College Story

Dark, somber clouds loom over the college campus threatening to send down rain on what should have been a bright sunny morning.  Sulking faces from students, finished class for the day, march drudging back to their cars with nothing but loads of homework and cancelled beach plans.  As the raindrops begin to plummet, fast and thick, drenching everyone and everything, a greater threat of painful stones of hail and fierce winds hang back waiting to be unleashed on the earth .  Heading toward the college, students and professors alike make mad dashes with book bags or briefcases over their heads as the torrent begins to pour down on top of them.  Loafers and sneakers run for the nearest doorway, fast-moving away from trees that surround the parking lot and campus grounds. Slapping raindrops chase two girls up the long sidewalk.  A mother drags her toddler son toward the shelter of the brick building.  The boy, spending the day with his mommy, is pulling back on her arm, as he must jump in every puddle between the parking lot and the door.

          In Parking Lot F, out in front of the monstrous gymnasium known as “Big Blue”, your 1978 sea green Granada is getting a much-needed car wash.  Tiny, shallow pools of mud form in the dents of the car’s hood and roof.  Dark, murky streams run down the dirty windshield as you snore away on the backseat under your navy blue raincoat.  Huddled in the fetal position, you awake to a stiff neck and what sounds like nails being hammered into the roof of your car.  As you rise through the levels of sleep becoming more awake, you feel the pain in your neck getting worse.  You massage your neck with your left hand hoping to loosen up those muscles.  The coat you wore as your blanket falls away and the chill in the air settles into your bones.  Beginning to shiver, you climb over the backseat and, after fishing around on the floor, you stick the keys in the ignition and start the engine to turn on the heat.  The smell of warming mold pushing out of the vents knocks you back. As you rub the sleep out of your eyes you think to yourself, as you do every morning, how much you hate mornings.  An electronic beeping comes from the glove compartment.  Opening the little hatch door, you turn off the alarm clock.  8:15. Introduction to Sociology starts in fifteen minutes.



            The hallways are virtually empty as you walk from F-wing to C-wing.  When I get a better car I’m definitely parking closer.  A handful of students cram a small table to overflowing at the little coffee shop outside the college cafeteria.  Chairs scrape across the floor as the crowd shifts constantly, each one trying to get more comfortable.  Still, with all the scraping and shifting they never break the conversation.  Aromas of coffee, regular and flavored, float on the breeze drawing you like a siren off the beaten path toward your next class.  A middle-aged woman with short, straw blond hair turns her attention from her young coworker toward you as you approach.  “Can I get you something?” she asks putting on the half glasses that hang around her neck.

“Medium Hazelnut to go .”  The middle-aged woman sets about making your drink.  Her younger coworker glances at you each time you look her way.  She smiles a service smile, held back by her shyness .  When you’re not looking at her, you look over each of the carafes in the back.  Each one of the tall thermoses has a nametag on it with a picture of a steaming coffee mug.  Out in front, stylish avant-garde mugs line the countertop.

“Do you want cream, sugar, or both?” asks the older woman .

“Both.”  She finishes filling your order, and hands you the cup after slipping on a heat guard over the bottom of the waxy, paper cup.  You pay her, smile at the younger woman and walk away.

            A crowd of thirty other students huddles around the doorway to a computer lab.  The plaque next to the door says C-121.  Another class is sitting at a long row of tables, with a computer monitor imbedded into each desktop, staring off to the left toward a female voice with a thick Chinese accent.  You look up and down through the crowd outside the door.  A red head with a hunter green sweater clutches her books and notebooks to her chest like a precious treasure she’s afraid someone might steal.  She’s talking to a brunette with a round nose with curls in her hair that only form on the outer boundaries of her hairdo.  You watch the two friends talking in whispers, not looking around or speaking too loudly as if they were hiding secretive information no one else was privy to.  As a third girl, blond with wide hips, and swinging her keys around on a leather strap approaches them, the class in session stands from their desks and begins filing out of the computer lab.  The three girls in your class you’d been watching wait as most of the previous class passes through the door then leads the way into the newly vacated classroom.

          You drag your feet toward the door, but are quickly elbowed aside by a fat middle age white man with a red bandana on his head and a black pirate’s beard with a white streak down the center along his chin.  The biker then charges past the three girls and sits in a seat in the middle of the front row.  Without skipping a beat the rest of your classmates file into seats, all but the ones on either side of the biker.  You rush to get a seat not next to him, and settle for one in the same row, but far against the wall. The biker rolls up his sleeves and reveals a line of tattooed skulls and a flaming eyeball on a stick, all of them running up and down his arms.  Your classmates are seated and the two seats on either side of the biker remain open.  The Chinese woman who led the last class has long since left, and you wonder where your professor is, hoping he or she will show up and discover the biker is in the wrong class.  Or, even better, that the professor will be fifteen minutes late and the dreaded ‘first day’ will be post-poned .

An older black man wearing a gray shirt, gold-green corduroy pants and a red tie comes into the room.  Behind him, a white woman, very heavy with thick round glasses, and short blond hair steps in next to him.  They scan the room hoping to spot some chairs that are open somewhere else besides next to the biker.  Withdrawing hope from finding such a chair, they reluctantly and shyly take their seats on the bikers right and left.  You feel sorry for them, but you’re glad you’re not sitting next to him.

                    Ten minutes go by, and the professor still has not shown up.  An unwritten rule among college students is that the professor has fifteen minutes to show up then the class dismisses itself.  Every college student knows about this rule and you eagerly watch the clock hoping the remaining five minutes will pass quickly.

                  Before the five minutes is up, the biker stands and grabs the pen he’d been tapping on the desk.  He pushes past the older black man then heads for the door.  As you sigh with relief, the biker stops and turns around.  He glares out over the group of students, walks over to the lectern and says, “Welcome to Introduction to Sociology.  My name is Professor Jack Migdalia.”  Without looking around you can feel the shock move through your classmates.  “You’ve all just had your first taste of a sociological experiment.  As humans, we judge largely on sight; what someone looks like.  Even though I don’t normally dress like this, each and every one of you chose not to sit next to me.  Prejudice exists in everyone in many forms.  Denying it is lying; lying to you, and lying to others.” You stare at this professor as he sheds the bandana, rolls down his sleeves and pulls his long hair back into a ponytail.  You don’t think he looks anymore like a college professor than he did five minutes ago, but you are interested enough to stay for the entire session.



                    Much to your dislike Professor Migdalia kept the class the full, allotted time.  Flinging your book bag over your shoulder, you tighten the straps on your shoulder.  The three girls you’d been watching since you walked into Introduction to Sociology are just ahead of you.  Redhead has tied her hunter green sweatshirt around her waist revealing a white t-shirt that’s obviously too tight and a little too short for her frame.  Her pants ride low, just enough to make out a tattoo that stretches along her waist line in the back.  It reminds you of Gaelic symbols, but all shoved together.  Her two friends, Round Nose and Wide Hips are talking and giggling to each other.  Redhead walks swinging her arms, back straight and her head held higher than either of her two friends.  As you follow them through the stretch of hallways you begin to hope they're on their way to Social Psychology in J-Wing.  Instead, Redhead, cutting in front of the other two girls, turns sharply to the left and walks straight into the college bookstore.  Round Nose and Wide Hips walk on mindlessly chattering, and you wonder if they even notice that Redhead isn’t with them anymore.

                      The college bookstore, called the Eagle’s Nest, is a wide-open space, four rooms long and two rooms wide.  Despite all the room’s open space the Eagle’s Nest is crammed with more merchandise than it can possibly hold. Definitely a fire hazard.  The front of the store is overpowered by chiming and clicking cash registers, and a mixed smell of fruit candy and scotch tape.  The right hand side of the store is loaded with different t-shirts and sweatshirts for everyone, from infants through Big & Tall men.  The other eighty percent of the store is jam packed with rows and stacks of college textbooks.

You take the slip of paper out of your back pocket and begin looking for the required books Professor Migdalia spent most of the time singing the praises of for your sociology class.  Actually, you’re only pretending to look for your books.

Each aisle is a fast-paced stride, corners are turned quickly, but not too eagerly as you search for Redhead.  You’re pretty sure she’s in the maze of textbook aisles, but you hope she hasn’t given you the slip.  You search unsuccessfully through Anatomy/Anthropology, Astronomy/Aquaculture and straight down the aisles to Computers/Cooking.  As you turn onto Economics/Environmental Science, you see her turn right off the aisle.  You charge down the aisle and catch a glimpse of her turning onto the Physics aisle.  Moving, smoothly and slowly, you casually slip onto the Physics aisle, then stop dead in your tracks.  Redhead stands in the middle of the aisle, looking up and down each shelf in her line of vision.  She turns her head and smiles at you .  You smile back then begin looking through the hundreds of books.  You slide behind her to her left hand side and begin looking through the Psychology books.  Picking one off the shelf you pretend to examine the spine before looking through the pages.  Instead of checking out the book, you check out Redhead’s arms.  Freckles run up and down her left arm, evenly spaced in a cornstarch pattern.  Redhead bends at the knees to examine the bottom shelf and you get a better look at her tattoo.  You quickly turn your head and blush that you now know she’s wearing peach underwear.  You lean overtop of her looking at the books on the top shelf, trying not to appear that your only there for her.  A waft of her perfume has climbed up the shelves to your nose, and it smells like daisies.  You pull a book on String Theory off the shelves and open it as she stands.  She looks in your direction than to the shelf that you just pulled the book your holding from.  She leans forward and stares at you again.  Is she checking me out?  You look up and she looks into your eyes.  Your pulse is thumping in your throat.  Swallowing, you say, “Hey.”

“Hey.” Redhead says back.  “Are you taking that class?” she asks, pointing at the book your holding.  For the first time, you look at the page your nose has been in, and you don’t understand a word.

“No.  I was just…looking for something to read, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” she says mockingly.  “That’s pretty heavy reading.”  You smile awkwardly and nod your head.  “Anyway, I’m taking that class and I need that book.”  Looking to the shelves you see that there are no more copies of the book your holding.

“Oh, sure.  Here you go.” You hand the book to her, and she clutches it to her chest with her other two books.

“Thanks.  We’re in Sociology together, right?”  You turn your head to look like you’re thinking.

“Yeah.  We are.”  Awkward silence stands between you and Redhead as each of you tries to think of something to say.  She looks toward the column of Physics books, and you to the row of Psychology texts.

“Well,” Redhead says to break the silence, “thanks for the book.  I’ll see you in class.”

“You bet.”  You watch her disappear around the corner.  Waiting until she’s got a good lead on you, you step off the Physics-Psychology aisle and walk toward the front of the Eagle’s Nest.  You step toward the door, looking in her direction as she stands in line.  She waves, and you wave back on your way out.  Walking toward J-Wing you mentally kick yourself because you didn’t ask her name.



                            If looks could kill, your psychology professor would be arrested for murder.  Walking into her class twenty minutes late is definitely something to avoid for the future. You’re convinced she had no reason to be upset; professors never talk about anything more than the texts and the syllabus on the first day of any class.  Being there wasn’t a total waste of time, fortunately.  You discovered that Round Nose and Wide Hips  are in your Social Psych class.  Next time you plan to be there for roll call and to grab a seat near them. Sure I’m just using them to know more about Redhead, but all’s fair in love and war, right?

Out in the far reaches of Parking Lot F, with rain still pouring down, you take the long way to your car, down one aisle than halfway up the other.  The Green rust bucket looks much cleaner than when you left home early this morning .  The breeze carries a scent of daisies to your nose on the back of the rain-scent.  Giggling rises to your ears; one row over Round Nose, Wide Hips and Redhead are all piling into a Dodge Neon.  You walk past your car and watch behind you waiting for them to leave.  Instead, the three girls pull duffel bags out of the backseat and run madly toward the gym, tucking the bags inside their raincoats.  With the girls out of sight, you walk back toward the Granada apologizing to it with your eyes and a shrug of your shoulders.

                        The drive time to your parents’ house is one half hour.  Riding in silence, your mind wanders to the three girls exercising at the gym.  Flashing back to consciousness, you swerve to miss the turtle in middle of your lane.  You break, passing over top of the turtle, and pull off to the side of the road.  Sliding across the seat toward the passenger side, you hop out and run up the shoulder toward the spot where you almost ran over the turtle.  A minivan, SUV and sedan, all of them silver, go past you until the traffic pattern clears.  Quickly, you run to the center of the road, grab the turtle and run back as a black Ford pickup appears at the crest of the paved hill.  The turtle will live to cross another day; you jog back to your car soaked to your underwear.

The yellow Victorian at the top of the hill stands out like a sore thumb compared to the rundown half a double houses that surround it.  Shirtless, shoeless kids run back and forth across the street chasing after a blue rubber ball .  Trucks and cars, even a jitney, break for them as the children fearlessly run out into the road without looking.  Their parents watch silently from their porches, the mother’s talking on the phone, and the father’s drinking from small, brown paper bags.  The neighborhood just isn’t the same as when I was kid.  You shake your head.  Jeepers! I am too young to say stuff like that! Walking toward your parents’ house, you pick up a discarded potato chip bag and two plastic soda bottles out of your mother’s flowerbed.  Inside, everything’s the same as it was years ago.  Safe.  Dry.  Home; gotta love it!