Smoking Goldfish

1 11 2011

Visualize with me, because there’s no picture to accompany this post, as I didn’t have the phone with me and anyway it wouldn’t have been entirely ethical: 3-ish in the afternoon in the windowless classroom in the basement of Donovan Hall, where my students (those who have conquered the various illnesses circulating the dorms and made it in at all) are doing their diligent best to focus on today’s critical reading activities. They’re also ignoring my questions, so the third time I ask “Is everybody good with that part; can we move on?” and hear only crickets (and a few snickers when I add “Bueller?” into the silence), N glances up and says “Slow news day,” with perfect, uncomplicated delivery. This, of course, causes me to look at him. N has been munching his way through a torn bag of Goldfish Crackers throughout the session, alongside gently teasing the girl sitting next to him, who isn’t feeling well and looks sickly and miserable and badly in need of someone to make her soup (P in the back offered ramen). N, when I look up, is trying to amuse himself, L, or both of them, by looking at her faux-apathetically, his too-cool-for-school image inhanced by the forked tail of the bright orange cracker hanging off his lip like a cigarette. As I smirk, he takes the tail between two fingers for an exaggerated drag.

I told you: they make me laugh somehow every single day.

P.S. Dear Paul Chalmer & Dave Sherwin, et al., was there a point at which you stopped playing this game, or do you still think “that would make a great band name!” whenever particularly pithy phrases cross your mind (or eyes or ears)? This post title makes me wish I played an instrument (and had a spritely, whispy-throaty little indie-singer voice to go with it).




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