely curious.

As I walked among the cluster of small buildings, I noticed a sign that read "Christ Is The Reason For This School." I walked on. The next sign I came upon read "Landscaping Donated By..." and then listed the names of a presumeably generous couple.

Passing by the parcels of well-manicured grass, I noticed more signs. Posted to each tree was that disheartening sign of civilization: "Keep Off The Grass."

* * * * *

Class began at 7:15. Almost every student that walked in the classroom door was greeted with shouts of greeting and surprise; camaraderie not uncommon among language students.

I sat quietly, feeling very out of place seated among this large family.

I remained quiet, listening. I could picture the little bursts of light in my brain as old, atrophied synapses struggled to understand this very strange, very familiar pattern of sounds.

To help everyone become better acquainted (i.e., myself and a couple of others that didn't already know everyone) the professor asked us to write three sentences in Italian. Two sentences would be true and one would be false. Heads went down and the familiar song of frantic scribbling filled the air. I took longer than I thought to produce sentences shorter than I hoped.

The class went around reading theirs aloud and guessing. My turn came. I read out loud.

"One: I don't remember much Italian." There were murmurs of agreement. "Two: I anger very easily." A few people looked skeptical. "Three: I hate cold mornings," I finished.

I avoided their eyes and looked down at my paper.

There was half-interested discussion about which was the false statement, if only because I was a stranger to them. In the class was a guy who called himself "Santiago." By the way the other students would dismiss most things he said by smiling and saying, "Oh, that's Santiago!", I guessed he was the class clown. Knowing this, I waited for the inevitable.

"Number 2!" Santiago shouted. "It's number two!"

I jerked up at him, halfway out of my chair, and shouted "WHAT?!"

Even though he was safely across the room, Santiago still jumped back. The rest of the class reacted in a similar fashion. I lowered my head again. "Yeah, it's number two," I said softly. There were chuckles around the room. Either they liked my rather lame joke or they thought I was manic-depressive. Neither would be too far off, I guess.

I made it home from class around 9:30 pm. Just another day.

As it stands, I'll have three nights a week in which I'll be at work by 8 am and return home at 9:30 pm. I'm wondering why I chose this insane schedule in the first place. I suspect I know the answer.

I've been reading Starship Troopers. The book goes on about military life. The tediousness, long hours, abuse, sleep-deprivation. All the stuff I used to do. Used to be pretty good at enduring, too.

The single greatest external influence for me has always been whatever I'm reading. Smoking because Spider Jerusalem does it. Drinking because hell, all the best writers were alcoholics. (Movies have their place, too. I know that if I ever lose a hand I'm going to replace it with a chainsaw. (Oh, and music. Once I quit my job because I had been singing along to Monster Magnet ("I'm never gonna work/another day in my life")))

The problem is that I'm almost finished reading this book. If I'm not careful about what I read next, my whole plan could collapse around me. We'll see. For now, I had better stick to my work.

Starting...now.

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