The first thing I do after getting dressed is go tell my mom that I’m ready to greet the world -not in so many words, mind you, but with roughly the same sentiment. Walking through the front doors brings everything rushing back. School has a smell that puts me in the same mindset I have had for the previous four years in this building.
“School sucks.” I mutter to myself.
Not that I’m always so grumpy about it, but having only three hours of sleep will do that to a person. Normally it’s more of a cheerful statement of fact. School is not as fun as the other ways my time here could be spent, but I can accept that things are not going to change, so I may as well make the most of it. Besides, the first day is mostly formality anyway. Get a lock, get a locker, say hello to everyone you know, and sit through the exact same speech about class rules in all my classes.
I got my schedule yesterday. My first class is Spanish II. I not being a big fan of the first Spanish, don’t have high hopes for it’s sequel. It’s apparently taught by a Mrs. Kocher. She has a funny little frown that she makes after every little rule. I giggle every time she does it. Luckily I’m in the back, so my amusement goes unnoticed. I’m writing to myself about how my first day is going. Not this paper, which was written after all of this happened, but a different one in my notebook. Here’s an excerpt. “8:50 A.M. Not too early to start slacking. Mr. Duenwald looks like Woody Allen. He’s always concerned about something. There’s a picture of Einstein on the wall. He looks as bored as I do.”
Looking back, I realize that my grammar wasn’t all that good, and had I been less asleep, I would have worded that whole quasi-paragraph differently. Then again, time bends for no one. The rest of the day after Pre-Calc flew by. I cannot remember more than a few sentences from the five or six hours that followed. My teachers gave me sheets that outline everything they said anyway. Memory is no big loss. If I hadn’t written down the events of the first two hours, I might have forgotten that too. I remember the things that were different though. He seems nicer. She seems meaner. He bleached his hair. She got incredibly attractive. They’ve changed. I’ve changed. Maybe the changes I see in them are really reflections of changes in me. My mind drifts to metaphysics. Am I real? Of course. Are others real? That’s a bit tougher. All I know about the world was told to me by my senses. Could I be imagining all of this? Ockham’s Razor tells me that all of that is poppycock, and all things being equal, the simplest answer is the correct one. Hooray for William.
Everything after school I remember. The reason for this is because of it’s difference from everything else. It’s a new experience. I like new experiences. I go to work and punch in. I am a telemarketer. I try to sell people on refinancing their mortgages or getting a home equity loan. People always ask me with a look of disbelief how many people actually bite. “About one per hour.” I reply. The problem I have with work is the same problem I have with school. I could be doing something much more fun. Writing a two page essay, for instance.
I know two people at work other than my bosses. One of them is Alex. I have known him for about half my life. He’s the quiet type, but not what most people would call shy. Once, in fourth grade, he told me he wanted to be a hermit. He gets closer to his goal with every passing day. He just doesn’t like most people, I guess.
The other person is Sasha. I’ve known her for a month and a half, when I first started work. She sits in the cubicle next to me. She’s about 22, has her nose and tongue pierced, and has several tattoos. A liberal, to say the least. Unlike myself, she lives in the real world, with rent, bills, and a need for money. She told me that at each of her previous jobs she stayed long enough to get a couple of paychecks so she could buy mushrooms or dope. Old habits die hard.
On another note, I quit that day. I told my boss that I didn’t like the struggle with the “customers” and that it wasn’t something I wanted to do during the school year. After punching out and giving Sasha my phone number, I left the cold, sterile environment that people call an office, and walked home through the swaying of the trees with the summer sun beating on my back.
-this essay was based on a true story, but as my writing will never stay true to actual events, I can term this nothing but a work of fiction.