Back to School
I was back on campus, again, the leafy, stately campus of the undergrad alma mater, in its early fall midwest glory. Pretty much the same as it was before, 20-odd years ago, but some subtle changes. The library had gotten a pretty significant makeover, and looked like a space ship now, not the large white block that it was when I spent days and nights inside, not like that night my girlfriend and I hid in the stacks and got drunk and had deliciously abandoned sex on the reference librarian's desk, and then again (I was that quick?) way down deep in the sub-basement, on the couch outside the map collection, and then a 1-2-3 and through the break-bar emergency alarm and out into the October chill. Man, hadn't thought of that in a while.
Trying to find a place to park, and I suddenly realized that I was driving a big SUV right down campus. Good thing the place was relatively uncrowded, although we were just creeping along. Who the hell was with me? Fellow alum? At least it seemed that way. Over to the north side of campus, where the radio station used to be, the building we climbed one night like a cliff face, using the native limestone blocks as hand- and foot holds as we went right on up the outside, and in a third floor window to poke around and goof off.
So much for the parking, now we were just trying to find a way out. I just wanted to get down to the big avenue at the bottom of the hill which lay only about 200 yards behind the northern line of buildings. But how the hell to get there? Turned behind a building, the Suburban or whatever it was, huge and black and shiny, sluggish yet throbbing with power. Nope, nothing there but two brand-new buildings, with a fascinating dark brick exterior, incorporating what I thought was a brilliant and artistic flash of very subtle red, blue, white, orange, and black tiles under the windows. The building looked low and sleek, modern and sporty, but it was just a brick building. I was impressed.
So backed up and around to the other side. There used to be a parking lot here, with a road down, but no more. How the hell to get down? And then finally, around another building, parked cars and a way out. But an access control point. Not a drop-bar for smart cards, but an actual point controlled by guards. But these guards were students, or at least student-aged people. Both had their oranged vests on, but had put their heads through the arm holes, so the vest draped down their fronts, folded, like some kind of day-glo bib for idiots. I looked, and was relieved to see they had no weapons.
We passed through, down the shaded way and over the speed bumps and out, and I was back up in one of the buildings, moving from room to room for a medical check-up. The guys were very thorough, with a whole team of doctors coming and going to see me. Lots of questions, all about my history, my complaints, all kinds of stuff. They were really paying attention to me.
And then a breakthrough. I'd been having some problem with my feet, and the line of questioning got very detailed, very intense. They didn't let on, but just the atmosphere told me there were moving toward something. They were conferring, nodding, an agreement being reached. Then one doc approached and told me he was happy they'd concurred on what the problem was. And he was even more happy that it could be fixed very, very quickly. Okay, that was good, but he was holding back.
Well, it seems that the nature of the foot problems also was extremely esoteric and rare, something hardly ever seen. In fact the only reason my situation had been caught was that a passing senior research physician had stopped into the doctor's lounge, overheard their puzzled discussions of my feets, and had plugged it into his own highly obscure work, and it had all fallen into place. Huzzah!
Yeah, okay . . . and? Well, what the docs wanted was for my curing procedure to take place in front of a class audience. They wanted to use me as a teaching tool. Okay, that's not a problem, I'm up for that. The doc paused, and I knew that wasn't quite it.
Well, the nature of the problem is a parasitic organism. Yeah, and? Well, it lives and breeds . . . in the rectum. Oh, so I was going to be splayed out and dealt with in front of 300 medical students, any number of doctors with their hands and feet and large, cold medical instruments up my ass? Well, yeah, most likely . . . and the chrome buttock spreaders . . . What!?
The doc intimated that they'd fix me, and quickly, and for free, if I'd agree. If I didn't, well, then they didin't know when they could fit me into their busy schedules, and that they didin't know if I'd get their full concentration on this difficult procedure and . . . Yeah, I got it, doc, cooperate or don't get treated.
Okay, I'll do it, but want to be anonymous to the students. I don't care how, just no face, no identifiers. A curtain or something. The doc volunteered: a hood? Yeah, sure, I don't care. It's not like I need to be seeing what's going on. So, he pursued, do you want to bring your own, or should we give you one? We'd probably just give you a pillow case or something. Sure, that's fine. Or maybe you could make something yourself, something customr, with some padding, maybe a nice collar, form-fitting, with some decoration on the outside, something you'd want to be seen in . . .
And I faded right on out.
Trying to find a place to park, and I suddenly realized that I was driving a big SUV right down campus. Good thing the place was relatively uncrowded, although we were just creeping along. Who the hell was with me? Fellow alum? At least it seemed that way. Over to the north side of campus, where the radio station used to be, the building we climbed one night like a cliff face, using the native limestone blocks as hand- and foot holds as we went right on up the outside, and in a third floor window to poke around and goof off.
So much for the parking, now we were just trying to find a way out. I just wanted to get down to the big avenue at the bottom of the hill which lay only about 200 yards behind the northern line of buildings. But how the hell to get there? Turned behind a building, the Suburban or whatever it was, huge and black and shiny, sluggish yet throbbing with power. Nope, nothing there but two brand-new buildings, with a fascinating dark brick exterior, incorporating what I thought was a brilliant and artistic flash of very subtle red, blue, white, orange, and black tiles under the windows. The building looked low and sleek, modern and sporty, but it was just a brick building. I was impressed.
So backed up and around to the other side. There used to be a parking lot here, with a road down, but no more. How the hell to get down? And then finally, around another building, parked cars and a way out. But an access control point. Not a drop-bar for smart cards, but an actual point controlled by guards. But these guards were students, or at least student-aged people. Both had their oranged vests on, but had put their heads through the arm holes, so the vest draped down their fronts, folded, like some kind of day-glo bib for idiots. I looked, and was relieved to see they had no weapons.
We passed through, down the shaded way and over the speed bumps and out, and I was back up in one of the buildings, moving from room to room for a medical check-up. The guys were very thorough, with a whole team of doctors coming and going to see me. Lots of questions, all about my history, my complaints, all kinds of stuff. They were really paying attention to me.
And then a breakthrough. I'd been having some problem with my feet, and the line of questioning got very detailed, very intense. They didn't let on, but just the atmosphere told me there were moving toward something. They were conferring, nodding, an agreement being reached. Then one doc approached and told me he was happy they'd concurred on what the problem was. And he was even more happy that it could be fixed very, very quickly. Okay, that was good, but he was holding back.
Well, it seems that the nature of the foot problems also was extremely esoteric and rare, something hardly ever seen. In fact the only reason my situation had been caught was that a passing senior research physician had stopped into the doctor's lounge, overheard their puzzled discussions of my feets, and had plugged it into his own highly obscure work, and it had all fallen into place. Huzzah!
Yeah, okay . . . and? Well, what the docs wanted was for my curing procedure to take place in front of a class audience. They wanted to use me as a teaching tool. Okay, that's not a problem, I'm up for that. The doc paused, and I knew that wasn't quite it.
Well, the nature of the problem is a parasitic organism. Yeah, and? Well, it lives and breeds . . . in the rectum. Oh, so I was going to be splayed out and dealt with in front of 300 medical students, any number of doctors with their hands and feet and large, cold medical instruments up my ass? Well, yeah, most likely . . . and the chrome buttock spreaders . . . What!?
The doc intimated that they'd fix me, and quickly, and for free, if I'd agree. If I didn't, well, then they didin't know when they could fit me into their busy schedules, and that they didin't know if I'd get their full concentration on this difficult procedure and . . . Yeah, I got it, doc, cooperate or don't get treated.
Okay, I'll do it, but want to be anonymous to the students. I don't care how, just no face, no identifiers. A curtain or something. The doc volunteered: a hood? Yeah, sure, I don't care. It's not like I need to be seeing what's going on. So, he pursued, do you want to bring your own, or should we give you one? We'd probably just give you a pillow case or something. Sure, that's fine. Or maybe you could make something yourself, something customr, with some padding, maybe a nice collar, form-fitting, with some decoration on the outside, something you'd want to be seen in . . .
And I faded right on out.
posted by Scrumpox at 7:20 AM
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