Picture, if you will, a cold January day in 1993. The wind is sweeping the frost over the empty, snow covered fields adjacent to the ITT Technical Institute in Salt Lake City. There is a biting chill in the air. In the distance, there stands on a street corner a lone figure, pacing back and forth to keep warm. That figure is me.
(In order to fully appreciate this story, read part 1 first)
One of the downsides of being a poor, starving student is the reliance on often unreliable public transportation. One of the downsides of unreliable public transportation is that it is often late, when you really, really, really need it to be on time.
In the distance, another figure approaches. The blowing snow manages to obscure the identity of the stranger until the distinct sound of polyester pants hit my ears. Time seemed to stop. Where IS that bus?!? There are times that I would trade places with even the most unlikely people, say maybe a passenger on the Hindenburg, or the slow, sick wildebeast that will unquestionably be picked off of the herd by a pack of hungry hyenas. Both of those have it pretty good compared to what I will have to endure. He steps up to the bus stop.
Mr. Golden Arches didn't indicate whether or not he had remembered me from the last time. He probably sees that crazed look in everyone's eyes as they look for ways to escape him. "We're getting a lot of snow", he says.
"Yep", I offer vocally, while thinking bitterly with my inside voice "That's why the #&#**#$^ bus is late and I'm still here!"
The snow has started to let up a bit, and you can actually see the other side of the street at this point. Not that there's much to look at over there. He looks wistfully off into nowhere, and starts to reminisce.
"I remember two years ago, we got a TON of snow in our yard, " he started off. I nodded. Doh, suppress nod! He then started weaving a tale of nine feet of snow, and building igloos with his brothers. Igloos of enormous proportions that can apparently house lawn chairs and space heaters. Three of them, in his front yard. I kept nodding occasionally, then kicking myself for nodding.
Jenny pulled up to the intersection across the street and waited for the green light. She looked over at me at the bus stop, pointed, laughed and then sped away. Glad that I could be someone's humor fodder. I pull my attention back to the prattle of fiction that is emanating from Burger Meister.
"...And so then, I made this catapult out of a car jack, and started launching these snowballs that were the size of bowling balls at my brothers forts...." I could feel the fabric of reality being stretched to its very limits, and immediately started looking around for something I could cling to, should a wormhole open up nearby. Truly, he had missed his calling. What he lacked in artistic ability, he clearly overcompensated for in the storytelling department. Specifically fiction. Something wasn't right, though. His parade was just yearning for me to rain on it, and yet, you know what they say about arguing with a crazy person.
"Umm...." I ventured, trying to break into his kevlar-coated bulletproof conversation. "I was just wondering, how did you make that catapult out of a car jack? I mean, because, you know, I've never seen a spring loaded car jack."
He stopped talking, and a blank look came across his face. I went into auto-pilot mode and watched myself continue. "Most car jacks are hydraulic, except for those screw-drive types. And all of them take a few minutes to get your car off the ground."
"But, you see, snowballs are a lot lighter than a car" he countered. Truly, his intellect was dizzying. I scanned the road for any sign of the bus... or any vehicle, for that matter, that could conveniently hit a patch of ice and take either one of us out. I'm not choosy at this point!
"And you said this was two years ago?" I asked. "What part of town do you live in?"
"Murray" he replied.
"Ah, well, I remember that year. I live on the east bench of the valley, you know, where we get a lot of snow? We hardly had six inches of snow in our yard at any one time."
"Oh. Well, we got a lot that year." he replied, a bit on the defensive.
"Of course you did" I said, suprising even myself at the dripping sarcasm that accompanied my words. I moved a few feet further away, calculating my chances of survival if he were to go nuts and attack me with a spatula. Mr. Snowball Express remained mysteriously quiet. The muffled sound of a city transit bus emanated from further down the road. Thus ended the sequel to my polyester nightmare, as I graduated from ITT two months later, and always - always managed to catch the earlier bus from that point on.
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