School wasn’t cancelled but no one seemed to be in the classrooms. On
the walls, in the outdoor corridors, white, angular letters spelled out
messages. It didn’t seem to be hate speech, or threats, or political; no one was
enraged, nor bemused. The language looked maybe like Finnish, lots of i’s and f’s
and doubled letters. They were already starting to sandblast or rub it off. Why
only the fresh white graffiti? The old greasy slogans and profanity plus the oil
of a thousand hands running every day along its now smooth surface gave the
wall a venerable patina. Where the fresh white words had been removed, something
else had gone too; now there existed transparent blotches, revealing the
crumbled brick backfill of the wall as though preserved in resin, or like a clever display in the mining and geology section of a children’s museum.
Students had gathered on the sort of second-story courtyard,
and they were talking, yelling, excited by the distraction. Their black
polyester robes flowed about, and their contrasting faces looked grimacey and
masklike in the light of the cloudy sky.
But then we were at the party. Rachel or Jessica or Meghan
was having a birthday party. An old roommate? We were sitting in some sort of
bizarre anteroom, the party could be heard, bounces of colored light too, via
the hallway at the left. Again the walls were dirty, greasy, well used. Some of
graffiti fluoresced. The light was putrid and turbid, suggesting metal
staircases and loading docks and broken fire-extinguisher boxes, and boxes of
ammunition towards the corner like in a N64 shooter. People passed by, ones and
twos, cups in hand, hand in hand, cups in mouth, mouth in mouth. My companion
greeted them when it seemed to suit his fancy, or the haze of his stupor
temporarily diminished. He too was slumped in a second dark green (or was it
grey) vinyl-covered fauteuil pushed up against the wall. The birthday girl
stumbled past, disappearing past a corner, and then was back. The shuttle will
be here soooon, she reassured the room, partly for the benefit of the two of us
in it. She called out a friend’s name, waved a hand/sloshed a solo cup, and was
again gone. Another girl sauntered in and noticed us, maybe. Her dress was one of those colors which
probably looked better on her computer screen than it did now, vraiment. She
seemed to recognize my neighbor but then fixed on me. Did she speak? Did it
matter? Was my neighbor telling me of her tendency, warning me with a lifted
eyebrow and an “if you like…” shrug, or was that just my own souvenir? She approached
me, straddled my jutting knees. Her solo cup was partners with a cigarette,
each listing dangerously. The hem of her garment, her shoulders, my knees, the
edge of the fauteuil were all in the same plane. Her eyes gleamed dangerously and
then fogged, the sequins scintillated. “Shuttle’s here!” someone whooped.
We got out of the shuttle onto what looked like a vertical
hillside. Tufts of grass green and yellow and drying dirt under our feet evoked
an old outfield. I've been here before. In my mind flashed a ski-area-style
map; liftlines here, blues and greens, cartoon trees and peaks and permanently
closed areas and access roads. You are here.
The activity was straightforward: you just slide down the
hill. Can’t be sure if you need some sort rice-sack-cum-toboggan, or if just
spreading your feet apart and balancing is sufficient. Look, down there is the
end of the slope, it seems to flatten out. Are those people picnicking? Slide
don’t fall. The lift can take you back to the top for a repetition, like at
those tubing places. The attendant was checking passes or something, as people
came to the entrance before sliding down. How many runs did the birthday party
get? I’d already done several, I think. He looked at my pass. A problem: an ID
number appeared to be missing. No worry, he can look it up in a ledger, or call
someone, and get me my proper number. He is looking for his cell phone. I am
getting embarrassed; won’t the people behind me be getting perturbed at the
delay? Isn't there a better way to do this? There must be a better way to do this. I’m holding up the whole line. The attendant cares none; he continues
searching with a bureaucrat’s disposition. I wait.
No comments:
Post a Comment