Caricatures of Classmates

Every Wednesday evening I have a Physical Science class that lasts for 3 hours. The class is difficult, confusing and monotonous, which means that it is a perfect time for self-reflection. Occasionally the hours of inward wanderings are punctured by the sight of a fascinating creature: the classmate. Each week I am repeatedly drawn to the same three classmates.

The first two classmates are actually a pair. I don't know their names, so I will be bold and give them names that I deem suitable. The first is Travis. Travis is brown haired, average-build, hooded eyes, and white skin that suggests hours of basement videogame playing. He wears t-shirts that tell grim and shadowy stories and a skull-shaped ring on his hand. Travis, in and of himself, is not a fascinating creature. It is the combination of Travis and his companion that creates the entertainment.

Travis is always joined by a small female. I name her Stephanie. When I first saw Stephanie I assumed she was a brilliant girl that graduated from high school early and is now attending college at the tender age of twelve. I conclude that this isn't the case; she is just an unusually small girl with a haircut that enables her young looks. Stephanie is 5' 1" tall, her blonde hair falls to her shoulders like spaghetti, and she has perfectly round glasses. Stephanie even dresses like a young teenager, which only adds to the confusion. All these factors add up--you think she is twelve years old.

At the beginning of the semester Travis and Stephanie were always separated by a single seat and a muttered comment to each other was rare. There was little contact between them. However, I saw potential for these two; I felt that by the end of the semester a romance might be forged. I was right.

Tonight is the last day of class and the romance is fully bloomed. I believe that Love realized the end of class is looming and She forced the paralyzing boredom aside and pressured these two to hook up. Tonight, for the first time, Travis and Stephanie sit side by side with joined fingers and tender eyes. Without the impending shadow of semester's end who knows if Love would have pressured itself to the surface.

The dull passion between these two have created a pleasant distraction from my boredom. The absence of this distraction would have forced me to pay attention to something that matters, like the lecture. Thank heavens I didn't have to pay attention to the lecture; I'd hate to be caught doing something useful. The idea makes me sick.

The third, and last, classmate sits in the far left column of seating.

On the left and a few rows in front of me sits an 80 year old man. He is majoring in family history (I'm impressed he'd come to college...that has to be intimidating). I like to think his name is John Flam. Before class starts John Flam hunches over his text book and scrutinizes the text using a massive magnifying glass that dangles around his neck. Class starts and he glares his bushy eyebrows at the teacher. Halfway through the lesson he begins picking his nose. Picks his nose then rubs his head. That's the process. Pick rub, pick rub, pick rub. Every once in a while he pulls out a tissue and gives his nose a few slow wipes. It creates a fascinating rhythm: pick rub, pick rub, pick rub, pick rub wipe, wipe, wipe, pick rub, pick rub, pick rub wipe, wipe, wipe, wipe. In this dull, monotonous class this man and his rhythm create action and, I like to think, passion. Thank you, John Flam. Thank you.