to,” Shar noted.
After lunch, I went to my Introduction to Linguistics class and Shar went to Environmental Geology, a science class designed for arts students. Environmental Geology was composed almost entirely of slackers in sweatshirts who would text on their cell phones while the professor, Professor “Charlie” Brown, who Shar was convinced was suicidal, tried to get through his lecture. She texted me ongoing updates about Charlie Brown’s mental state while I sat in a stadium of hundreds of future linguistic students trying to remember the difference between the types of verbs (w a book in the library..ed me hich seemed to be key to understanding language).
Charlie Brown paler than usual.
CB cried thru lecture.
“Is his name really Charlie Brown?” I stupidly inquired after the first round of texts.
“It should be,” Shar sneered. “GOOD GRIEF!”
Shar said there were people who made out at the back of the class and Charlie Brown just stood there behind his lectern and sulked.
By mid-October the idea of “classes” had begun to evaporate like steam from the sewer grates ascending into the rapidly cooling atmosphere. Shar pointed out that most of the lectures were available online or in the textbooks (which we still hadn’t read), so what was the point of going to class?
Besides, there were so many more interesting ways to pass the time. We’d wake up and go for coffee. Then for breakfast. Then we’d watch a movie. Then to the park to smoke and watch other people who didn’t have jobs or school as they walked around looking like idiots. Then sometimes we’d go to fancy office buildings and ask to see the “man in charge.” Or we’d hang around until security asked us what we were doing there.
“Loitering,” Shar would say.
We made time disappear. Or it just melted around us. We’d run out of things to do, then turn a corner and Shar would develop a new course of action.
“You know what we should do, Allison,” she’d say, pulling me into or out of a cab.
“What?”
One day we spent the entire afternoon in a tattoo parlour pretending we were waiting for a friend to come get a tattoo.
“I dare you to talk to the first person who comes in,” Shar whispered.
The first person was a scrawny woman wearing sweatpants with the words BOOTY SHAKE on the back. She had a sad face and long wavy hair that looked like brown seaweed.
As soon as she sat down Shar jabbed me, hard, in the side with her index finger.
“Here for a tattoo?” I asked, my voice cracking a little.
“Yeah,” the woman said, holding up a picture of a horseshoe with a four-leaf clover on each side. “For my boyfriend Chuck.”
“Wow,” I said, “that’s SO WEIRD because we’re here … uh … waiting for OUR friend Chuck.”
Shar nodded. “Chuck’s going to get a memorial tattoo for his sister. What’s he getting again? Do you remember, Allison?”
“He’s getting his sister’s name and … uh.”
“A toilet. Because she was bulimic.”
“With her name engraved on the seat,” I continued, suppressing a smile almost as cleanly as Shar, “or in toilet paper like a runner along the bottom.”
“I didn’t think you could die from that,” Chuck’s girlfriend gasped.
“OH. Yes,” I said.
“People die from it every day,” Shar whispered. into someone’s Bugs Bunny garbage pail.nddd
Outside, sunshine bounced off the plastic store signs. When I looked down, Shar and I were stride for stride as we rushed back to rez. Looking at her feet and mine in synch, I think that for a moment I actually forgot about things, things like the burns on my neck, Anne. Maybe not all of Anne, but most of her.
“I’m getting a memorial tattoo too,” Shar said. “I’m going to get a toilet with your name on it.”
“I’m going to get a picture of you upchucking,” I added.
Shar thought that was pretty funny.
“Wow,” she said, “that’s hysterical, Allison.”
When we were studying in her room
After lunch, I went to my Introduction to Linguistics class and Shar went to Environmental Geology, a science class designed for arts students. Environmental Geology was composed almost entirely of slackers in sweatshirts who would text on their cell phones while the professor, Professor “Charlie” Brown, who Shar was convinced was suicidal, tried to get through his lecture. She texted me ongoing updates about Charlie Brown’s mental state while I sat in a stadium of hundreds of future linguistic students trying to remember the difference between the types of verbs (w a book in the library..ed me hich seemed to be key to understanding language).
Charlie Brown paler than usual.
CB cried thru lecture.
“Is his name really Charlie Brown?” I stupidly inquired after the first round of texts.
“It should be,” Shar sneered. “GOOD GRIEF!”
Shar said there were people who made out at the back of the class and Charlie Brown just stood there behind his lectern and sulked.
By mid-October the idea of “classes” had begun to evaporate like steam from the sewer grates ascending into the rapidly cooling atmosphere. Shar pointed out that most of the lectures were available online or in the textbooks (which we still hadn’t read), so what was the point of going to class?
Besides, there were so many more interesting ways to pass the time. We’d wake up and go for coffee. Then for breakfast. Then we’d watch a movie. Then to the park to smoke and watch other people who didn’t have jobs or school as they walked around looking like idiots. Then sometimes we’d go to fancy office buildings and ask to see the “man in charge.” Or we’d hang around until security asked us what we were doing there.
“Loitering,” Shar would say.
We made time disappear. Or it just melted around us. We’d run out of things to do, then turn a corner and Shar would develop a new course of action.
“You know what we should do, Allison,” she’d say, pulling me into or out of a cab.
“What?”
One day we spent the entire afternoon in a tattoo parlour pretending we were waiting for a friend to come get a tattoo.
“I dare you to talk to the first person who comes in,” Shar whispered.
The first person was a scrawny woman wearing sweatpants with the words BOOTY SHAKE on the back. She had a sad face and long wavy hair that looked like brown seaweed.
As soon as she sat down Shar jabbed me, hard, in the side with her index finger.
“Here for a tattoo?” I asked, my voice cracking a little.
“Yeah,” the woman said, holding up a picture of a horseshoe with a four-leaf clover on each side. “For my boyfriend Chuck.”
“Wow,” I said, “that’s SO WEIRD because we’re here … uh … waiting for OUR friend Chuck.”
Shar nodded. “Chuck’s going to get a memorial tattoo for his sister. What’s he getting again? Do you remember, Allison?”
“He’s getting his sister’s name and … uh.”
“A toilet. Because she was bulimic.”
“With her name engraved on the seat,” I continued, suppressing a smile almost as cleanly as Shar, “or in toilet paper like a runner along the bottom.”
“I didn’t think you could die from that,” Chuck’s girlfriend gasped.
“OH. Yes,” I said.
“People die from it every day,” Shar whispered. into someone’s Bugs Bunny garbage pail.nddd
Outside, sunshine bounced off the plastic store signs. When I looked down, Shar and I were stride for stride as we rushed back to rez. Looking at her feet and mine in synch, I think that for a moment I actually forgot about things, things like the burns on my neck, Anne. Maybe not all of Anne, but most of her.
“I’m getting a memorial tattoo too,” Shar said. “I’m going to get a toilet with your name on it.”
“I’m going to get a picture of you upchucking,” I added.
Shar thought that was pretty funny.
“Wow,” she said, “that’s hysterical, Allison.”
When we were studying in her room
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