Bumming A Smoke (156)
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I greased those skids perfectly: Betsy reacted very taken aback and excited at the same time.
“Wow, I haven’t thought about that book for so long, I’d forgotten where it had gone, but I’d love to get it back. Thank you for hanging onto it.”
“No sweat, I’d like to bring it to you sometime.”
She didn’t act disagreeable to the suggestion, and I didn’t want to leave it there.
“Would you write down your number for me? (I didn’t plan on asking that.) Oh, or do you still have the same phone number, so I could call before coming over?”
She nodded, a little perplexed, “It is the same.”
“Oh, well, I should be able to recall it from memory, I guess, if I try hard enough.”
Betsy gave a dubious chuckle, not sure whether I meant it to be taken humorously or not. I downplayed it with a smile. The class went on, without further developments between us by dismissal.
That night I ended up joining some random friends who were going to a keg party. It turned out to be at a house off Milledge. I didn’t know who lived there, but it didn’t matter. Once out of our vehicles we filtered into the gathering outside the house, Panic coming from speakers on the deck off the side of the house.
I got a lump in my throat when I noticed Betsy. I wasn’t up for that. I scanned the group and recognized several people from that little clique, including Hugh, Flip, Thomas, and others. I sucked it up. I congenially approached Betsy sitting on the stairs to the deck. (She welcomed the chat.)
That day had seen pre-registration for upperclassmen I asked Betsy what studio classes, if any, she was to be taking winter quarter.
“Oh, Materials, with Art Rosecrans.”
I chuckled with a smile, “Me, too.”
She laughed out loud, land I joined her, like it was supposed to be a joke, or something funny.
A little later I drifted back over to where Betsy was, for a couple lighthearted comments. I bummed a smoke from Jill, who was standing next to Betsy smoking. She obliged with a chuckle and tossed in a little sarcastic comment.
The conversation quickly died after that, and the keg party was lame. It wasn’t long before I left with my friends to go somewhere else. We hit downtown Athens.
Losing My Transmission
“If experience were to a human being like a transmission is to a car, what would happen if you lost your experience? Unlikely as it sounds, it is a condition that can exist. I had been operating from this neuropsychological state since 1987, but I wouldn’t even begin to realize it until after 1993 while I was attending the University of Georgia, a Drawing and Painting major and member of a social fraternity.”
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
