I had to go to class. No escaping it this time; no snooze alarms, no lies concerning my health and well-being, just me and the one credit I needed to graduate – mano a mano upon the battleground of my Degree Audit. I stood resolutely armed with an arsenal of green checkmarks; it stared back with a regrettably strict attendance policy: One absence, you’re on thin ice. Two and you’re out.
I know. I’ve contacted Geneva, but they don’t share the simple human empathy beloved within you and I.
I had to go to class.
I clenched my jaw and sidled into the car, looking at the sun as I did so. “Who schedules classes this late? Who in their right mind would – but no,” I told myself, “One last class and you’re through. Just accept it. Just get to class. Just get. To. Class.”
Repeating this inner mantra, I turned the key in the ignition and backed out of my parking spot. Already, in the distance, I could hear the excitable din of crowds eager to party; lucky souls with nothing on Friday (tomorrow) whose weekend had already begun. Concentrating on my goals, however, I checked my envy and pulled onto High Street.
10 minutes later, I had successfully travelled a mile (using 4 miles’ worth of fuel), stopping at every possible red-light and once waiting 2 minutes for a series of cars to merge out of the curb-lane just behind a parked delivery-van and stopping while pedestrians crossed while another lane was trying to turn and you get the idea. This was all expected. I had left early in preparation.
Finally, my turn onto Campus arrived. I let out a long sigh.
“I’m glad that’s over.” I murmured to myself like a weary Cop nearing retirement in every 80’s movie ever produced.
Just before I turned onto campus, I looked out my window and saw a distressing, though not unfamiliar sight: a man, bible clutched overhead, his plaid short-sleeve button-up stuffed haphazardly into his khaki pants while he pontificated into a microphone about the wrath of God. He haunts me to this day. We’ve all seen this man, or some indistinguishable variation on his person, more times than I’d care to count. However, today was different:
To my surprise, while I was waiting for my green arrow, he suddenly looked straight out at me, his face relaxing into a somber certainty as if he’d been touched by a revelation. I could hear his voice, calm and foreboding, though muffled through my driver-side window, speaking directly to me.
“Turn back, ye lost soul. Turn back, for you will find naught but fear ahead. Fear and pain…”
The light turned from red to green and I broke eye-contact with the strange preacher. I nudged the gas and glanced back, only to see he had continued his unwelcome sermon, passersby seemingly unfazed by the out-of-character aside. Putting it out of my mind, I crossed the threshold into campus.
A happy minute or so later, I had to stop for a pedestrian late for class, who smiled and waved her apology for jay-walking before half-jogging the rest of her way across the lane.
I smiled, nodded my head in return, and began to accelerate but suddenly had to hit the brakes as a runner jumped off the curb in front of me, looking around to check for cars in seemingly every direction but my own.
After letting the runner pass, I waited several seconds, craning my neck around to make sure no one else was attempting to cross. Class was still in session, so the street was relatively deserted.
I looked ahead. Stillness. Silence. A single leaf, fallen prematurely from a nearby oak, scraped lazily across the pavement. Ever so cautiously, I began to edge forward.
From behind a tree, a young man in a very large hurry dove into the crosswalk. I slammed on the brakes so I wouldn’t hit him. I immediately waved and mouthed “sorry!” to the young man, who was now stopped in the middle of the street, gazing through the windshield with a look of contempt surely reserved for those rare imbeciles whose very existence constituted an affront, nay an INSULT to his person.
Slowly, as if contemplating whether or not he should jot down my license plate number and have this terror off the streets for good, he began to turn away and finish his walk across the road, which had, but a moment ago, been so rushed he was willing to throw himself in front of a moving vehicle.
Now, this next bit is my fault, and I’ll own that. As he turned away, I was struck with the strange and inadvisable opinion that I had done nothing wrong, which is, of course, a stupid thing to think under any circumstance. Nevertheless, my ire was raised and, just as it seemed he would be continuing on his way, I gently pressed down the horn, urging him to hurry.
Immediately, like an enraged gorilla, the boy flung his backpack to the ground and charged back in front of my car, arms outstretched like the Christ figure he clearly was.
Taken aback, I simply stared, mouth agape. He bobbed his head and bit his lower lip (not in the nice way people who really like me have been seen to do, more in the way a malfunctioning robot might demonstrate just before it begins spewing smoke and murdering innocent women and children whilst listing The U.S. Presidents in chronological order). After several awkward moments of non-confrontation, he gestured at his own body, eyebrows raised expectantly in the universal sign for “You gonna come get some, bro?”
In response, I grimaced slightly with the left side of my face: the universal sign for “I really am so very sorry, please please please don’t make me interact with you stranger; for some reason your approval means more to me than that of my dearest friends and I promise, if you just let this fall by the wayside, I will do you the greatest favor I am capable of and disappear from your life as thoroughly and completely as ever a person has. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry.”
Understanding all of this, he nodded curtly (“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”) and kicked my bumper – twice, for good measure.
Having fulfilled his mission of justice, the young man scooped up his backpack, slung it over a single shoulder, and went on his way. I sped away, putting as much distance between us as possible.
If all went well, I estimated I would arrive to class about 5 minutes early – cutting things a little close for my taste, but unavoidable at this point.
A chubby man wearing a neon vest and blindingly white construction helmet walked into the street and raised his hand. I looked behind me. 20 feet back was the crosswalk where, no less than 30 seconds ago, I had encountered my newfound nemesis. Letting out a long stream of air, I mused that, at this rate, I’d be lucky to arrive late to my second class tomorrow evening, bursting through the doors just in time for a climactic showdown with the professor, where I show how much I’ve grown through the course of my harrowing and oftentimes humorous adventure. Sheesh!
The plump construction worker dragged a “Road Closed” barrier into the middle of the street. My heart leapt into my throat. What I thought would be another 30 seconds for a cement mixer to pull out had just turned into something far more serious. At the bottom of the sign were two small adornments: One explained that this road, in two short years, would have new streetlights and a pretty tree. The other pointed towards my salvation: a detour.
As quickly as I dared, I stomped the accelerator and sped through the intersection. I didn’t know exactly where this detour would take me, but any variations from my route were sure to affect my plans and I would far rather err on the side of safety (Metaphorical safety, obviously. You should never drive anxious. There was a squirrel in that intersection. It’s dead now. Didn’t I mention?)
Sensing my stress, fear, and altruistic intent, the Universe decided now was as good a time as any to change classes.
Like water bursting through a dam, students poured out of every building making sounds like “Wshhhhhh!” and “gurgle gurgle….” The dull roar of campus during class change began to well in the background like the world’s most terrifying white-noise generator.
For the first time, I began to worry about being tardy. I’ve had nightmares that began like this. They usually end with me as a toddler, dressed in a skin-tight track-suit, begging Mother Gaia from Captain Planet for an elemental power ring. Revealing, I know.
I made it to another intersection, but the road towards my class was once again blocked by a barrier alongside several signs explaining the inconvenience. Pounding my palms into the steering wheel with a frustrated grunt, I inwardly conceded that harvesting the natural heat of our Planet Earth was, in fact, a noble reason for construction. Mother Gaia would approve, though, in my dreams, she remains always cold and distant, while also bearing a striking resemblance to my actual mother. Weird.
The detour sign pointed in a direction which I knew for a fact led off campus (the antithesis of my desired direction (yeah, I know words)). Continuing on my current street was impossible. In honor of a nice old building’s 100th anniversary, the University had decided to destroy and replace it with what was essentially a new building bearing the same name. Due to the construction, the street was now one-way on the far side of the intersection, moving in the wrong direction.
Glancing at my dashboard clock, pangs of real panic began to clench in my gut. At this point, I’d be lucky to make it on time if the roads were open, but, due to my class taking place in the building which apparently exists outside of time and space, I had no idea how to get there. I had 3 turning options, and none of them would get me where I needed to go! I could feel sweat beginning to form on my brow as I mentally tackled the obstacle.
Only one thing was certain: whatever I did…it had to be clever, and I would have to do it very fast.
My car eked into the intersection, occasionally making small accelerations in one direction just before jolting to a stop, reversing slightly, and turning back in the other until I was situated in a way such that absolutely no one else could drive past without hitting me. Other cars, not understanding my brilliance, started honking like a bunch of assholes.
After having pretended to be overcome with panic and uncertainty for about 30 seconds (step 1 of my plan), I decided to enact step 2, which was top secret up until that moment to everyone but me, but I knew it the whole time and it’s very important you go through a process with these things, you know? You don’t want to go barreling into Step 2 before you’ve taken your time with Step 1, and so on and so forth. You think the guy who shouted I was an idiot out the window of his Mustang understood that? Nope. Neither did the skinny blonde girl who kept trying to go out onto the crosswalk before frustratedly scoffing at me and taking out her phone. They’ll never find success in life, plus they’ll become ugly while I finally get my hair to work.
Step 2: I performed an illegal U-turn and made it back onto the street I had just left.
But things had changed. The street was now covered with pedestrians. Everyone was power-walking to their classes, crossing the street en horde, doing their level-headed best to look absolutely anywhere but into the eyes of the driver they were conscientiously delaying.
Progress was soul-crushingly slow. A foot here, a foot there. I was beginning to lose my patience. Briefly, I considered the possibility of parking my car along the side of the road (illegally) and simply running to my destination. But what if something happened to it? I couldn’t. Irate and at a stand-still, I slammed my head into the car’s horn, letting out a long wail and shocking whoever happened to be walking across the street.
I lifted my head wearily to see my old nemesis, the same young man as before, backpack already on the ground, surrounded by two other similarly dressed young men, all looking at me with pure, vehement hatred.
Incredulous, I couldn’t even respond before he looked at his companions and nodded towards my car. On cue, one took a screwdriver out of his pocket and the other pulled what certainly appeared to be a tire-iron out of his backpack.
The construction worker stared at my car as I yet again approached his intersection. If he was an astute man, he probably would have noticed that this particular car had been, a short time earlier, curiously devoid of the scratches which now ran along its side. Also, it used to have a windshield, which was no longer the case. This particular construction worker was not, however, an astute man, and so he waved me forward, his face a stoic picture of apathy.
Little did I know that behind those black sunglasses were the piercing blue eyes of a gentle lover, counting the seconds until he may return to his darling wife Matilda. But that’s another story.
MY story was nothing as normal as that. In fact, it was about to take a far stranger turn.
I was going to be late. There was no question. A straight shot to the classroom would have me walking in long after the professor began his lecture. The question now became: just how late was I going to be? If they took attendance first thing, I was done for. If they waited until the end, or even took attendance in the middle of class during a group discussion, I still had a shot!
If I could just get there.
My mind raced. There were a few other routes, but all of them would take at least 10 minutes to navigate IF they weren’t closed. I didn’t know which streets I could trust anymore. They were like the ever-changing staircases of Hogwarts, but with less magic and more occasional homeless persons.
There was, however, one route whose trustworthiness was certain:
A quick, easy route which would have me to class a mere 5 minutes after it began:
Through the construction site.
I hesitated for only a moment before turning towards the open gate. Reynold (The construction worker. That’s right. The construction worker has a name. HE’S A HUMAN BEING GODDAMN IT!), lost in thought and pining after his dear-heart, didn’t even notice until I was already on the gravel pathway. He then weakly shouted for me to stop while I accelerated around a pile of PVC pipes.
Cutting through the site was surprisingly straightforward. The construction workers (including Reynold), seemed to assume I was on official business, and immediately began working harder just in case I might be some sort of supervisor. I drove across the compound slowly, very careful to avoid any danger.
My cautiousness was perceived as observation, which propelled the workers to work harder still. One worker, standing over a single board with no nails, began hammering loudly while humming loudly in time. Another stood over by the dry wall with a nail gun, trying as quickly as he could to put as many nails into their places as possible.
As I made it to the opposite side of the site, I realized the gate was closed, and I puzzled for a moment as to what I should do next. The workers, now extremely afraid of the judgement being passed upon them, began working in a frenzy. Humming so loud his voice cracked, the man with the hammer hit his piece of wood as hard as he was capable. The man with the nail-gun began putting nails wherever he could, whether that particular spot called for one or not. Moving too fast, his hand slipped and he shot a nail into the worker to his right.
“GAAAAAAAAAEEEEEAAAAIIII love working for The Ohio State University!” Said the wounded worker, blood blossoming like a rose around the metal stem protruding from his thigh.
Desperately trying to cover his mistake, the man with the nail-gun laughed loudly and dragged the now profusely bleeding worker to his feet, guffawing and patting him on the back. The poor man grimaced out a smile while wiping the tears off his face. The man with the hammer ran up and chipped in by patting the poor fellow on the back while randomly hammering the drywall.
With no other choices left at my disposal, I was forced to exit the car and push the gate open myself. So I did that.
Yeah, I know, that’s not a lot of description. Look, you think its hard to read 5 pages of prose? Try writing it.
After a moment of surprise the workers realized I was not, in fact, President Drake on a routine construction inspection (a time-honored tradition, just like all those things we’re not allowed to do anymore), but a simple student cutting through their construction site. They didn’t like that:
“Hey, you can’t just cut through here!”
“You’re in big trouble, kid!”
“You shot this guy with a nail-gun!”
“MURDERER!”
“Yeah, MURDERER!”
But the gate was open and I had jumped back in my car and skidded out on the gravel just as they reached my back bumper. I heard them shouting behind me:
“He’s getting away! I can’t believe this!”
“I’m calling the police!”
“Hey, you! Guard guy! Why’d you let that kid in here?!”
“My name is Reynold! I’M A HUMAN BEING GOD DAMN IT!”
“Could someone get me a bandage….”
Sergeant Augustus Hoover awoke promptly at 6am. He swung his legs off the bed and walked straight into his shower, where he scrubbed his body (left side, followed by right) for 7 minutes before adjourning to his kitchen, where coffee (which he took with 1 cream, 3/4 sugars) was waiting for him on the pot.
Sergeant Augustus Hoover arrived at the Police Station 15 minutes early to his shift, as he did every day. As was his habit, he sat quietly and read the morning newspaper for 15 minutes before clocking in, knowing that every minute he was clocked in before his shift’s beginning would create a superfluous worker and unnecessary expenses for the taxpayers.
Sergeant Augustus Hoover joked with some of his fellow Cops in the bullpen later that afternoon. He was well-liked, and his colleagues laughed at his jokes not because they were funny, but because he was the straight-laced, idealistic sort of officer that inspired camaraderie and good feelings between men. The kind of well-trimmed, determined man whom young cadets looked up to. The kind of pine-scented, spiky-toed werewolf the hard-core drug-addicts had trouble describing. Sergeant Hoover chortled and guffawed with his friends, who had become a family to him in recent years.
Just then, The Chief walked in. He twiddled his famously long mustache between his finger and thumb – a gesture the men knew meant trouble. Quieting their conversations, the officers assembled around their leader, who held an incident report in his non-twiddling hand. After he glanced around at the silent officers, each of them holding a white Styrofoam cup o’joe and leaning up against various wooden desks, The Chief gave one last twiddle to his undeniably impressive facial hair and began:
“I’m afraid I’ve got a case here – a student, ignoring the numerous caution signs, has just driven through an active construction site.”
An electric murmur swept through the assembly. The occasional sidelong glance was thrown towards Sergeant Augustus Hoover. Everyone present knew that his wife, a construction worker, had been killed by a drunk driver on the job EXACTLY ONE YEAR AGO TODAY.
“Was anyone injured?” Asked Sergeant Augustus Hoover, leaning up against a desk, his eyes never leaving his shoes.
The Chief briefly glanced at the dossier. “It says one man was rushed to the emergency room due to a severe puncture to his thigh.”
Sergeant Augustus Hoover’s fist clenched.
“Did he make it?”
“Well, it doesn’t say. This was only a few minutes ago.”
“You don’t know then.” Sergeant Hoover whispered through gritted teeth.
The bullpen was silent awaiting their friend’s reaction. If not for the gentle rustle of papers caressed by the wind of wood-paneled ceiling fans, one might have thought time itself was standing still.
“Hey!” piped up one Officer from the back of the group, “Didn’t your wife die in a construction site accident EXACTLY ONE YEAR AGO TODAY?”
“Oh my God, you’re right!” gasped Sergeant Augustus Hoover, “That was EXACTLY ONE YEAR AGO TODAY!”
All the officers surrounding that officer groaned, rolled their eyes, and slapped him across the back of the head. The Force had agreed not to remind Sergeant Hoover of the accident, just in case it triggered him. They couldn’t take any chances with this equal opportunity stuff after their last chief was fired for trying to end centuries of police-corruption.
You had to be there. It made perfect sense, trust me.
“Chief,” said Officer Sergeant Augustus V. Hoover, “I need this case. Give it to me.”
“I don’t know,” replied The Chief, “Are you sure you can remain an impartial representative of the law while investigating a crime so closely related to the death of your wife?”
“Chief, don’t worry,” Hoover said in a steady tone of voice, “I AM the Law. I am this child’s prosecutor, judge, and jury. I’ve held the trial in my head a thousand times and the verdict is always the same: guilty. The sentence: death. I will hunt this child like a feral beast with the scent of blood. There is nowhere it can go to escape me, no friend who can save it, and one day, finally, when I have found the child, unexpecting and unprotected, I will take my final bloody role: executioner.”
The men waited in silence for The Chief’s response.
“You know, Hoover, we might not always get along,” The Chief said quietly, “But dammit if you’re not the best Bike-Cop I’ve ever seen.”
The Chief thrust the file into Sergeant Augustus Hoover’s hands and the men began cheering. Some threw their papers up into the air while others clapped Sergeant Hoover on the shoulder! Hoover himself nodded his head humbly and tried to hold back tears as the men carried him out of the office down to the bike-rack where his cruiser was parked.
-Collin Gossel, Editor-in-Chief
Hi everybody! I hope you enjoyed Part 1 of Get to Class! If, by the grace of God, that is, in fact, the case, please come back tomorrow, Friday Oct. 24th, and read the second part! Or, you can wait until Sunday the 26th and read the entire story in one place or even download a PDF (because 33 pages is some serious business). It all only gets more exciting from here. I hope to see you all back soon!