I am on Friday mode, which directs me to the Friday room for Modern Short Story, which is different from the Monday and Wednesday room. I find that class is already in session and they are watching a crazy video with puppets fighting to Indian music. I am perplexed until I realize that today is not Friday, that this is not my class, that we are not studying warring tribes of puppetry. I fear tardiness and hoof it to the real room, until I remember that on Wednesdays we don’t have class until 3:00. I should feel somewhat embarassed, but this is the Wednesday before break and no one is here to witness my follies.
Once again campus has become the belly of a ghost ship. Spectres drift through the timbers and a janitor stands guard at the clothing donation box. A bottle of Coke explodes upon the floor outside the photography room. I notice, for the first time, a faculty member that looks like a short and crinkled version of David Bowie. At least the network is fast when no one is here.
I desire an exit from these walls, a freedom of three tenths of a fortnight that will allow me time to finish writing my fifteen page short story and prepare an hour long presentation on Steven Pinker’s studies regarding innate faculties of the brain. Both are due on Tuesday.