Fall 1999 The Anthologist
The F
A Rutgers Tale
Brooke Morrill
I ran frantically down the stairs. Well, more like some unmeasured mix of running, jumping and falling. The stairs themselves seemed just as panicked as I did. For some reason, once my feet hit the stairs urgency kicks in. I just spent the last 45 minutes dillydallying around the apartment, allegedly preparing to go to class. It should not take 5 minutes to pick out a CD just to have music to get dressed to. Dylan? No. Beatles? Uhnt uh. What about the Indigo Girls? No way, Man-to get dressed properly, you need something that rocks. Big noise! Loud guitars! Fast beatin' drums. Hmmm. Finally, resigned, I gave up and settled for Leonard Cohen. And God knows I spent way too long in the bathroom, but I just had to find out what happened to that character in David Sedaris' book who was hitchhiking with his quadriplegic girlfriend all the way to California.
But now! Now I was on the stairs! Big damn rush now! I might miss the bus. I resent having to lock the door behind me, because it costs me precious split seconds! Like if I came down to see the tail end of the Rutgers bus, mooning me with its red and white letter F, as though to say "F - you!," it would be the fault of that damn door and its burning desire to be locked.
I made it to the bus stop just in time. Just in time to sit down and speculate on just where, on the magical bus schedule, the particular temporal moment that I now occupied fell. Had a bus just come by? Did it only just now pass out of the field of view? There were an uncertain number of people standing around -just enough to really confuse the issue. The people standing in the "also waiting" wing of my egocentric little opera could be either here for the next Rutgers bus, (presumably with schedule knowledge far superior to my own), or they could be the occupants of that other, socially invisible dimension: those waiting for New Jersey Transit to come along and scoop them up. For some reason, people who routinely ride the New Jersey Transit were of another world. The walls of confusion and animosity stretched between us like elevator tension. They stood waiting for their purple, orange and white chariots that were going to take them to their places of employment, which I always assumed was a Division of Motor Vehicles office somewhere n Jersey City. I always got the sense that they were looking on me, a student, with an attitude of pure resentment. Look, a student. Probably here on a namby - pamby government scholarship. Having an easy life he is, they would think. The biggest struggles he's got to face is where he's gonna score some pot and hoping that rubber didn't break last night. I could easily see them getting their paychecks in some DMV break room, sitting down to a gold speckled table covered with a solid inch of ash. They open their checks and count the taxes taken out. FICA, SUI/DUI, Social Security, and then a little picture of my smiling face next to an astronomical number right there under Deductions.
For my part, I just saw the Transit-ites (as I came to regard them) as being . . . well, just plain weird.
I found it exponentially more pertinent to concentrate on the more pressing questions tugging at my soul. "When the hell is the next bus coming by?" was a favorite, for example. I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes to get to class. Plenty of time, really, but it was still not good enough. I was not happy in the morning unless I felt that balls-to-the-walls urgency of running late to a scheduled kidney stone operation. I looked at my watch again. Only nineteen minutes left! Where the hell was that damn bus!
But wait! Just then, on the horizon. A bus! Alright! I stood and gathered up my already securely gathered belongings. I stood humbly with the facial expression of a monastic missionary. Sure, I knew the bus sucked. But I lived my humble life with patience and a positive attitude. Never balking at such adversity as having to take public transportation. Public transportation is a blessing. At that moment, I believed that those like me who rode the public bus with a smile, never mentioning the humiliation and overall inconvenience of it, were on the ultra short list for Heaven. Today, the bus was a hair-shirt that I was happy to wear. Of course it was, things were going right for me as I piously awaited the bus.
A transit bus! I hope those bastards get cancer drinking their Division of Motor Vehicles, nutra-sweet laden coffee. I looked at my watch. Dammit! Seventeen minutes till class.
Right behind the transit bus, however, was the F. The F. My F. Good old reliable F. Of all the letters of the alphabet, F is the only one that carries such a profoundly profane and distinct meaning when used all by itself. Well, with the possible exception of the letter P.
I looked at my watch, that most trustworthy of friends. Sixteen minutes. Was I going to make it? Who could tell? One thing was for sure, I was running late. So far behind the eight ball that surely I would be given the opportunity of riding a less than dangerously overcrowded bus. The answer to that question came when I heard the hydraulic door of the F hiss open. I could swear I heard its pneumatic voice whisper to me, venomously, "F- YOU!"
The fact that there was no less than a solid basketball team worth of people, complete with the starters and bench riders, coaches and assistant coaches, even the team captain's girlfriend-slash-manager, all standing on the three steps between myself and the driver, told me it was crowded. Not too bad, though. Experience had led me to believe that as long as you were standing on your feet, your own feet that is, and you could at least see the face of the person whose armpit you were now tucked into, it was going to be a not-so-bad ride. I pulled my arm out of what I hoped was the NAVEL of the person occupying the same exact point in space that I was, (Einstein be damned) and looked at my watch. Fourteen minutes! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I might just make it! If only by the skin of my teeth. This was going to be a close one. In my mind, I could hear that Phil Rizzuto guy giving the play by play, the tension building in his voice as I and the F metaphorically rounded first on the way to the home run known as 'making it to class on time.' Having no actual experience listening to Phil Rizzuto call any real baseball games, my mind's ear kept waiting to hear Carla Devito interrupt good old Phil, shouting at the top of her voice, "STOP RIGHT THERE!" Just then the bus stopped. I thought about the theological implications of my life being an analogy for a worn out old Meat Loaf song, or vice versa. An old woman with a cane and a bag of generic groceries, which I am pretty sure were Ramen noodles, ambled towards the bus. I considered just what sort of life could she have led that would force her hand into buying generic Ramen noodles at 27 cents a pop, as opposed to spoiling herself with the 29 cent premium brand.
Come on, Grandma! Let's MOOVVVEE! My mind shouted silently to itself. At this point, I couldn't be sure if I was hearing Carla Devito, Phil Rizzuto, or my own voice. I decided to blame such an insensitive remark on any one of the other three. I just knew it couldn't have been me.
After she managed to get herself securely on the terra-not-so-firma of the bus floor, one of the more geriatrically sympathetic seat holders offered to let the poor woman sit. Again the voice of Meat Loaf, and decidedly not myself, mentally pointed out that I could be strapped with a portable iron lung, carrying both my legs, a couple of orphans and a whole slew of government grade Ramen noodles and NO ONE would even think to let me have a seat.
Eventually, Ma Kettle, after having climbed through the digestive systems and bookbags of several passengers, landed on the coveted seat. Certain that the process took no less than five lunar cycles to complete, I looked at my watch. Thirteen minutes left. My nervous fingers drummed on what I thought was my own knee, but turned out to be the solar plexus of a grad student. I still maintained that as long as class did not begin so much as one minute early, I was going to be on time. God willing, I was gonna make it.
The Meat Loaf in my mind was already onto "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad" when the bus arrived at the stop immediately prior to mine. It came to rest behind another bus. The G. Damn G. What was it doing here? Can't they see this spot is clearly marked F? The happy-go-lucky G travelers meandered off their pleasure bus, taking their sweet time, presumably making remarks like "G! What a wonderful bus ride," as the damned souls on the F patiently waited in the parked bus with closed doors.
The G eventually eased out of the gate. The good old F moved up approximately three and one half inches to the space where the driver is ALLOWED to open the door. Again, the pneumatic door hissed open. "F- Off!"
Each rider, convinced that they were the number one most deserving person to get off first, created what could only be described as the human anatomical equivalent of last years Christmas lights. The bottleneck that formed at each of the two seven inch wide doors was staggering. It reminded me of the hourglass that came with the game Boggle. I always wondered how it could just stop with a full 45 seconds worth of sand still in the top. Now, I understood. Each grain of sand must've really had some pressing engagement in the bottom half.
As the bottleneck eased up, people began to funnel out, emerging in the same way as a person who has been underwater too long breaks the surface with a gasp.
Meat Loaf went on pause in my mind, replaced (if only temporarily) with the voice of some Air Force squadron leader commanding his troops to parachute into enemy territory. My brain became a tight lipped Sergeant standing at the open hatch of a B - 1 bomber shouting hysterically and rhythmically to his frightened paratroopers, "GO - GO - GO - GO!"
I looked at my watch again. Six minutes. Oh, this was getting tight. Only six minutes. God, I hoped the Professor didn't decide to start early. I knew that at this point, being just six minutes before the start of class, most of the students were already seated, and nearly all of the rest were just standing outside the door sucking down the stubbed ends of their cigarettes.
After everyone who had planned to get off at this particular stop had disembarked, I saw them hustling off to their respective classes. I sat in a seat, a real seat, and watched them from the bus window with all the enthusiasm of the "Bon Voyage" scene from the beginning of each episode of the Love Boat.
I looked to my watch. Five minutes.
Not having yet closed the doors, the driver was noticeably scribbling something on a clipboard. I was certain this was the crossword from this morning's Targum, the University's daily newspaper. I could almost hear him mumbling. What is a five-letter word for 'hesitate?' Hmmmm. It starts with "D," ends in "Y," and has an "L" in the middle. I breathed in an audible sigh of indignation, in lieu of actually shouting, "DELAY motherfucker!" Almost certainly, he would have no idea what I was talking about.
Finally, he placed the clipboard back where it came from, taking the time to truly be sure that it was secure and perhaps even comfortable in its perch. He closed the door and released the brake nearly simultaneously so as to cause the bus to say "F-in jerk." Oh, you can bet I took that one personally.
My watch, who I had truly gotten to know on a very intimate level, told me (in what my imagination had evolved for it, a British accent) that there was "only four minutes left, squire!" Terror and relief swelled in me at once. I was going to make it, but I had to play my cards right. With some clever strategy, I was going to be on time. I could picture Professor lecturing me on the dire need for punctuality. I also could picture him, quietly sitting at a Victorian era desk in the Study of his suburban home (all professors have a Study with fine oak cabinets containing countless volumes of leather bound books and a rolling ladder to reach the top shelves.
I had seen My Fair Lady. I knew the deal. Every professor has a little bit of Rex Harrison in them)! I could see my professor, in that Study late one night, considering the final (pronounced with the solemn tone of the word fatal) grade. Well, his work is excellent and he deserves an A. But, just to be certain, let me just check the trusty attendance roster. Hmmmm. A "T!?" Why would I have written a "T?" None of the other students have "T's" next to their names. Hmmm. He sucks on an intricately carved ivory pipe. I'm not sure what "T" even means. Let me check the legend. T . . . T . . . He runs his manicured fingers across the page. T . . . tardy? Tardy? Why? Why, this is Rutgers, damn it! Where the hell does he think he is? Community College? Well, no A for him! He'll just have to be happy with his F.
The F finally approached the stop. My stop. This was it. I had less than three minutes to make it. If I summoned every ounce of Jesse Owens in me, I could make it. I was going to make it. On time.
The F came to rest in front of the white wooden hut. I always enjoyed these huts because not only did they very nearly almost keep you dry in the rain, they also provide endless hours of entertaining reading. For example, if you are ever curious about what band played in what bar three months ago, this is the place to find out. The poster board is abuzz with two semester old nightlife. Furthermore, it is difficult to imagine living in a world without that Icon of Icons: the Spring Break Advertisement. Not only could such a poster demonstrate the depths to which the field of modern photography can sink, but they also show you exactly what Frat Boys look like in Cancun, after what is advertised as 2,156 solid hours of free drinks. A tough offer to pass up, I'll admit. But in trying to decipher if the red eyes of these wretched goobers sitting at a thatched roof bar were the result of poor photography or poorly made margaritas, I came to the conclusion that it just wasn't for me.
I looked at my watch. Two minutes. I looked out the window. 150 yards to class. Phil was back and in full voice.
The F, after stopping and jerking forward two inches about 156 times, eventually landed on the spot - the spot that driver deemed with Goldilocks like judgement to be "just right." The door, now presumably tired from having expended the energy to open at the last stop, opened ever so slowly, the familiar pneumatic "F" sound coming out, this time, like a "PH."
My feet found the pavement with the stability of a cross-country traveler at a highway rest area after having been cooped in a Toyota Tercel for seven hours. Bleary eyed, I faced my destination. Loree Hall. Less than 150 yards away. 150 yards of red mud stained sidewalk. True, it had not rained in over two weeks, but none the less there was at least four inches of thick, sticky red mud surrounding each and every entrance to the building. I was certain that even on the earliest relief models of Loree Hall, the architects and planners must've included bits of mud. I'm sure that at some ceremony to unveil the plans for the building to some upper echelon Rutgers faculty, the mud was at least mentioned. Enthusiastically.
I began my trek. Unsure of exactly which gait looked cool, I tried several. I tried a trot. I didn't like it, I suspected that it couldn't possibly look cool. So I upgraded. I went to full jog mode. It was then that I discovered that I, in fact, have breasts. I was, to say the very least, overwhelmingly surprised and disappointed. I immediately withdrew to a brisk walk. It will just have to do, I reasoned.
Funny thing about the walk between the bus stop and Loree Hall - geographically, I mean. Lying in direct view between point A and Point B, there is a very beautiful point C. Namely, Passion Puddle. A cleverly crafted manmade pond with beautiful sweeping willow trees gently reflected against the shimmering water. Artistically chosen foliage graced the smartly landscaped shoreline. Ducks and geese swam gracefully, politely requesting snacks from casual passerby.
Curious name, however: Passion Puddle. I understood the intent. Where lovers meet. Rutgers version of Inspiration Point. The local make-out place. So I am completely comfortable with the "Passion" part. Were it separate, I would have no trouble with the "Puddle" part either. It certainly is not large enough to call a lake or a bay. But surely, someone must have had enough insight to notice that "passion" and "puddle" probably do not belong next to each other. I noticed it right away and I'm not even an entomologist or card- carrying pervert. It should have been "pond." Yes, pond. Pond means something very distinct. Freshwater basin - relatively small. No ambiguity here. "Puddle" could be ANY tiny body of ANY liquid. "Puddle" also seems to imply a byproduct of some sort. Something left as evidence. A puddle left over from the rain. A puddle left over from a spill.
I hustled towards class. I looked down at my watch. One minute. Just one minute and less than 75 yards. I was going to make it.
I glanced out at the beautiful waterfowl gracefully swimming across the reflection of a willow tree, mirrored in the gentle water that always makes me think of certain body fluids associated with "passion."
I swear that I could hear Professor lecturing some poor soul on the virtues of punctuality as I sat down on the bench near the water. I opened my world- weary backpack, and withdrew a day old bagel, which I divided into two halves. The half I would eat and the half I was going to share with the ducks and, unless I could avoid it, their larger biological cousins, the geese. I prefer ducks.
Sometimes, I thought, you've got to slow down and look around a bit. The last twenty minutes of my life had been a stressful assault on the gentility of the human soul. It had been a hurried montage of Meat Loaf, Ramen noodles, and other olfactory offenses, key letter of the alphabet and the limits of human patience - all held together by the ticking beat of incessantly passing time.
As I sat on the bench, I considered how lucky the ducks were. They had all the time in their lives to observe nature in peace. They had no F bus and schedules to keep. They moved along at their own leisurely pace, not knowing words like competition or hurry. We consider ourselves more evolved that the animals - more advanced. We rush along in our cars and F buses to keep down a frantic rhythm of schedules and appointments, struggling to meet the approval of bosses and professors. We live our lives in constant competition with each other. My performance evaluation was better than his. I got a better grade than she did. Our fast paced modern living stands in stark contrast to the gentle lives of these graceful birds as they glide across the lake without a care in the world. And I, for one, envy their serenity.
That is, until I tossed that first piece of bagel into the water, and watched in horror as ducks, geese and seagulls flapped, kicked and bit the dickens out of each other on their way to snatch it up.
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