Thursday, March 31, 2005

You.

And so there they sat, the young sitting as they do, silent. They wanted to say something, but didn't. They yearned to touch feel and breath, but couldn't. Instead, they drew their hands aimlessly in the air, causing mass hysteria in the spheres surrounding their palms and littlewhere else. They looked around, demanding for stories, for snippets and trunkets from those brave enough to speak:

"Daaaarius!" "Begin something, Darius, say something!" "J-J-J-Just give it a try, Darius!"

So Darius began to churn, gradually grinding his mechanical parts and obeying their power in multitudes. Laughter was enjoyment, but there was always brief sadness following mirth. This established, Darius began his story, which was the first of the day:


"There I was, lying in bed contemplating getting up, walking around and getting adjusted to the day. After the last snooze button had been hit, I arose. My mind was surprisingly tranquil and I paused for a moment, enjoying the serenity of the day. With this positive energy, I gleefully grabbed my towel and sauntered to the bathroom, where I splashed water on my face and thought about taking a shower (negative).

"Abruptly, my somatic stupor was jostled by a brief beeping of a car horn outside the window. My building faces onto a sidestreet with the ABC PARKING GARAGE, the capitalized title alluding to the cacophony it produced. Every morning, there was a line of cars outside the garage waiting to go in. Depending on the flux of traffic, the line could cause a line-up. Depending on automobile diversity, there could be a large bus with a loud horn. Depending on the tourist barrage that morning, there was a large bus with a loud horn. But, I couldn't allow a little squeak to bother my peaceful state. I had a meditative forcefield--I felt my presence in the larger realm of my being.

"Another blast. This time three short ones in a row. A deep breath, in and out. Regain control...and done. Then, the air was ripped in half by a horn delivery that was so powerful it activated my instinctual reflexes, those embarassing ones that make you karate-chop your grandmother when she drops her plate behind you. But this HORN!! It wouldn't stop, as if the tour bus driver had been knifed by an angry tourist unsatisfied by the first two shots then pushed forward, leaning on the incessant horn with a dagger in his back. The serenity went out the window with my common sense and I sprinted out of the bathroom, determined to shut that fucking bus up. I knew what had to be done.

"I raced down the hall, threw open my door and was momentarily overcome by the intensity of the horn which was amplified by my room's miniscule size. Regaining my will and clutching my head, I swiped up the Spectator, ripped off the front page, grabbed a water bottle and a bowl and prayed that the driver keep those five abnormally hairy and disproportionally pudgy fingers on the horn for a few more seconds. Pumping the water into the bowl, I threw the front page (STUDENTS ANGRY, PERTURBED BY APPEARANCE OF DOLLAR) in all its color glory into the container, forcing it to sponge up as much water. Horn still going, I tossed the bowl aside, fisted the now-malleable paper into a ball and leaned out the window. Intoxicated by my apparent victory, I hurled that mushball with all my might.

"About halfway through it's flight, the driver stopped honking. No matter, I had underestimated the distance and hit a peacefully parked car instead, spraying two pedestrian with ink-tainted, angst-filled water. The adrenaline dissipated and I was left, topless and cold, leaning out my window, with the tour bus slowly inching away, gloating at me to try again. I looked around the face of the building and saw people leaning out two floors up and to my right. They were laughing/gawking at the obviously possessed student who gazed at them with a dazed and goofy smiled, unshowered hair taunt in the wind.

"Something needed to be said. "I..I...I just hate car horns, you know?" My voice was croaking and sounded like a disgruntled old man. My spectators laughed, then withdrew; I looked blankly, then withdrew. In the room, I was surprised at the damage inflicted in those few, crucial seconds: bowl spilled on the floor, ragged newspaper blowing like a lowered flag, and my bedsheets wet from the mushball. I stood up, made my bed, and tried to forget about the whole thing. But I've failed! My friends, I kept this story so I knew I could tell you, alas, what a fickle friend, memory!"

While some giggled, some guffawed, many were saddened by the ending--the allowance of the bus to leave and the heckling of the neighbors. They agreed they enjoyed the story and pushed Darius for more, although he had told his story for the day.

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