The first thing I became aware of was the smell of chamomile tea. Opening my eyes groggily, I glanced down to see a bandage wrapped around my arm.
My bare back scratched against the cushion of an old futon. Gaining a different angle, I observed I was in a one-bed dorm-room, though definitely a large one. The room was decorated sparsely (only a single strand of white Christmas lights lit the otherwise unadorned walls). On the ground beside me there was a ham sandwich and a liter bottle of water alongside a hastily scribbled note: “Eat and drink. Quickly. -Mike”
I didn’t know who Mike was but I was so hungry that that didn’t matter. In my mind, Mike was a lot like how I ate the sandwich: so quickly I didn’t have time to think of an analogy. I gulped the water down a little slower, but I knew it was the more important of the two – I had lost a lot of blood.
Just as I was finishing my re-hydration, the heavy-looking door to the room cracked open and a young man slid inside. He shut the door quickly behind him, locking it with firm finality before turning to look at me.
“Oh good,” he said, “you’re up. You can’t stay here long. I found you in the lounge, covered your wound, and brought you up here before the Cops could get to you, but they know you’re in the building.”
“Thank you!” I stammered. There was a lot for me to take in, “Why? Who are you? We’re in Baker West?”
“My name is Mike,” said the young man while quickly packing granola bars into a drawstring bag, “I’m an RA here in Baker. Yes, that’s where we are. I saw what the Cops were doing to you from my window. Whatever you did, you deserve a fair trial.”
“Listen, it’s not like I killed a guy -”
“I don’t care what it was you did, mate, I just want you to see proper justice.”
“No, you don’t understand, I really didn’t do-”
“I’m not here to judge you man, we all do stuff we regret. Don’t think I haven’t thought about just setting this whole building on fire and being done with it.”
“WHAT? No, I-”
“Be quiet.” said Mike, refilling the liter water-bottle and handing it to me, “There isn’t much time. Where are you trying to go?”
“…to class,” I said after a brief moment of hesitation. “I just want to get to class. This is the last credit I need to graduate, but if I miss today, I’ll have to take it again another semester.”
Mike abruptly stopped packing. He turned to me, his brow furrowed with sadness and concern, before slowly walking over to the window and staring into the sunset.
“You know, I don’t want to be an RA.”
“Then, why do you do it?” I asked, because when people say things about themselves, they usually want you to ask them more about themselves.
“Finances. I missed a math class once. Overslept. Turns out…it was the day of a midterm. Failed the class. It was part of a two-year sequence, so it wasn’t offered again until my senior year. Then, that sequence was a pre-requisite for several of my major requirements, so I had to wait to take those. After a while, everything begins to pile up…”
“So…how long have you been here?”
“This is my ninth year at OSU,” Mike whispered, a tear sliding down his cheek. “Go bucks.”
“…I’m so sorry…” was all I could say.
Pulling himself together, Mike continued:
“It’s all right. It’s ok. I blamed myself for a while (years five through seven), but then I realized I wasn’t the problem. It’s the University. It doesn’t want me to graduate.” He briefly paused to shake his head, “It wants my tuition. It wants my talent. It won’t quit until it’s taken my soul.”
With that quiet declaration, he fell into the chair at his desk, head bowed forlornly. I struggled into a sitting position feeling like I had to do something for this poor guy.
“How can I help?”
For a moment, he sat in silence. Then, he looked up at me with a sudden, fierce determination in his eyes.
“You can leave,” he said, spitting venom with every syllable, “Graduate. It’s too late for me, but you can still get out. You,” he dramatically stood up. “….are going to class.”
I hobbled up as well. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. What time does it start?”
“Six-fifteen,” I said.
“Whoops,” he said, looking at his watch, “That was 20 minutes ago.”
“WHAT?!” I screamed. Eyes wide and still recovering from my extended period of unconsciousness, I tripped around the room until I found a clock. It confirmed the horrid truth: it was already 6:35pm.
“I’ve got to go!” I said, sprinting to the door and wrenching it open.
“Hold it!” warned Mike, throwing his body against the door and pushing it closed once more, “Those Cops are still in the building. I know a safe way out. I can get you to your class before it ends, but you’ll have to trust me.”
“I just met you, Mike, I don’t trust you at all!” I yelled, yanking at the door desperately. Mike was fairly heavy, however, and I could not move it.
“Look, it’s either come with me or take your chances with a homicidal Cop and a bunch of scared first-years.”
Two minutes later, Mike and I were scurrying across the roof of Baker West, having climbed out his window.
“This way!” he half-whispered, gesturing towards a ladder on the far end of the roof.
“How do you know about all this?” I asked.
“I come up here sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s pretty? So I can feel like part of me isn’t controlled by what’s on my degree audit? What do you want from me, dude?”
“Listen, son, I don’t care about the illegal substances that may or may not be in this room. I just want to know if you’re hiding any people.”
Sergeant Augustus Hoover stood menacingly above a long-haired first-year in a grungy T-shirt and beanie.
“Officer, I swear. There is nothing in this room.”
The first-year’s two friends, sitting on the bed, giggled to themselves. Hearing this, the first-year (whose name was Dublin) giggled as well. Rolling his eyes, Sergeant Augustus Hoover continued:
“Son, I want to make this perfectly clear: I don’t care if you overdose five minutes from now, as long as you aren’t harboring my prey – sorry – perp. You are all acting somewhat suspicious, so I have to ask once more: Is there anyone in this room besides the three of you?”
“No, sir, officer, not as such, if you will,” said a sleepy-sounding Dublin, grinning like The Cheshire Cat.
Sergeant Augustus Hoover let out a long sigh and glanced to his left out the window….where his perp was climbing a ladder down the side of the building.
Without wasting time with goodbyes, the officer dashed out the door, leaving Dublin et al. to themselves.
“Well, I guess that’s settled,” said Dublin, lighting up a joint and immediately setting off the fire alarm.
“I think he saw us!” I screamed after making brief eye-contact with Sergeant Augustus Hoover.
“Hurry! We’re almost there!”
“Where?” I yelled, jumping off the ladder.
“My car!” Mike replied, running up alongside a Ford Taurus, “Hop in, quick!”
Just as I did so, a firetruck flew around the bend and parked on the curb next to Baker Hall West. The front doors of the building flew open to reveal my nightmare: Mr. Officer Sergeant Augustus Valerie Hoover Esquire.
“Drive!” I screamed.
Mike peeled out, accelerated rapidly, then gently slowed to a stop due to the red light we encountered 30 feet from our starting point.
With the help of two crutches, Thomas eased himself down from his seat on the firetruck only to see his Uncle rampaging through the courtyard, making a B-line for the bicycle rack.
“Uncle Augustus, wait! What’s happening with you?! Pleas stop–”
Sergeant Augustus Hoover pushed his nephew to the ground, jumped on his bicycle, and took off.
Mumbling and grumbling, Fireman Ross jumped off the truck and headed towards Baker Hall West.
“Here every goddamn day, never a fire, always some kid with the drugs gettin’ high off the pot I oughtta let this place burn to the ground, don’t think I haven’t thought about it…”
The sun was setting over The Oval. Packing her suitcase with various floral patterned sundresses and white tops that had been hanging from a nearby slack-line, April choked back tears.
“Please don’t make me go, Renner. I love you!”
“I’m not the man, you used to love, April,” said a resigned Renner, supine in a hospital bed, both legs in casts.
“But you are! You can fight this! You’re stronger than your injury!”
“No I’m not!” Renner screamed, his heart-rate monitor suddenly spiking, “I don’t even deserve my awesome name! I should just start using the stupid name my parents gave me!”
“No, please, Renner, don’t!”
“MY NAME IS REYNOLD, GOD DAMN IT!”
Renner broke down in tears, the hospital bed shaking with the force of his sobs. April reached out a hand and stepped towards him.
“NO!” he bellowed, “Just go! You won’t find happiness with me, April! I’ve fallen off the slack-line of life!”
Covering her mouth to muffle the whimpering, April grabbed ahold of her suitcase and ran from her true love. Renner buried his face in his pillow, unable to hide his shameful misery.
“Honk honk!” went Mike’s car as it flew harmlessly past Renner’s bed.
“Ring ring!” went Sergeant Augustus Hoover’s Bicycle as it did the same.
“….” said the ground as it did nothing at all.
For they all knew no physical injury could hurt the man with a broken soul.
“Where is he?” screamed Mike, swerving like a maniac between cars on High Street.
“Gaining!” I yelled back.
It was true – driven by the unstoppable force of a man possessed, Sergeant Hoover was matching us car for car, sliding through traffic like a fish through water.
The Ford Taurus sideswiped a Coca-Cola truck parked in the right lane. Grunting, Mike swerved across the median before bringing us back into safety. “How much farther on High?” he asked.
“We turn on 19th.” I said nervously.
Throwing a glance over his shoulder at Sergeant Augustus Hoover, who was now a mere 10 feet away, Mike whispered “We’ll never make it…”
“Can’t we go any faster?!”
“Not if we want to make it there in one piece. Take the wheel.”
“What?!”
“TAKE THE WHEEL!” Mike ordered. I did as I was told, grabbing the wheel from the passenger seat, “Whatever happens,” he began, looking back at Sergeant Augustus Hoover (now a mere 5 feet from the car’s back bumper on the driver’s side), “Get to class, alright? For me. Get. To. Class.”
Eyes wide, I nodded slowly. Mike nodded once in thanks and threw open the driver-side door.
Wind rushed into the sedan. Mike tapped the breaks, shooting our pursuer forwards towards Mike’s open door. Hoover’s eyes widened in alarm.
“YAAHHHH!”
Mike threw himself out the door at Sergeant Augustus Hoover, tackling him to the ground in the middle of high street.
The car began to swerve as I quickly climbed into the driver’s seat. Looking in the rear-view mirror, I could see Mike wrestling with the officer on the median as cars swerved to avoid hitting them. Throwing himself from the car was a daring and noble sacrifice – maybe the last one Mike would ever make. I could not let him down.
I arrived at my turn onto campus and grimly realized this was, in fact, the point where my journey had begun just over 24 hours ago. The preacher who had given me such sage advice, however, was conspicuously absent.
Things are finally going my way! I thought as I turned left through a red-light onto campus. Almost immediately, however, my heart dropped.
Sitting in the middle of the lane were the 3 Bike Cops working with Sergeant Augustus Hoover. One of them had a megaphone, which he put to good use.
“Please step out of the vehicle with your hands on your head.”
I stopped and simply sat for a few moments, trying to figure a way out of this. After all I’d been through, I couldn’t let my journey end here.
“Please leave the vehicle or we’ll be forced to take action.” The Officer reiterated.
Unable to see a solution, I reached for the door handle.
When, suddenly, all three Cops were rammed by a passing bus.
The bus doors slid open and the driver exited to survey the damage: 3 unconscious men in uniform on the street. The driver looked eerily familiar, but I couldn’t place where I had seen him before until he looked up at me and yelled:
“Fuck da police!”
He’s the kind of guy you would never imagine in a bus driver’s uniform.
The bus and bodies were now blocking my path, but before I had a chance to fully grasp my situation I was saved. Emerging from strange hiding places all around the intersection (behind trees, in construction trenches, and, once again, somewhat unnecessarily, inside a trash-can), men and women quickly cleared away the mess, carrying the Cops on their shoulders and driving the bus towards ARPS.
It all happened in less than a minute, The Colony’s numbers were so large. As quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared, leaving only a lone figure in the middle of the street to wave good-bye and good luck: The Governor. I nodded my thanks and The Governor disappeared into a manhole, leaving my path free.
I had gotten lucky, but I knew I would quickly have to rely on my wits once more: I was approaching the very same construction site which had begun my troubles.
“Hey! Pardon me!”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if I could drive through this construction site.”
“What?! No, absolutely not!”
“Please? You can escort me and I’ll promise I’ll be extremely safe, I’m just in a big hurry!”
“Look, a construction site can be unpredictable. I can’t let you through. It’s for your own safety, kid, trust me.”
“It’s not so bad, I drove through one just the other day and everything turned out fine…kind of.”
“Wait…are YOU the kid who drove through here yesterday?”
“Well….yeah, but really, it’s not a big deal.”
“NOT A BIG DEAL?! I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to stay here while I call this in.”
“Oh come on, Reynold, isn’t there another way we could-”
“Wait. What did you just say?”
“…is there another way we could -”
“No no no. Before that.”
“…come on, Reynold?”
“…..it’s just…..it’s been so long since someone remembered my name….”
“Oh. I’m really sorry about that.”
He sniffed. “It’s alright, kid. Clearly, it’s not your fault. You know what? This world could use more people like you. Go ahead through the site. I’ll watch to make sure you’re ok.”
“So I’m good to go?”
“Yup.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Uh….all right. Thanks, Reynold.”
“No. Thank you.”
I accelerated down the straightaway towards my parking lot. Suddenly, someone leapt out in front of the car! I slammed the brakes against the floor to avoid hitting them. Mike’s belongings flew off the backseat into foot-space and my wheels screeched against the pavement. With a sickening jerk, the car rocked backwards and came to a stop. I angrily looked up to see who had been so stupid as to put BOTH our lives at risk.
Looking back at me with an expression of pure hatred I was becoming all too familiar with, was my nemesis – that same boy who had blocked my path almost exactly 24 hours ago. He stood motionless, simply staring at me. Along the side of the road, men and women began to surround us in a circle.
I didn’t know what he expected me to do. I didn’t know what I would have done a day ago. But, in that moment, I DID know one thing: I was tired of running. I was ready to fight.
I parked the car and got out. Met with tense silence, I slammed the door and slowly began walking up to the boy, who happened to be 2 or 3 inches taller than me and at least 30 pounds heavier. With each step, my heels scraped against the road and keys jangled in my pocket, beating out a slow, heavy rhythm. The crowd of spectators looked on with somber expressions of apprehension.
I stood 6 inches from my enemy. For a long moment, our eyes locked.
Then, as if fulfilling a fate I had never imagined, I gestured at my own body, eyebrows raised expectantly, giving the universal sign for “You gonna come get some, bro?”
He smiled wryly with the corner of his mouth as the masses began to applaud. He could sense a change in me: No longer was I a fearful, pathetic driver acting as if I understood the world. I was something less now, and I knew it – which made me powerful and earned his respect.
He proffered his hand. I took it. We shook while cheers erupted from the crowd.
Then he beat the living shit out of me.
Mike’s car, now windowless and scraping across the parking lot due to its lack of inflated wheels, pulled into a parking spot and I crumpled out of the driver seat, collapsing onto my feet like a slinky falling off a step. I half-jogged, half-stumbled towards the door with full knowledge that I had but minutes until class let out and my hopes of graduating were lost FOREVER.
I weakly grabbed the door handle which would deliver me unto my salvation.
The click of a loading gun sounded behind me.
“Stop.”
I did so.
“Turn around slowly.”
Grimacing, as if wrenching my hand free of a magnetic force, I took one hand off the handle and put both in the air as I turned to face my fate:
Sergeant Augustus Hoover.
He stood, pistol in hand (directed at my chest), covered in abrasions, hair disheveled for the first time since our game of cat and mouse had begun.
“I finally have you…just like a fox in a trap. You have the right to remain silent…forever.”
Despite his obvious attempt at gravitas, I chuckled slightly. His brow furrowed with frustration – he had obviously been planning that line for quite a while.
I dove out of the way just before he took his shot, flying behind the bushes as the bullet shattered the glass door.
“Come on, man!” I screamed, standing up from behind a shrub, suddenly too fed up to care about my personal safety. “What is your deal?! What did I do to deserve this?!”
“YOU KILLED HER!” He screamed back, locks of sweaty hair waving in front of his eyes, “YOU DESERVE THE SAME FATE!”
“WHO?!” I said, gesturing wildly with confusion, “WHO DID I KILL?!”
“MY WIFE! EXACTLY ONE YEAR AGO YESTERDAY!”
“I REALLY DON’T THINK SO!”
“Well, yeah, you didn’t actually kill her, but you COMMITTED A SIMILAR CRIME!”
“Driving through a construction zone?”
“THAT’S RIGHT! SHE WAS MY EVERYTHING!”
I took a few deep breaths and began to pace.
“HEY, DON’T MOVE!” Sergeant Hoover screamed, his resolve weakened ever so slightly.
“Listen, Sergeant. I’m sorry about your wife. I really am. But you have to understand – I had nothing to do with her death, symbolically or otherwise. Killing me for no reason won’t make you a loyal husband or a good Cop – it’ll make you a murderer.”
“Why should I listen too you?!” Asked the Sergeant with hostility. A thin line of blood was eking out of his nose and tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“…because taking me out of the world will make someone else feel just like you do now,” I said calmly.
Sergeant Augustus Hoover let out a small sob, weakly letting his gun fall to the ground. For several moments, eyes closed, he forced himself to take deep, jagged breaths.
“You know, kid,” he whispered, “You make a lot of sense. You’re smart. Just like my son.”
“You have a son?” I asked.
“Well, not anymore,” he replied, “He was killed by a stray bullet in a firefight.”
“When was that?” I asked. The reason why eludes me to this day.
“It was….it was….OH GOD…..IT WAS EXACTLY ONE YEAR AGO TODAY YESTERDAY!”
Sergeant Augustus Hoover collapsed against a shrubbery and began to sob openly. Slowly, carefully, cautiously, I inched away and slipped through the shattered front door without distracting my old enemy.
The doors swung open with a click that echoed through the empty lecture hall. I stepped inside and felt the temperature dip several degrees – the air-conditioning was especially strong in this room. The florescent lights were dimmed. Discarded papers were scattered between unorganized chairs. Everyone was gone.
I had missed class.
Again.
It was over.
I closed my eyes. At my side, independent of any intention to do so, my fists clenched to the point of trembling.
“I’d imagine you’re late for class.”
My eyes shot open. One light, far brighter than the others, shone down on the podium at the front of the hall. From the shadows emerged a man, bible clutched at his side, wearing a plaid short-sleeve button-up stuffed haphazardly into his khaki pants.
“Welcome to World Religion 2100,” he said, smiling knowingly.
“But…but you’re the preacher.”
“There’s more than one preacher in the world, you’ll find.”
“No! You’re the preacher who warned me! Who was standing on the street corner yesterday!”
“Ahh, you saw that? I was recording a video for today’s in-class demonstration. It went over quite well. Pity you weren’t here.”
“Professor, listen,” I pleaded, running down the incline towards his podium, “You don’t understand what I’ve been through! I know this sounds crazy but I left for class 30 minutes before it started YESTERDAY and I’m only getting here now! Please, just hear me out!”
“Whatever circumstances befell you, you never sent any email or made any arrangements and, thus, the absence must be UN-excused, even if your ‘legitimate’ excuse stands up,” said the Professor, hands on either side of his lectern as if he was personally delivering the wrath of God.
“I couldn’t! I was running for my life! And then I thought I’d make it today! Then, for a short period, I was comatose due to blood loss. Please, just give me one more chance! I swear on all that the world finds holy, I will not miss another day!”
“Too late, I’m afraid.” The Professor aligned his papers against the podium, slipped them into a leather briefcase, and turned to leave. “I’ll be offering this same class again in 2017 if you’re interested -”
“NO!” I exploded.
“Oh dear me!” exclaimed the old man as I flung his podium to the ground and charged towards him. Barely thinking, I began to speak as I grasped him by the collar.
“Listen, you old fool, you have no idea what I’ve been through. You have no idea what I’ve seen.” My voice took on a dark, menacing tone. I could feel it carry through the empty amphitheater, but had no control over it, almost as if something was speaking through me, “Do you see these bruises? I was beaten to a pulp trying to get here. Multiple times. Once not 15 minutes ago. And this? A gunshot wound, almost definitely infected. And I’m the lucky one. I’ve seen the city burn, I’ve watched men die; entire lives have been destroyed because I was trying to attend your pathetic little lecture.”
I was less than an inch from The Professor’s face. His eyes trembled with fear, yes, but also something else. Fascination, perhaps?
“You speak of God, but I’ve seen the world your students are wise enough to ignore. I’ve seen the love and the chaos, the hatred and the beauty; I’ve seen human kind splayed out before me like organs at an autopsy and YOU attempt to pass judgment on ME? How dare you chastise me after what I’ve been through! How dare you lecture me on religion! You should kneeling; kissing my feet for deigning to show up at all.”
And with that, I thrust him aside. The Professor stumbled for a moment before regaining his balance and straightening his shirt.
“Well,” he said with a feigned professionalism, “I’m sorry to hear what you’ve been through.”
“I don’t want your apologies,” I growled calmly. “I want another chance.”
The Professor thought to himself for a moment. Then, looking up at me with sudden curiosity, he said:
“Fine. On one condition.”
“Anything,” said I.
With one surprisingly graceful motion, The Professor reset his podium and stood behind it once more.
“You must answer my question. If you can answer it correctly, you will have proven yourself worthy of an opportunity no other student has ever been extended.”
“Very well.”
The Professor took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. Then, in a clear voice, he asked:
“When I’m at my highest, I’m closest and when I’m at my lowest, I’m farthest away. What am I?”
After a brief pause, I replied:
“The tide.”
“I’ll see you in class on Monday, my friend.”
I exited the building barely able to walk, looking as if I was just mauled by a mountain lion, but smiling from ear to ear. I sat down on the curb next to a now dry-eyed Sergeant Augustus Hoover, letting a profound sense of peace drift through me for the first time in recent memory. The last threads of sunset were being pulled below the horizon and, a stone’s throw away, the street lamps were flickering to life. In the distance, I could hear the dim din of students out for a night of unwarranted celebration. And, for the briefest of moments, I let myself think I might join them in a short while.
“Hey, listen,” said The Sergeant, “I’m sorry for all that stuff back there.”
“You mean the 24-hour manhunt?”
“Yeah, I feel really bad. I think I’m still pretty beat up about my wife.”
Against my better judgement, I draped an arm across Sergeant Hoover’s shoulder.
“It’s alright. I would be too. Do you want to talk?”
“No, I’m ok.” he said, wiping an eye, “I think maybe I should take some time off the force and travel the world. Try to remember the stuff that makes this place worth living in – even alone, you know?”
“…yeah. I do. Give you a lift back to campus?”
“Sure thing.” We stood and walked towards the Ford Taurus, “Hey now, this isn’t your car!”
“Nah, I was rammed by that bus remember? This one belongs to Mike. Hey! What happened to him?”
“Who?”
“Mike! He fought you on High Street?”
“Oh yeah, right. He’s dead. I murdered Mike.”
“WHAT?!”
“I am SO sorry.”
“Well…honestly, he was going into his 9th year at OSU. It’s probably what he would have wanted.”
-Collin Gossel, Editor-in-Chief
Thanks for reading, everybody! It’s been an incredible ride! I absolutely loved writing this piece and if you enjoyed it even a little bit, you should keep coming back to The Sundial. We publish pieces all the time by really funny writers here at OSU, and it really is my honor to work with them on stuff like this. And we’re not done yet! Come back later tonight (Sunday, Oct. 26th) and you’ll find a downloadable PDF version of Get to Class, alongside an MP3 of your’s truly reading it out-loud (to get you in the zone while you’re pumping iron). Thanks again for reading!