Phil woke up with his nose pressed against the ground. Nell and Zaid were on top of him, snoring, using him as a mattress of convenience. The sun barely crept through the clouds. He thanked God, for the long, cold nightmare was now finally over. He whispered, “Free…”
He heard the commotion of the crowd behind him. With thousands of students packed together, it was inevitable that some beers would be drunk, some fires to be lit, some joints to be smoked, and many fights to gain position.
He turned over, waking the group around him. Even though people had pressed themselves against the doors, only Phil had himself wedged on the line where the two doors met. His four friends surrounded him. He felt warm.
Chains. Door unlocking. Phil jumped to his feet, tossing off the people around him. He grabbed his coolers, confirmed that his wallet was still with him, and mentally psyched himself to pay his bill. The security man finished unlocking the door. He stepped back. Phil grabbed the door handle, yanked it open, dropping the coolers, and ran to the bill clerks. The door handle was grabbed successively, and the coolers eventually kicked into the landscaping, for the next twelve hours.
Phil ran through the pre-determined line formation, as dictated by the retractable strip-poles. Culhwch took to pulling the straps over his head. The three women ran with the crowd, keeping in front. The throngs of people made the floor rumble with the sudden increase in weight. The air smelled with stampede’s cold sweat.
Phil slapped his hands on the counter. “I’m ready!”
The clerk looked over to see wide eyes, a very large grin, and the eminence of anticipation. The clerk’s immunity to enthusiasm didn’t catch on with Phil. “Yes. Your social?”
Phil recited his Social Security number. The clerk nodded. “OK. Before payment occurs, we need to confirm that the classes that you registered for are still on record. Ready?”
“Yes.” Phil thought that this lady had just uttered the most robotic sentence he had ever heard from someone who was not Culhwch.
“Professional Internship, Propaganda, Intermediate TV Production, Electronic Field Production, and E-Information. Fifteen credit hours.”
The clerk looked from the computer screen to see the mouth of Phil slowly moving. “Tuh…tuh…TV?”
She nodded. “Yes. Is that not what you signed up for?”
“No! I signed up for…Professional Internship, Propaganda, Press: 100 Years of History, and Literary Journalism!”
“Someone changed your classes, then.”
“Yes, could you please switch them back?”
“I need to call the Communications Department.”
“OK! So?”
“One moment.”
The clerk picked up a phone receiver, tapped a button, and greeted the secretary.
“Hi. I have a student whose classes are incorrect. Can he register for his classes that he wanted?” Pause. “Can you get her on the line?” Pause. “Thank you.”
The clerk gave the handset to Phil. “Hello?”
“Are you Tee-balt, Philip Es-KAR?”
“Yes, I’m Philip ESK-ar TIH-balt.”
“Hello Mr. Tybalt, I’m Veronica Bash, your advisor.”
“Hi Ms Bash.”
“I believe your courses have been switched to a TV emphasis, from a print emphasis, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Well, I did it.”
“What? Why!”
“Because the print program has been dropped.”
“What!”
Phil began to feel dizzy. He lost all sense of standing up, of the not-smiling clerk, and of the people around him.
“You were the only student who signed up for it.”
“But, there were nine people last fall!”
“Three didn’t pass, three dropped, two changed majors, and that left you.”
Phil stopped hearing her talk. Those connections. Gone. The contacts he needed for the future. Gone. His major, and life dream. Gone.
“Mr. Tybalt? Phil? Phiiil?”
His voice was lowered, and watery. “Yes?”
“You’re going to graduate this semester. With a Bachelor’s in Journalism. Your knowledge of print that you gained in…Freelance/International Reporting…Social Issues…” Phil heard the tapping of keystrokes. “…Ed-Op, Communication Law and Ethics, and especially Interviewing…they are still with you. Maybe you can apply your unique perspective to television--”
“I don’t want to do TV!”
“Phil. You are faced with certain choices. You can get your Bach in Journalism, with NINE credit hours of TV added to your over thirty hours of print. You can change your emphasis to completely On-line/virtual, which I don’t need to remind you of your ‘W’ in Intro Computer Journalism. You can change your major. Transfer. You can quit school.”
The thought of dropping everything and heading straight to the Zeitung sounded attractive. He heard himself say, “OK. I’ll stay.”
Phil carried the coolers back to his van. He felt that his feet weren’t touching the ground, like he was a ghost, lost in the visitor’s parking lot. He heard running footsteps. “Phil!”
Culhwch ran up next to him. “Phil! Why did you leave so quickly! I thought you were going to wait near the front!”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t.”
“I know that! Why!”
“I didn’t!”
Culhwch wasn’t getting the message that Phil doesn’t want to talk to you or to anyone. Instead of understanding this, Culhwch got frustrated. “Are you going to be like this all the way home?”
Phil pressed his lips together. Why won’t Culhwch shut up! Fine. “Culhwch, what classes are you taking?”
“Oh…uh…Design Ten, Practicum Two, and…Social Skills Training…and…Racial Sensitivity Training.” Culhwch’s voice lowered as he finished talking.
Phil shook his head. “What are you talking about? Those are courses?”
“I thought you knew what Design was: doing architecture projects. Drawing, building models, that sort of thing. Practicum Two is real-life training.”
“Apprenticeship?”
“Yes, only without pay.”
Phil humphed.
“That’s all.”
“You forgot the last two.”
“They aren’t in my major.”
“So why are you taking them?”
“Why are you acting like a jerk?”
“Fine!”
Phil’s voice echoed against the building’s curtain wall. Culhwch felt the pavement absorb the vibrations. Loud. He closed his eyes. “Social Skills Training. How to get along with other people.”
“Sounds useful.” Especially for Culhwch. He didn’t explain the last course, and Phil didn’t want him to. It would be too obvious.
Now, it was quiet. Phil felt angry because now he wanted to speak to Culhwch, but had been snappy and maybe Culhwch would go into his month-long periods of silence.
“Cullen.”
“Yes?”
“How did your thing go? Paying your bill?”
“Oh, it was OK. I paid it.”
“How about those two classes?”
“They were a surprise, but…I couldn’t take Practicum Two without them.”
“What are they? Pre-req’s or something?”
“No…something mandated from the Dean of Architecture.”
“Oh, that thing. Well, I actually want to know how you dealt the person at the station, the clerk.”
“Eh?”
“The person you gave your money to.”
“Oh. What about it?”
“How did it go?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Like, was the person nice?”
“Person.”
“The clerk! You paid your bill, right?”
“Yes, I gave him my money, and my social, and…that was it.”
“Was the person nice?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you nice?”
“I don’t know.”
Phil tried to forget about it. Maybe Culhwch will never get the idea. He set down the coolers and took out his keys. His unlocking the van door caused all the other doors to unlock as well. That phenomenon bothered him. Culhwch came up next to him. “Need help with the boxes and stuff?”
“Yes, please. Just put them in the back.”
Culhwch obliged. Phil jumped into the driver’s seat, and began the complex method of starting a three hundred thousand-mile old engine.
Pump the gas pedal twice. Press the brake pedal, and shift into neutral. Pump the gas pedal one more time. Crank engine for ten seconds. Pump gas pedal once. Crank for four seconds. The engine comes to life, and Phil pumps the gas pedal twelve more times until the engine’s idle speed sustains itself. The pleasure of a job well done made Phil smile. He looked to his right and saw Culhwch sitting in the passenger’s seat. Startled, Phil asked, “How…how did you get in so quietly?”
“I took my shoes off.”
Culhwch raised his feet. Socks. Phil’s brain stopped trying to process the previous ten seconds, so that Phil could live. His head moved slowly around, as if trying to keep neck pain away. He said, very slowly, “You. Are. Weird.”
Culhwch showed his right hand, two sneakers dangling up from his fingers. Phil looked for a smile of triumph. Something that said Ha! I made your little brain with its associative little IQ hurt! Feel my bizarre antics! Culhwch didn’t show that at all. He just looked at Phil, who read Culhwch’s face: These are where my shoes are. Phil tried to understand something so simple, but looking for a complicated thought process where none existed only led him to a new question: Has Culhwch figured out most actions in life are simple, and just acts upon them, merely coexisting with the world and its people? Or is Culhwch the most complicated man alive, composing the world, not just coexisting? Phil felt that maybe both were true, but did not want to think about it.
He pulled the lever into reverse, performed a head-check, and backed out of his parking space.