(WEEKLY COLUMNS)
The observations of a nobody who exploits their reality. Typically a comedic take on social etiquette, race, class, sex, morality (or lack thereof), battles within the self, family issues, death, vulnerability, and whatever other r...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I was going to school at the time, back in the days when I was blindly bamboozled into thinking that a college education would make or break my future. Retrospect refines reality and I now realize that it wasn't going to make my future at all, just break my bank account. College isn't worth a shit but still manages to cost a fortune. Figure that one out. Anyway, I digress.
This particular semester I was taking a night class: Magazine Article Writing. The professor was a middle-aged, fluffy homosexual man with a very sassy attitude. The gay shit didn't bother me because I'm not a homophobe and it ain't any of my business to begin with. However, I was a bit intimidated by the sass. He was very stern and flamboyant in the way he dished it out, oftentimes coating his words with the subtlest twist of sarcasm. Despite the flimsy stereotypes, he had more testosterone than any straight man I'd ever met.
The professor had a strict attendance policy for the class. Three missed classes, regardless of the circumstances, meant you failed the course. And, in my typical lazy fashion, I had already used up two days within the first week of the semester. One due to a hangover and the other when my mental health called out sick. But, as it turns out, I should have saved my absences for a rainy day instead...
It was pouring outside. Torrential rains flooded the streets from the skies, almost as if God Himself turned on Heaven's showers and was attempting to wash away the Delcoholic grime. All afternoon I sat around and looked out the window hoping that the stormy weather would cease, but it never did. If anything it only got worse. Shit, Delco must be dirtier than I thought, I remember thinking to myself. The Big Man's holy water power washing seemed to be coming up short. Under any other circumstances I would have never left the house, but fear of being chewed out by the gay sass propelled me to make the wet trek.
I searched the closet and all I could find was a hot pink umbrella. Surely I couldn't walk around the hood with that. (Although, I would have probably gotten a few extra browning points from the teacher for the color choice.) For a moment I entertained the idea of cutting out holes in a trash bag and creating a makeshift rain coat, but I decided against that as well. I already looked like trash. Literally looking like trash would have been taking it too far. I was running out of time and needed to head to the train station, otherwise I'd miss my train. I grabbed my bookbag, took a deep breath and left the house with nothing but my clothes to protect me from Mother Nature's torment.
Thirty seconds into the walk and I was already drenched. I looked like I jumped into a pool with all of my clothes on. I put myself in a half-assed state of meditation in order to maintain my sanity, but ended up trudging along with the angry, hunched over manner of a mental patient. My feet were squishing and squashing with each step. It was a wet nightmare.
I got to the train station, which was completely outdoors with the exception of a small eight by eight-foot cement hut with a bench in it. The thing was repulsive and reeked of stale urine and Lord only knows what else. But, on this day, it was the only shelter from the storm available. I walked in and was surprised to see that the hut was already being occupied.
