(no subject)
I've felt out of place lately. I don't like that expression very much, "out of place." It implies that you know where you're supposed to be.
Well, that morning I did know where I was supposed to be, in a sense. I was supposed to be in Coach Buddy Clark's fifth-period Economics class, but somewhere between my morning cigarette and the thought of how far away the classroom was I'd decided I didn't want to go. I'd run into Mr. Johnson -- John Johnson, what a name! -- and convinced him that I didn't actually have a class fifth period. After buying my bold-faced lie, he let me use one of his computers. I sat in front of the monitor, Eric Clapton's Cocaine blasting through my headphone buds, and thought about things.
I rattled around the thought of being out of place. I knew where I wanted to be. Home. But then, maybe not. Sometimes even when I'm at home I have the feeling of wanting to go home. Maybe home isn't for me. Maybe my house isn't my home.
I'd like to be seated in a comfortable leather chair in a small, warm room with oriental rugs hanging on the walls. I'd like to be sipping hot cocoa, puffing on a vanilla Black and Mild, and admiring a collection of the girls' who've broken my heart's skulls arranged neatly and alphabetically on a shelf. I guess I was just imagining the circumstances that would satisfy the feeling of dull, cold longing that was pulsating in my gut.
I don't know why I had the feeling. I thought about that for a while and remembered that I didn't get a lot of sleep the previous night. Maybe that's it, I thought. That explanation would have to do.
"I'm leaving," Mr. Johnson said, standing up from his own computer and pulling on his gray sport coat. "Lock up when you're done, if you would." I waved him on and smiled.
A few hours later I walked into my newspaper class. Ms. Cardoza was buzzing around the room like a caffeinated bumblebee as she looked at us and took roll down on a clipboard. Her face carried her usual expression of stress and annoyance. She passed me without saying hello, and I looked at her picture on her I.D. badge. In it, she was smiling cheerfully. I'd never seen her smile like that in real life. Just in the picture.
"Where were you fifth?" Stephen asked. I shrugged and asked, "What did I miss?"
"Nothing," he said. "He just told us to start reviewing for the test. The class didn't even really start until fifteen minutes until the bell."
I grinned. "That's great. Well, as for fifth, this morning I really just didn't feel like going to Economics."
Choices. You've got more than you think.
"Nobody did," Stephen said, smiling.
They showed up, though. Suckers, I thought, suppressing the pang of guilt I felt about skipping a class.
Well, that morning I did know where I was supposed to be, in a sense. I was supposed to be in Coach Buddy Clark's fifth-period Economics class, but somewhere between my morning cigarette and the thought of how far away the classroom was I'd decided I didn't want to go. I'd run into Mr. Johnson -- John Johnson, what a name! -- and convinced him that I didn't actually have a class fifth period. After buying my bold-faced lie, he let me use one of his computers. I sat in front of the monitor, Eric Clapton's Cocaine blasting through my headphone buds, and thought about things.
I rattled around the thought of being out of place. I knew where I wanted to be. Home. But then, maybe not. Sometimes even when I'm at home I have the feeling of wanting to go home. Maybe home isn't for me. Maybe my house isn't my home.
I'd like to be seated in a comfortable leather chair in a small, warm room with oriental rugs hanging on the walls. I'd like to be sipping hot cocoa, puffing on a vanilla Black and Mild, and admiring a collection of the girls' who've broken my heart's skulls arranged neatly and alphabetically on a shelf. I guess I was just imagining the circumstances that would satisfy the feeling of dull, cold longing that was pulsating in my gut.
I don't know why I had the feeling. I thought about that for a while and remembered that I didn't get a lot of sleep the previous night. Maybe that's it, I thought. That explanation would have to do.
"I'm leaving," Mr. Johnson said, standing up from his own computer and pulling on his gray sport coat. "Lock up when you're done, if you would." I waved him on and smiled.
A few hours later I walked into my newspaper class. Ms. Cardoza was buzzing around the room like a caffeinated bumblebee as she looked at us and took roll down on a clipboard. Her face carried her usual expression of stress and annoyance. She passed me without saying hello, and I looked at her picture on her I.D. badge. In it, she was smiling cheerfully. I'd never seen her smile like that in real life. Just in the picture.
"Where were you fifth?" Stephen asked. I shrugged and asked, "What did I miss?"
"Nothing," he said. "He just told us to start reviewing for the test. The class didn't even really start until fifteen minutes until the bell."
I grinned. "That's great. Well, as for fifth, this morning I really just didn't feel like going to Economics."
Choices. You've got more than you think.
"Nobody did," Stephen said, smiling.
They showed up, though. Suckers, I thought, suppressing the pang of guilt I felt about skipping a class.