Table and Spoon Circles

If I kept a journal, there are a few things that I'd write in it. Perhaps I'd describe the contrast of my couch's pink flower decor in comparison to the dark skin of my roommate's legs as he told me about his country last night. Perhaps I'd write about the brilliant color of an old friend's hair in yesterday's sunlight as we were reunited months after I had to tell her that I couldn't give her what she wanted. Maybe I'd write about the insults that this same friend managed to subtly sling at me with frightening skill and finesse as I stood dumbfounded. Perhaps I'd write about how I smiled in relief as she walked away, knowing that she finally felt better after exacting her premeditated revenge. Maybe I'd write about none of these things, because blogging briefly about them is more than enough.
I drag my thumb along the smooth edge of the table at which I'm sitting. Whenever I'm tasked with choosing where to sit, I always choose the round tables. Maybe I appreciate how nonthreatening they are, but mostly they remind me of the regality of a fictional King Arthur's court. Sean Connery would be proud.
I look up from the table's edge. She's still complaining about work. I shouldn't mind, seeing as how I was the one to ask her how work is these days. And do I expect any true-blooded American to not complain about his or her job? I guess I dug my own grave this time.
At the next break in her story, I interrupt her with the first question that comes to my mind, which for some reason turns out to be: "Do you know what it means to believe in something?"
Taken aback slightly, she quickly says, "Of course I do." I watch as she looks up from the table, her black hair falling nicely beside either side of her face. Our conversation has taken a sudden turn for the more serious, and I'm not sure if I like where it's going with her; she doesn't really seem to know how to answer for herself as she continues, "But I don't see how that's important."
I wonder if she's ever really thought much about the question for herself, but instead I just say, "You're right. It's not that important. I'm not sure why I brought it up."
She eyes me as I innocently savor another bite of my burger. I can see a mark of frustration on her brow. "Okay, but what does it mean to you to believe in something?"
Chuckling, I set the burger back on the table. "To me? That's an ever-changing answer."
"Then give me your current answer."
"Well, if you really believe in something you should feel good about it, and you should trust it. And not because of what anyone else tells you. Be that what it may."
"I guess that makes sense. I've never really thought about it much," she says as if talking to someone else entirely, apparently herself, as we both lean back in our chairs.
Glancing down at the illuminated screen peeking out my pocket, I know that I have to go soon.
She must have noticed, because she makes one more request, "Before you go, have you ever managed to bend a plastic spoon into a complete circle without it breaking?"
"No! Can it actually be done?"
Smiling, she assures me that it can.
"All right, I'll give it a try," I tell her while grabbing the only spoon lying on the table.

Life Without Pizza

Looking into the mirror on my left, I can't help but wonder why anyone would ever install mirrors in an elevator. Something important must be afoot, because the girl next to me is texting more quickly than I can imagine her speaking. Her auburn hair is pulled into a ponytail and a stack of books is occupying her left arm entirely. When the elevator stops and the doors begin to pry themselves open, she steps out without so much as a glance toward anything or anyone but her illuminated screen of connection.

As the doors again begin to close, I see her rip her eyes from their entrancement up at the world around her before spinning back toward the closing elevator doors. A look of understanding passes over her eyes just as she becomes shut from my view. The wrong floor.

My destination, the top floor, is almost completely empty.

There was a time when I really enjoyed these meetings, but that was when there was pizza and single women. Now there's no more food and only a few chicks who complain to each other about their dismally inadequate boyfriends. Looking down to the floor below this one, I see a former coworker of mine. She chopped all of her hair off. Maybe I should yell something down to her, but maybe this is a library and maybe I shouldn't.

Standing just outside the cracked door, I can see a few people on the opposite side organizing their things. Sighing, I open the door slowly so as not to interrupt any integral thought processes revolving around the wrong doings of paramours former and current.

Before anyone can make an accusation, I say, "I know; I'm about five minutes late. I didn't expect you all to be here already."

Sitting on the opposite side of the table are two people I haven't seen here before. One of them endeavors to say something before I do, "Hi, I hope you don't mind that we came. We missed our group earlier today."

"That's fine. What's your name?"

Reaching across the table I grasp her hand as she answers, "Katie."

The guy next to her says, "Chris," as I in turn shake his hand. 

"Cool. I'm Dallin. It's nice to have you guys here."

Sitting down, I look around the room. "Well, does anyone have questions about anything in particular?"

People just shake their heads while I tell myself that this is the last time I ever take a tutoring position.

"Nothing? Okay, are there any areas you guys want to hit? The test is tomorrow."

Finally, the girl at the end of the table makes a suggestion, "I was thinking we could just do an overview of everything," to which everyone vocalizes their agreement.

Forcing a smile and a happy tone, I nod and tell them what a good idea that is. "No better place to start than at the beginning."

Reviewing everything without any direction or specifics will take at least 4 hours, but they don't know that yet. I hear Katie and Chris both eagerly pulling note paper from their bags. I lied. I know who Chris and Katie are: they've been on my list all semester but have never shown up until today. Unfortunately they will probably fail.

Instead of telling them of their fate, I choose to give them another day's hope and turn back toward the room. 

"Hey guys, before we get started, does anyone have a whiteboard marker that works?"

Cool Heat

I can feel my feet. Actually, I can only really feel that I can't feel them. This is an odd sensation. I wake with a start and begin turning my body carefully so as to avoid the steering wheel. I stretch my blanket to its furthest, but it still can't manage to wrap entirely around my feet without slipping off my shoulders.
The rain pounding against the window next to my ear distracts me momentarily. It's cold in here, and my feet want socks desperately. Jordan is staring at the roof of the car as I sit up and stretch my legs.
"Yawwwwwwnn. Holy crap it got cold; my feet are freezing."
Jordan looks over just to say, "You sound like a wookiee when you yawn."
"Huh?"
"You know, like Chewbacca. From Star Wars."
"Oh, right. Good morning to you too."
Leaning onto the steering wheel, I can't see outside at all due to the fogged windows. The rain slapping on the roof sounds like a tropical torrent inside the cab of my tiny Neon, and I find myself immensely dreading anything involving an exit from the car.
Exhaling in frustration, I glance back at Jordan, "It sounds like it's raining pretty hard. I really don't want to get out."
Immediately he tells me with audible urgency, "Dude, I really have to piss."
"Yeah, me too. Let's go on the count of three, okay?"
"Sure, that sounds good," Jordan replies.
Gripping the handle of the door beside me with fervent concentration, I start counting; one, two, and then I remember.
"Wait!"
Jordan flinches away from the door, having expected to be rushing outward. "What??"
"Grab your toothbrush."
The doors flung open, we immediately discover that the downpour is little more than a drizzle, but we both hike up our shorts with one hand and begin bounding toward the restrooms anyway. The flannel clad trucker exiting through the door steps quickly out of my way as I rush through the opening. I'm careful not to slip on the tile floor in the lobby as I make my way to the men's bathroom.
"Hey, Jordan."
Looking over the partition between me and his urinal, he responds, "Yeah?"
While still examining my chin and neck in the mirror through downturned eyes, I describe my current revelation to him; "Ya know, Jordan, it's a sad day when the hair on your face is far thicker than the hair on top of your head."
Zipping up and approaching the sink next to mine, he begins to laugh. "Dude, just be happy that you can grow a respectable beard."
"Fine, but you be happy that you can grow a respectable head of hair."
"Yep, I am thankful for that on a daily basis," he says while running his fingers through his hair.
Refocusing on my hygiene, I have another revelation: I stink. While brushing my teeth I scan the walls of the restroom for any paper towel dispensers, but all I see are air dryers. This was our second straight night and fourth in the past ten days sleeping in my car, as well as the third day without a shower, and now it is really beginning to show. I had planned on using some paper towels to swab out my armpits and wash my face, but it looks like I'll have to wait. So instead I finish brushing my teeth and enjoy the warm air of the hand dryer on my skin.
Flinging the door open, we begin to run back to the car. I take a shortcut over the wet grass while keeping my heels flexed upward in an attempt to keep my flip flops from flipping water all over the back of my legs. Slamming the doors shut behind us, I hurriedly fumble for the keys and start the engine.
"Sheesh, who knew it could get so cold in May?"
"I know, it wasn't nearly this cold last night in Illinois."
The engine chokes to life as the heater begins to blow cold air through its ducts onto our legs and faces.
"Remind me never to come to Nebraska again."
"Well, maybe it won't be so bad if you bring a better blanket next time."
Thinking back to last night, I step on the gas and tell Jordan, "Good point. You should be glad that I told you to get your blanket out of the trunk before it really got cold."
"All right, D, you've got me there. Where do you want to eat, anyway?"
Looking at the gas gauge, I know that we should be able to make it past the border before we need to refuel. "Not in Nebraska. That much I know."
Leaning back and closing his eyes, Jordan says with a yawn, "Sure, man. I'm sure we'll find a place."

Standing around in my underwear

At once I snap awake. The same guy is sitting on the couch across from me, still lackadaisically reading his textbook while he spends the majority of his time texting someone; hopefully a beautiful girl worth the time and distraction. I've probably been asleep for awhile, and look at my watch. 2:56. Less than four minutes until class. I've been asleep for over an hour! Jamming my phone back into my pocket and cramming my book back into my pack, I throw on my jacket too with a backpack clenched between my teeth. An exit, right here. Wow, why haven't I used this exit before, instead of walking all the way around to the east side?
I run through the door at full speed as a screech accosts my ears. A fire alarm? Both of my hands are still placed firmly on the door handle as I halt in sickening realization. This is an emergency exit. Six inches from my face, written boldly on the glass, are the words Emergency Exit Only: Alarm Will Sound. Well, they weren't kidding, were they? My heart sinks. Shit.
An eternity turning around, I see everyone around the library looking around confusedly and packing up their things. Bigger shit. I need to go to class. I'll be late if I stay. Looking back at my watch, 2:57. One minute awake so far. Bad things happen when I've been awake for fewer than five minutes. People in my corner of the library are already beginning to spot me, still awkwardly holding the emergency exit open with two hands. No one points, but more and more are looking.
A deep breath before the plunge. Holding my head up high, I release the door and wave, saying loudly, "Hi. Yeah, that was me. My bad, everyone."
Still, no one says anything to me. Not even a chuckle. Pointing toward the front desk, where crowds from the rest of the library are already heading, I put up both arms reassuringly in Moses-style and declare, "I'll go take care of it."
The walk of shame is briefly elongated. Is there some kind of fine for setting off the fire alarm unnecessarily? If so, I am so leaving them with a false name. Hi, my name is Brian Weller, I think with a smirk. The employees at the front desk are packing their things too when I get there. With authority I place both of my palms on the counter. They both give me their attention.
"Hi. Yeah, that fire alarm is my bad. Don't evacuate or call the fire department. I totally just tried walking through the emergency exit."
"Oh," the blond one replies, her face betraying obvious thoughts of laughter.
"So, yeah, just shut that sucker off."
"Okay, we'll get on that."
"All right, well, bye."
"Bye."
I turn around and stride out the door quickly as a few bespectacled bookworms race by. No backward glances for me. I did what I had to do and I didn't even have to give them a name, and I'd rather keep it that way.

Unbottle Your Feelings and Dump Them on Paper

I am no William Shakespeare, or even Michael Crichton, for that matter. But still, I'm usually able to express myself in a fairly competent manner. Lately I've had to write a few papers on my "feelings" about certain performances. I enjoy the arts. Thoroughly. I wrote the first paper and received a response from my grader that complimented my writing style and word usage, but docked me nonetheless for not explaining my thoughts and feelings well enough. This didn't bother me; criticism is something that I can handle. I did all that I possibly could on my second paper to pack it profusely with "I felt happy"s and "I found this remarkable"s. And still, I was docked for my "lack of feeling." Instead of kicking a dead horse, I'll simply say that despite my best efforts, I was faced with the same reason for a disappointing grade on my third paper. Am I explicating my feelings about this musical and that jazz concert? I thought so! Today I have learned my lesson. When writing a paper in which I must expand upon these "feelings" which I'm supposed to have, simply write an outline and then hand the paper over to a girl for her to fill it with how you should think and feel. That's right, paper grader, I have beaten you at last. You have read exactly what you wanted to hear and at last your thirst for my "feelings" has been slated.