December 7, 2005

I give up.

Sorry forearms. You'll be working overtime this week.

I have this awkward period of time before my class witth Footsie Boy on Tuesdays. There's like, an hour and 10 minutes inbetween classes. Take into account fifteen minutes walking back from class and a ten minute walk to my next class, if I go home for lunch I really only have fortyfive minutes, which is still kind of awkward amount of time, even when taking lunch into account.

Today I decided to grab a quick lunch at the Union and spend that lunch period in the library, getting some reading done. As I was walking up the stairs, I hear this loud bounding, someone leaping up multiple stairs in one step. I look down the spiral staircase, and its Footsie Boy. He recognizes me before I recognize him.

"Oh, hey"
"I don't know if I'll be in class, but I'll see you around"

And with that, he opened the door and whooshed through. He was in a hurry, but I don't know for what. I didn't have a chance to say "See ya" or "ok" or whatever I would have said in that situation. I took a note of which floor he went in, and continued on my way.

After about five minutes of pretending to study, I got really bored. For some reason, I decided to go search out Footsie Boy. I found him in one of the cages, the one right next to the sketchy bathrooms.

(A geographic note: Lining the walls of the stacks are desks with wire doors. Grad students are given keys to be able to keep their stuff there while doing their studies (though there are always some extra), and they're notorious, especially on the upper upper floors, for public sex. Once you hang your coat on the door, you're pretty much golden. Also, every floor has a single person bathroom in the back corner. One some floors the doors have locks, which makes them popular with for craigslist encounters.)

While walking, I saw him, and saw that his door was left open and he was studying. I wasn't sure if he saw me or not, but I just kept on walking and went to the bathroom, where I checked my hair and tried desperately to put myself in a mental position to put myself in a physical position, should he follow me in the room.

He didn't. And as I stood there in that small, somewhat decrepit bathroom, I wondered what the hell I was doing. I walked out, quickly, and went to class, arriving in the room about 15 minutes early.

I watched the door, half working on the crossword in the school newspaper. Ten minutes pass by, and he's not here yet. Five more minutes, and class is starting, and he's not there. Five minutes into class, some fat guy plomps up the stairs and sits in the spot I'm saving for Footsie Boy, just in case. I say "Seat's taken" to which he replies "Class has started" and moves my stuff out of the way anyway.

UUUrrrgghh. He's chubby, with a really round boyish face, which he offsets by growing a long goatee, big grey-red bush growing off his chin like a chia pet. His body odor makes me sad.

But what makes me even sadder is seeing Footsie Boy entering, just as fat guy is sitting down. Fuck Fuck Fuck.

I don't catch eye contact, but he sits in the open spot directly in front of me. I stick my foot out slightly, and he puts his backpack down on top of it. He whispers "sorry," turning his head slightly, but I'm not sure he realizes it's me. He gets out his stuff and sits forward, taking notes on the postmodernism of 90s television.

This picture has nothing to do with anything.

I stick my foot out, and try lightly kicking his chair, sliding my shoe into the crack in the chair's back. I can't get enough of my adidas all-stars in there, so I can't tell if he can feel my advances or not. He occasionally holds his head upright with his arm, and I think he glances in my direction, but I can't tell.

Only ten minutes left in the class, and we get our first viewing. Lights out. Moment of truth. He leans back in his chair, getting closer, yet still an awkward distance.

The back of his head isn't very attractive. His ears seem to stick out more from a backward angle. I stick my hand out, lazily off the front of the desk, trying to play suave. I lightly trace my fingers on the back of his neck, feeling the awkward hairs that trace down the sides of his neck that signify that he needs a trim.

I trace my hands, twinkle my fingertips. No real response, either positive or negative. I keep going, grazing my fingers along the edge of his sweatshirt, up to his jawline. I can't reach past his ear, and he's not budging to make it easier for me.

Clip ends. Lights up. My hand retreats. He slides back up to the table to continue taking notes.

Class is dismissed a few minutes early. We pack up our stuff, and walk down the steps and out the door, silent after our first "heys." He looks jaded today, face harsher, like a French existentialist, and not in a good way.

To top it off the French philophy movement comparison, he lights a cigarette as we exit the building. More awkward small talk, "How was your weekend" and "Have you started the paper yet?" with responses that don't really amount to anything.

We get to the corner and go our separate ways. I shout a "See ya" but he's already walking, the smoke from his cigarette magnified by the cold weather.

I'm done.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.