People tend to call me Brian. My mother gave me the name George, but somewhere along the way, my name has changed. I tend to like the look of Brian better due to the lack of G�s in Brian. My G�s in cursive look very bad. I used to try and perfect my G�s back in grade school, but I gave up and phased out the usage of George. As I sit here, I�m writing my name on some leftover napkins. It�s not that exciting, but it's not that dull; a nice balance. I've claimed these food court napkins.
I notice a rather fat woman seating herself at the table two rows up from mine. She reminds me of a large version of Pac-Man. It�s mean to say, yes, but some Christian organization can make up for my cruelty by being nice and passing out �God�s word� to starving people. Eat my karma so to speak. The fat woman reaches into her large bag, and pulls out some sort of sandwich. I�m staring at her, but she seems so intent on conquering her sandwich that she doesn�t notice me. The saran wrap is hastily taken off and put aside. She sets the sandwich down on the plastic, reaches in her bag, and pulls out a plastic bottle of Coke. She takes the cap off and sets it right above the sandwich. She then rubs her hands together with a look of glee in her eye. Images pop into my head of a fighter doing warm-up exercises before his big match. Finally, she glances quickly down at the sandwich, and proceeds to devour the entire thing in less time than it took the man in the nearby table to take two bites of his wonton dish. The cat-and-mouse game continues as she wipes her mouth with the back of her massive arm. With a quick hiccup, and an even quicker grab, the Coke is reduced to memory. Without haste, she picks up her bag and she is gone. I stare at the empty coke bottle, the plastic wrap, and then back to my napkin where I had been drawing spirals ever since I first saw the woman.
I go back to my writing, until my mind wanders upon the thought of the fat woman. I glance at the coke bottle and the plastic wrap and wonder how feeble a person�s existence is. The only thing that I could possibly prove that a large woman with a bag sat at that table is simply an empty coke bottle and a sheet of plastic wrap. Everything else just exists within my mind, and who can prove what they remember? I stand up, leaving my napkin scribbles on the table, and walk over to the lady�s table. Picking up the piece of plastic and the coke bottle, I walk over to the trash. Once again I find myself in my usual game. What to keep, and what to throw away? I decide on the plastic wrap and walk out of the mall with my prize clenched between two fingers.
The drive home is surprisingly exciting. At one stop-light I glance over to the fellow next to me. His lips are moving to a song that only he can hear. I start singing myself so it looks like he�s singing the song that I choose. The light has turned green at this point and the truck behind me begins to honk. Reluctantly, I go straight onward, while my stop-light buddy goes right.
Upon arriving home, I pull out one of the tags I keep in a little box by my door. �7/12/02, Fat Woman with Sandwich.� I label it. I tape the label to the plastic wrap and tack the piece of plastic next to my �1/12/02, Hungarian with Ceasers salad,� styrofoam container. My collection has enabled me to glimpse into people�s lives. Historians document the lives of famous people. I document the lives of the people that make the famous people, famous.
Chapter Two
The most unnatural thing I can think of is waking up to the sound of a little plastic box making the worst noise imaginable. It�s 7:30, and that means it�s time for classes to begin. After putting on the same pants I wore yesterday, and the shirt I wore to bed, I�m ready to go. Ah, first off I have a basic English class. I never was one for grammar skills, but there are some very interesting people in my class. My only reason for even attending the class is so I can watch the subtle soap-opera unfold in many different ways. Sometimes I have to take the role of director to spice things up, but usually I take my seat in the back and just watch the people.
As soon as I walk in I notice the lead actors sitting in their usual places. We have the girl who sits write in front of the professor�s desk and always stares at him when he gives lectures. She doesn�t take notes, she just stares. It�s obvious she desires the professor, so I�m waiting for the moment when I move in and make things happen� Either for the better or worse, it�ll still be interesting. This girl reminds me so much of a character from a Spanish cartoon, that I have mentally named her Sunnette. In this cartoon, Sunnette has a thing for a squirrel named Victor. When Victor walks by her, her eyes turn into hearts and she seems to lose her groundings. Occasionally she has fallen out of the tree branch she is usually perched on and her hitting the ground is followed by a loud �Caramb!�
The other actors include a boy who sits up one row from me, who would fit the role of a stereotypical jock-type. He is always hitting on this girl that sits in front of him. I have affectionately named them Jock and Julie. They play the little flirt game, until she stops it. He calls her a tease. She calls him a jerk. I think they want each other.
The person I most identify with so far is an older gentleman that sits at the end of the same row as Jock. He could care less about the little conflicts these people have with each other, but at the same time he gets a kick out of it. He also watches Jock and Julie and when they play their little game, he smiles a little quirky smile that causes wrinkles to appear out of nowhere on his aged face.
The professor walks in and the show is started. �Good morning class.� He says with a little glance to his briefcase. Yup, another quiz today just my luck. �Today we�ll be having a pop-quiz. Put away your notes and open up those brains I know you all have hidden away.� The professor says. I hear a giggle from the front row and know that Sunnette is laughing like she always does at whatever the professor says.
The professor starts his lecture with the ordinary grammar lecture. Today he tells us we get the opportunity to learn about parallelism. I start nodding off until I notice that Jock has started throwing rolled up pieces of paper into Julie�s hair. She turns around, and in a hushed whisper, tells him to �knock it off.� She turns back around, and he sticks one of the little paper balls into his mouth. He takes out a hollow pen-casing and sends the spit-wad flying into her ear. At the end of Jock�s row, I hear the middle-aged man laughing. Julie stands up quickly, takes her English book in both hands and smashes it against the side of Jock�s face. She then gathers her bag and her book and walks out of the classroom. Jock laughs, trying to shake the embarrassment. Judging by the mark that has already appeared on his face, his pride isn�t all that has been hurt.
Class ends after a few minutes of awkward silence. The professor tells Jock that he probably doesn�t need to be reminded how to act in the classroom in future times.