Page 11 - 90-94 Meteor

ISSUE 1, FALL 1990
THE METEOR
3
-Anonymous
The bell rang , and with it began the seemingly everlasting penance for not doing your dorm duty and other crimes: Friday Night Disciplinary Study Hall. I assumed my position beside the window, so I could be easily distracted from dwelling on the time, and in the back, so I could slumber should I feel the need to. As soon as the idea of a relatively long catnap began to entice me, George Arlotto entered the room, carrying with him the key to my heart and took his position as proctor.
My lust for shut-eye instantly diminished, I was alert, I was euphoric, I was in love. Bells rang, and fireworks exploded, chasing what I had thought was a hopeless case of sleep- addiction over to the dark side of the moon, almost as far away from me as Mr. Arlotto was. I drank him in as he called roll. Eyes like a river in the moonlight. A mouth so inviting one would automatically assume it contained the sexy smile that it did.
As my fantasies became more complex, my biological clock grew nauseous and began to concentrate on the six short hours of sleep I had received the previous night. Without think- ing, I yawned. He saw. I stifled it only after he had glimpsed the tell-tale sign of a sleepy person. The look he gave me, the forced disapproving look all teachers gave, no matter how young they were, overwhelmed me with such an incredible sense of guilt that I would have done anything to make up for it. My infatuation with George made me decide right then and there that I would not fall asleep in the next two hours ; I would prove to him that I was not the typical student whose only knowledge to thank V.E.S. for was how to sleep in class and not get caught. No I was not that person; rather, I was the woman who would someday be worthy of him, that is, as soon as I was an alumna.
I looked around the room. Note passing , whispering, look trading, all the petty methods of procrastination filled the room. All of the sudden, it began, the horrible, detestable process of uncontrollably falling asleep, of which I was the victim, not because of lack of sleep, but because of the basic understan- ding that life is better when I' m not awake, fully conscious, and hopelessly in love with my study hall proctor. The room darken- ed, grew hazy, and I was unable to focus in on anything. My eyes closed, my head dropped, and peaceful serenity began to co- coon me. But I caught myself, my determination to gain his ap- proval having conquered my ad-
diction to sleep.
Then, it began again. Mr.
Arlotto's powerful voice rang throughout the study hall, and although I struggled to make out what he was saying, alas, my brain had grown foggy; all I could hear was nonsense. He left the room, with him went my on- ly motivation to stay awake. My eyes grew heavier and heavier. I felt as if two large beasts walk- ing across my face had decided to take a break by stretching out on the soft skin which divided the world from my eyeballs. An hour until the study hall bell brought an end to our punish- ment for defying the rules of what we affectionately called "the hole."
George re-entered, his strut piercing the silent room, and my eyes snapped open, sending the two massive beasts flying through space, undoubtedly doomed to land on the Norman Rockwell masterpiece directly behind me. Sleep again was defeated. I smiled victoriously, but my glory was short-lived because at that moment Mr. Arlotto's " latest squeeze," entered the study hall. As he winked at her, I came to the harsh realization that George Arlotto didn't even know the agony I was going through for him and most likely never would, for as soon as that bell rang, he would leave me, my heavy heart, and my sleepy soul behind to frolic in the town of Lynchburg with his girlfriend.
But there was nothing I could do about it, so I tried to focus on the next best thing. But what was there? Before I could stop myself, I thought of my room, my haven. Often referred to as "the womb," my room was notoriously dedicated to the art of sleep. A tribute to deep dozes and intense dreams, it was a room where you could reach your higher consciousness, and slowly slip into the perfect state of being.
I longed to be there, I prayed for time to hurry along, but no, the usual conspiracy was there. As I looked up, it seemed as if George and his girlfriend were both looking at me, making me feel as though I were a pathetic mutt in need of shelter. I struggled to open my eyes, but too late, it was beyond my con- trol, I was rendered helpless against the powers that sleep held, powers with which the rest of my body yearned to connect.
I entered the second stage, half awake and half asleep ; this was the most confusing stage, the stage in which distortion kicked reality out of the second story window next to which I was lodged. The side of my brain asleep concentrated on my room and my down comforter,
while the other side, still alert, persistently tried to make out the words George was saying. The two sides began to inter- twine, forming a whole picture, and before I could pinch myself, George Arlotto was in my room, falling asleep under my com- forter, and speaking utter gib-
Reality had definitely become way too twisted and warped, and with that last bizarre pic- ture, the alert side of my brain gave up, waving its white flag to the obviously preferred side of my brain, the side in which the impossible can happen. The lights in study hall dimmed , the note passers and look ex- changers dwindled on the cliff of
existence, then fell off. My eyes rolled around in my head, the tired beasts having staked their territory once again, and then, finally , my head swayed to one side, and promptly fell to the desk. I, the poor love-sick victim
of sleep addiction, was out for the count with only a half hour left to Friday Night Study Hall to go. Sorry George.
berish. George Arlotto in room asleep in my bed!
my
Frustration Zero__________
by G01·don Baggett
I was certain my knuckles were white from the fixed grip of my father's supposedly benevolent handshake which I was receiving. He finally releas- ed his overpowering clutch of my hand freeing me into the midst of the airport. It not only released me into the line of im- patient people passing through the security gate, but into manhood as well. It was my first time traveling without parental supervision. Somewhat embar- rassed, I glanced down at my hand to observe it regaining color. I inhaled, sticking out my chest a bit, as I proceeded on with confidence. Being only twelve _vears old, I was over- whelmed with my success in convincing my parents it was safe in airports and unnecessary for me to be listed as an unac- companied minor. I had heard about those so called chaperones who escorted one off the plane and protected him through that dangerous hallway of tourists and businessmen where he was babysat until the connecting flight.It!;asalwaysbeenoneof my natural tendencies to escape from ridiculous and redundant guidelines I am put under. But since I hadn't found a convinc-
cing explanation to tell the airline staff that I wasn't a minor, I tookcare of the problem beforehand, successfully of coutse. So there I stood in line about two feet shorter than the average height, with my envelope of emergency money in hand , ignorant of my mother's red lipstick print on my cheek, grinning.
My grin soon vanished along with my confidence and courage and every bit of excitement that had dwelled inside my tiny heart. It was the security buzzer that rang in the ears of everyone in the area and turned all eyes towards my blushing face and guilty eyes. In mental anguish I scanned the room for the faces of my parents who had appar- ently left me stranded with my guilt and the 250 pounds of wild, pulsating, barbaric muscle in uniform pulling me to the side. As instructed, I emptied my pockets to reveal a miniature
switchblade no more than an inch and a half long brought along purely out of habit. It was so small that it was hidden by a quarter and overlooked. I pass- ed through undetected this time. With a sigh of relief, I ambled onto the plane.
I noticed that the seats were substantially large and ap- peared comfortable. I was look- ing forward to relaxation and possibly a brief snooze on the flight ahead. In an attempt to ig- nore the strange onlooking faces , I acted interested in how the numbers appeared in order along the sides of the luggage compartments which were vir- tually the ceiling for me.
Finally my eyes fixed themselves upon the same number as the one written on the ticket which was glued in my hand: 26-E. The letter signified the center seat which was not so bad but there were two con- siderably overweight people sit- ting in the two adjoining seats. To add to my displeasure, the seat was about half as wide as the first one I say which had been a firstclass seat. The woman on the aisle side didn't offer to stand on my entrance to the seat. I didn't blame her. She was about four times my size. It looked like much more trouble for her to stand than for me to simply climb over . But the climb wasn't so easy. It would have been impolite to pull on the seats ahead, so I miraculously managed to balance myself with the mini air vent and the orange button to alert the stewardess until I slowly sank between the fat rippling thighs on either side of me. One of the stewardesses came immediately to my row. " How can I help you?" she asked.
" Well you can put these two hippo 's down below with the lug- gage!" I thought. She unpress- ed the previously illuminated button with the outline of a woman on it that I had acciden- tally pressed in my maneuver- ings. " I'm fine," was my customary reply . I regretted that answer for the rest of the flight.
Fortunately I had no connect- ing flight but this one was going
to be hell. I assumed putting the armrests down was probably out of the question ; I didn't ask. I sat with my hands between my knees struggling to avoid con- tact with the sweaty unshaven legs of the female ogre on my right and the stained cutoff Levi 's of her bestial husband on my left. I remained in that posi- tion for the entire flight staring at the meal tray and the "barf bag" in front of me. It was not a total loss. I did learn one thing: " ABROCHENSE LOS CINTURIONES CUANDO SE SIENTAN," the spanish transla- tion of "Fasten your seat belt while seated."
The plane finally landed. While exiting, the only thing on my mind was my imperative need to relieve myself in the men's room, which is exactly
where I went after deplaning. I stepped up to one of many un- divided stalls on the wall of the crowded bathroom when my frustration took over. I couldn't seem to find the opening in the front of my underpants! Several seconds passed until an older teenager beside me commented,
"Are you sure you're in the right bathroom? ''
The family I was to stay with was standing outside the bath- room, all with smiles, as if fly- ing was some major ordeal or something. After hugging the woman I was asked, "Well, how was it?"
"How was what?" I said, grinning.
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