Groucho

I work at a university library. It's equivalent in size to a small hospital...Italian architecture, imported marble pillars, dirty carpets, broken elevators, 30 years old...dirty, broken, aged and part Italian...If it was a foreign exchange student I might have half a chance.

The library even has seven floors, not unlike Dante's seven levels of Hell.

The other day, I was sitting on a concrete bench in the middle of campus before I started my shift. I was there for about 15 minutes, every minute turning into a darker hour. Young women walked to class in their pajamas and Sunday's finest unaware of the hourglass being slightly nudged on their ripe, Venus Di Milian bodies. The men, strong and clueless, followed behind with their hats on backwards and hair long and shaggy. It was a sea of cigarettes and cell phones. It was an ocean of hope and sexual adventure. And here I sat. A 26-year-old dingy washed out to tide.

As the 15th hour approached, the last class had ended and the campus was all but vacant as Thursday was the last school day of the week. I wasn't discouraged though...I kept right on sitting. I snatched a glimpse of a squirrel hesitate before running up a nearby oak tree. I smelled the air full of the flagrant plume exiting the lavender trees. I felt the concrete underneath me and the crisp, Hill Country breeze blow through my face. And I watched a lost Asian student wonder up the hill, back down again and finally disappear.

I saw a feather, or some piece of white matter, come over an encroaching building and gently float down the side, past my main view, and then back up into the clouds under a sunless sky. Then there was nothing.

Now I knew how Forest Gump felt.

But without any of the accomplishments or exciting stories...

Just the bench sitting.

I buried my face so deep into the palms of my hands my eyeballs made an indention in the bone.