who?
second june | five post meridiem
Ask me why I'm whittling
Contrary to popular belief, this is not the first time I've worked around those who work around metal. In college my work study job was to assist the campus mechanics and electricians. I was selected - nay, Chosen - for this honor because of my then-willowy physique and knowledge of late European colonialist history and manners. I changed lightbulbs. Sometimes air filters, and occasionally they'd ask me to put things on top of other, heavier things. But lightbulbs were my specialty. This kept me busy for about 45 minutes. Actually, changing dead bulbs took me about 14; I spent the other 31 playing with the 3-story high extendo-suction grip fun toy, shakily unscrewing good bulbs and then putting them back. This challenge exhausted, I realized that I'd have to find a really stealthy place to take naps, or else I'd soon go out of my mind with boredom.
There is a network of tunnels which extends under the Vrgrn campus, to every building but the residence halls. We had these little armor-plated battery powered vehicles - the humvees of the golf cart world - that we'd drive through them. They were a lot of fun, especially on a decline where you could reach eye-watering speeds, as long as you remembered to not get decapitated by low-hanging beams and wires. It was a good thing the tunnels didn't extend to the dorms, since they soon would've been colonized by Greeners. Greeners are like smelly wood sprites or racoon families and will live anywhere - shortly after the most successful bank robber in US history shot himself, they took over his treehouse. Actually, there was a student living in one of the tunnels for a while. He found this long, narrow dead end nook under the CAB and set up house. He was discovered and evicted, but they left his stuff and simply put up a locked gate over the entrance. I got the tour on my first day. The place is filled with trinkets and action figures and broken out televisions, with a small army of garden gnomes and plastic Santas under the dust. There's even a guestbook for visitors to sign.
It didn't take me long to explore every nook and cranny of the campus. There are hidden doors and closets behind closets in the restrooms; mystery doors which open into pitch black nothingness disguising some horrible whirring machine; trap doors in the ceiling which give access to roof areas whose only conceivable use would be as good sniping positions. It wasn't long before I found my spot. Above one of the lecture halls is a well-lit room filled with pipes and ventilation shafts. A little versatility will get you past them and into an alcove just high enough to stand, and just wide enough to lie down. I cleaned it up and the next day brought a pillow and blanket to stash there. Many moons passed. One day I overslept and had to clock out late. No one asked any questions, but I brought an alarm clock the next day anyway. Soon I started assembling a small library. A friend lent me her GameBoy. My alcove and I grew accustomed to each other; developed a deep mutual fondness like that between an aged husband and wife. When I quit I left a small frilly pillow, a copy of Lenny Bruce's How to Talk Dirty and Influence People, and a note reading EMBRACE SLOTH(s) ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE. I didn't even consider a guestbook; my alcove is a refuge for those persecuted by ennui and is not to be trod and gawked at by the racoon riff raff. I hope it's found someone who will appreciate it.