reading The auditorium is small; it can only hold about a hundred-fifty people. It’s almost full and about two-thirds of the people here are students like me. Out of that fraction, I’d say about two-thirds of them came because they had to, because it was a class requirement. I wish the professors wouldn’t require students to come to these readings. You can tell they don’t give a damn for what John Dufrense has to say. They stay just long enough to get a grasp of what happened, long enough to write a page for the next day’s class.Jason Mouzon I’m sitting in an extra foldout chair in the back left corner of the auditorium.The chair is red and cushioned, like the other seats here. But it has a cold,shiny metallic frame. This differs from the hard, rough-feeling plastic of allthe others, which covers the back of each individual seat and makes them looksomewhat like black shells covering a beetle. The foldouts are here between thedoors and the rows of permanent seats in anticipation of an overflow, but thereal reason is for latecomers. In either case, you could say that they are forthe unexpected. Groups pour in and no one takes the empty foldout chairs on either side of me.People I have seen around campus for three years see the vacancy that surroundsme and decide to sit elsewhere. Three freshman girls sashay their way towardsme. I look them in the eyes and smile, to which they reply with curt smiles oftheir own and sit down in the section of red-cushioned, permanently bolted theaterseats to my right, talking amongst themselves loudly. They scan the area, lookingfor people they know. Laughing and smiling, I know their jovial mood hides adeeper contempt for having to be here. I decide to eavesdrop on their conversations, mainly to figure out who the leaderof this cheer-squad is and to also pass the time. There’s about ten minutesbefore John Dufrense is due to arrive and read his stories. The one with thebrown, shoulder length hair and red T-shirt that says she’s a bitch insparkly star glitter is in charge. I know she’s the leader because everyopinion she voices is met with instant concurrence. “Craig is a dick to Bonnie” “Oh, I know” “Bronze Body is the cheapest tanning bed in town” “Oh, I know” “I can’t wait to get out of here” “Oh, I know” I become disgusted with the whole situation and lean back in my chair. An old man comes through the door to my left. He shuffles past me and sits inanother red foldout chair to my right, directly behind the cheer squad. He’swearing those twelve-dollar Wal-Mart shoes with the velcro straps with a green,red and white plaid dress shirt, and pale blue Wrangler pants. As he sits downand crosses his right leg over his left knee, his sock is exposed. It’swhite, except for the dried dirt stain that follows the outline of his shoe.He clears the phlegm from the back of his throat, which draws quick looks andthe silent ire from the cheer squad in front of him. People tend to sit with their own familiars at this sort of thing. Professorswith professors. Students with students. Pledges with corresponding brothersand sisters. Abercrombies and Gaps do not sit with the Wrangler or Puritan crowd.Victorias Secret thongs do not match with three-dollar underwear. The old manand I seem to be the only ones that don’t have any kin here. But maybewe are our own clique. Perhaps our isolation, our separation, is what definesus. Everyone in here that is my age looks the same, dresses the same. Not matching,but similar. Similar styles. There are T-shirts all around with Greek letterson the backs, which signify and identify. Girls with big belts and the same blondstreaked hair and big smiles. Guys with shaggy haircuts that are meant to makethem cool and different, but instead make them seem unoriginal by now. Three guys to my right, beyond the old man, are wearing the same outfits. Brown,saggy, multi-pocketed shorts. White T-shirts with computer screen blue sleeves.Brown and white faded baseball caps. One of them is particularly hip, for hewears the trucker style cap which has become trendy lately. For some reason Ipicture them, all in front of a running washing machine, playing ring aroundthe rosy and keeping the circle intact by holding each other’s dicks, andI don’t feel that’s so ridiculous. All of the English professors are dressed to the nines. The men are in suitsand the women are, like-wise, dressed professionally. It helps give the air ofan important event. They seem to sparkle tonight, seem livelier than they doin their classrooms. I can’t tell whether or not it’s from theirattire or from the drinks they shared at dinner with Dufrense beforehand. Theyall sit within a fifteen-foot radius of each other, mostly to the left of theauditorium. A few others sit directly in front of the podium. There’s a few minutes left before John Dufrense is supposed to begin reading.He comes down through the doors to my front left, with the high-ranking membersof the English Department and the chancellor of the university in tow. Dufrensecould pass for an impersonator of Rod Stuart. The four English Honor Societymembers, who were out front trying to peddle said author’s books, comein. They are dressed to the nines as well, mainly because sitting outside sellingoverpriced books is a moment of recognition for them. I heard them hawking theirwares on my way in: “Buy this paperback collection of John Dufrense’sshort stories for twenty five dollars because I make straight A’s in Englishclasses!”. The audience slowly becomes quieter, knowing that they willhave to whisper to gossip from here until the end of the reading. The lights fade, and a striking English major glides toward the podium and thespotlight to give her introduction of the guest author. I know who she is; she’spart of the English Honor Society. I expect something well thought out, somethingwith strength, to sound praising, but the speaker’s tone screamed “Ihave better things to be doing now”. She’s wearing a thin yellowsweater and a white top with black slacks. The author himself takes to the podium.He starts out with a few thank you’s blown towards the faculty and chancellor.He jokes around with the audience a bit, and begins to read a short story ofhis. The old man to my right grunts as he heaves his body to an upright position inhis chair. The girls in front stop their chatter. The boys to the right stopbeing pretty. They all turn and look. The girls in front give him the stink-eye. |