Ah, silence. The tutoring center at ACC is undergoing renovation, and the course subjects have been divided into two rooms until completion: English and math. In my room, all is without disruption. The soft air conditioning, once a static peripheral, made aware only by frozen fingertips and tightly folded arms, now rages in the quiet like a never ending exhalation. The office phone shatters my silence, and I answer it, speak, and hang up again. I try to write more but the sound has splintered my concentration, and I hear its alarm echo in my mind, long after the air conditioning has reclaimed the stillness. I should be reading, and two books sit before me: Cormac McCarthy's masterpiece Blood Meridian Or the Evening Redness in the West and Pass Key to the LSAT. But I don't want to.
It's the beginning of the second half of summer, and the clock ticks closer and closer to my having to visit and speak to classrooms full of students about the tutoring center. I hate it. Public speaking, that is. Every semester, I visit 1, 2, 3, 4...10 classes, tremble for about two minutes and scurry out in flutter of papers. I don't want to be there; the students don't give two shits for my being there; and, the professor jealously regards me as an interrupting student-stealer, which I am. On the plus side, I enjoy the upward, cow-eyed stare of so many freshmen beauties and hope that I'll have the pleasure of sitting side-by-side with each of them, overwhelmed by their perfume, overwhelmed by their young bodies.
Pig! you may cry out. But, I am what I am, a man, I am. Am I? I am. I am just a man, a synonym for pig, so I guess you'd be right. I make no apologies.
It's still quiet in my half of the now divided center. A math tutor enters, and I perk with the opportunity for human interaction. She puts both hands over a chair and wheels it out of my room. Students have bottlenecked into the math side of the center's collective brain, and there aren't any more places to sit. The door opens from down the hall, and a momentary bubble of chaotic conversation swells and dies with its closing. I sigh like an uninvited geek and breathe hotly on my freezing fingertips. The inhospitable cold reminds me that flesh tingles and stiffens, and now would be a grand time to tutor a scantily clad Barbie. Pig! But they must know I'm here, and for that, I must insert myself at the front of their classes and look like a big pussy first.
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