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Chapter 2 |
'What do you want? I'm waiting for someone. Unless you got the test answers for me.' 'Answers?' 'Yeah, Einstein, you got a copy of the test or not?' 'Forget the cheat sheet. You don't need test answers. You need a tutor, right?' I take a good hard look at this pain in the ass. Skinny little geek with long curly hair, headphones hanging around his neck still blasting out some pounding beat. 'What are you, in junior high? Go get the librarian for me, will you?' 'Now, just wait a second. Hear me out. Low grades? Not completing reading assignments? Red marks all over your papers, right?' 'So? That's all on my tutor request sheet.' 'Yeah, but I bet I can add one more thing. A hyperactive sense overload.' 'A what?' 'Too much going on in the classroom, right? Some guy's sneakers stink, the room's too warm, the girl next to you is sitting too close. Pretty soon you can't hear the professor's voice any more. And that's why you're flunking.' 'What? No! And who the hell are you, anyway?' 'Gentlemen, is there a problem?' We both jumped at the librarian's intrusion. 'No, no problem,' I said quickly. 'I'm here for the tutor sign-up and he…' I looked around but the little bastard was gone. 'Some stupid kid was sneaking around the stacks.' 'Ah,' said the librarian in his best I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-voice. 'Let's explore your needs and ascertain who best can help you.' ~*~ Freshmen dorms. A cacophony of music. The sickening sweet smell of pot drifting from open doors. Freakin' neon posters and notices plastered on every inch of wall space. Bikes and recycling bins cluttering the narrow hallways. Humanity makes my skin crawl. Thank god for my frat house. The Rainier Ritz, we call it, and it is: big bedrooms, decent kitchen, well-equipped gym and locker room, even a cleaning service -- Rainier supports its winning football team in style, and our frat brother alumni are particularly proud of us. Jesus, who could live with all these people and all this noise? Room 612. I bang on the door and push it open. Yeah, I'm here to see that freakin' junior high reject. 'Oh, hey,' he said, his atonal drumming music turned up loud, seemingly unsurprised to see me. 'Music from an indigenous tribe of Amazon headhunters. Sounds a lot like what they're playing in the hall, doesn't it? And yet, somebody always yells, "hey, turn that jungle music down!"' 'Yeah,' I reply. 'I'm sure they do. I'm saying it, too. You mind?' He looked startled for a moment. 'No, no.' 'Why were you in my face?' I ask. He pauses, takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders. It's almost physical, the way he suddenly looks older, more confident. 'Oh, hey, look. I'm really sorry about all that psycho-babble at the library. But I just had to find some way to talk with you.' 'So, talk.' He pauses for a moment, like he just remembered his manners. 'OK. Would you like to sit down?' He clears a stack of books and folders off his chair and drops it next to his desk. 'Have a seat, man.' I roll my eyes and make my disgust pretty clear. 'You see,' he begins, all earnest and intense and excited. 'There's this class I've been taking. And my professor saw your tutor request and sent it to me. And when I read that thing, man, it was like -- bang! Holy Grail time!' Jesus. A headache starts up behind my eyes. Stupid kid. 'You're losing me here, Einstein.' 'OK,' he starts again, a little subdued. 'My name is Blair Sandburg. I'm taking a seminar in anthropology and you're just what I'm studying right now. If I understand the readings correctly, you're a behavioral throwback to a pre-civilized breed.' My headache worsens and my temper flares, two symptoms that signal the onset of an episode. 'Are you out of your mind? I dragged all the way over here to this dump for you to tell me I'm a Neanderthal? You're living right on the edge, there, Sandburg.' His eyes widen and he backs up a bit, raising his hands. 'Well,' he stammers, 'maybe I was a little out of line with that remark, but what I mean is…' Suddenly it's all too much for me. The loud music, the smoke, this little punk insulting me. On top of failing English, jeopardizing my scholarship and my standing on the team just as the season was getting underway. I lose it. I grab the front of his flannel shirt and shove him up against the wall by his bed. I know it is too hard -- I hear his teeth snap, feel his slender body cringe, catch his pained inhalation. But I can't stop, can't bring myself under control. 'Listen, you little freakin' geek.' I feel him shaking and something dark blooms inside me. I like people being afraid of me, makes me feel less like a freak myself. 'I could flatten you with one punch for pissing me off.' Slight tremors run through his body and I hear his quick gasps. Shit. Bullying a skinny little kid is not high on my list, once the initial thrill passes. I let go of his shirt, hear his feet hit the floor. 'I'm sorry, man,' he whispers, looking up at me; I felt myself sinking down into his deep indigo eyes. Damn but I do not need an episode right now. I can't move, even though I know I am crushing him against the wall. Have to wait for the feeling to pass. 'I'm sorry, Jim, really I am,' he says softly. 'I know I come across like some kind of geek, but I can help you. You wouldn't even have considered me as a tutor if I offered, am I right? I'm good at English, and maybe, if you don't mind, when we're done, I could ask you some questions. That way, you wouldn't be a research project for me, but instead someone to just talk to. And you're not a Neanderthal, but a normal guy.' His voice is keeping me just on this side of sanity, but it’s still a near thing. I refuse to call it a seizure, despite what my old man says. It's not epilepsy. It's not brain damage. It's not a learning disability or autism. It's not depression. It's not mental illness. It's not. I just don't know what it is. Sandburg keeps going: 'Well, not so normal because of the way you play football, you're a genius there but you're not a freak, just someone who works on intuition instead of intelligence. That doesn't sound right, either, but that you instinctively act, not analyzing and weighing and debating. That's all I meant by pre-civilized behavior, that you don't sit around talking something to death, you just go out and do it. So when you're sitting in class, you're overloading, man, on all the sensory input. All you really need are the facts, just like Joe Friday, just the facts so you can act…' He trails off. The episode retreats back into the darkness. Realizing I'm still holding him against the wall and how strange that feels, I push away. But I just have to laugh. 'Jesus, Sandburg, do you ever stop talking?' He's surprised at that, then comes a Sandburg smile that lights up the room.
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