Ah, school!

One might think that sitting on a library chair in which the padding surely disintegrated decades before might have the effect of keeping one’s attention focused, but no. I finally dismembered my backpack, removing from its spine the foam insert that protects my back. It is now placed on my chair, where it protects my gluteus from further compression.

Speaking of focus, I am reading the “Summary of Key Concepts” for a chapter of my Biology textbook. I become aware that, despite the presence of dexedrine in my bloodstream, I am re-reading the same sentence over and over, like my needle is tripping on a scratch and bouncing back a groove, and I tell myself sternly to get focussed.

Shortly thereafter a siren is heard outside. Its volume increases as it comes nearer the college. I picture the ambulance screaming up the campus laneway and coming to a stop adjacent to the library. A woman is laying on the floor next to my desk, bleeding profusely. While waiting for the ambulance attendants I have removed my shirt and am using it to staunch the flow of blood. Finally the attendants arrive and I am congratulated for my fast thinking. I may have saved her life, they tell me.

She is taken away on a stretcher. The library is abuzz with chatter as I gather up my belongings and make my way to my locker in the gym. In order to reach the gym, I must cross the campus, bare-chested and my jeans covered in bloody smears. I try to look nonchalant. This will do nothing to mitigate my feelings of being the “odd man out” around here.

I can hear them talking. Young women of college age have little concern for how they affect others.

“Like, look at that old guy, Brittney. He’s soooo gross!”

“He’s in my Creative Writing class. You won’t believe this. He actually wrote a short story about, like, transsexuals.”

They stopped, turned to each other, and screamed.

My Holden Caulfield interlude having come to an end, I flick my needle ahead two grooves and resume my study of non-polar hydrogen bonds.