Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

So I’m late again. This time, however, when I am sitting for a ridiculously long time at the intersection of Route 1 and 138, I say nothing. I do nothing. But sit. And wait. I am quiet. I am still. I stare straight ahead. Blankly. I do not care that I am late. I do not know exactly how late I am, because I have not checked my watch. I do not care how late I am. I do know however, that I am VERY late.

Finally the light turns green and I creep through it. I get on 138 and adhere to the speed limit. For the entire drive I am mildly aware of the trees and the color of the leaves. The part of me that notices this, and wants to appreciate the beauty of it, is screaming, “hey, if we’re late we might as well enjoy the scenery!” “You used to love the trees in fall.” The rest of me does not care. The rest of me is pissed. Pissed that my friend is gone. Pissed that while he was dying, I was partying. Pissed that I spent most of my time being late for things I do not really care about. Pissed that I spend more time doing things that I hate, than I do composing. Pissed that I have not been living. Pissed, ironically, that I cannot enjoy the trees right now.

When the trip down 138 is finally finished and I take the right onto the little back-road, I start becoming more aware of my driving, which is good because it gets me out of my head. There is virtually no traffic on the roads because I am so late, but I still do not speed. When I get to the parking lot, I instinctively go to the entrance closest to the building and go up one of the rows of spots. I usually do this to find the spot closest to the building, as I am sure most of you do. This time, I do not care about finding a close spot and I end up driving past a few empty spaces. When I finally feel like stopping, I pull into the next space that I see. I do not go through my high speed routine in one fluid motion like I normally do. Every move I do is slow and deliberate. I unbuckle my seatbelt. I put the car in park. I roll up the window. I turn off the engine. I take out the key. I pick my bag up off the seat. I open the door. I lock it. I get out. I shut the door. I walk down the row of parked cars, realizing just how far away I am. Usually I am running, so it goes by a lot quicker, but walking seems to take forever.

When I finally get to the FAC and step inside, I see that the hallways are completely empty. Usually when I’m a little late, there are a few people who just got out of class and are hanging out, or finishing a conversation before they leave to go do something else. I am so late that everyone who is not in class, has already gone home or to lunch or to some other class. I make a left and walk toward the tables where people are usually sitting. I take another left and walk down the ramp. I get to the door on my right which, now that I’m not in a hurry, is open. (I do laugh to myself at this bit of irony.) I trudge up the stairs one at a time. When I get to the door, I don’t even bother trying it to see if it is open. I just knock obnoxiously and wait for someone to let me in. When someone finally does, I step through and walk toward the professor, awaiting my lecture.

“Mr. Girard…” He checks his watch. “You know, two weeks ago, you were here ten minutes after the class began.” He checks his watch again. “But now it’s ten minutes before the end of the class. You know, It’s hardly worth coming to class. We’ve got three more weeks of the semester and…”
“Fine,” I cut him off, shrugging my shoulders.
“What?”

I turn around and walk out, slamming the door behind me. As I’m going down the stairs, I undo the velcro strap on my watch. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I rip my watch off of my wrist and throw it in the trash can.