September 26, 2008

I’ve been to one real college lecture and so far, so good. Mushroom, Mold, Society is going to be one of my favorite classes; the professor is great, the references to drugs and alcohol keep it interesting, and there’s always PLENTY of bike parking on the south end of the building.

This morning, I came out of class happier than Tom Cruise – bag over shoulder, keys in hand, eyes on my watch. “I have an hour and a half to kill. Awesome.” I fumble awkwardly with my bike lock for about 5 minutes, toss it into the basket, dump my bag, and walk it to the sidewalk, where I swing my leg over and merge with oncoming traffic (mostly other bikes and double decker buses – random, I know.) I have these big mirrored plastic aviators that make me feel like the shit when I’m biking and the wind is blowing in my hair, so I wore them and… pretty much felt like the shit. And then, my bike starts to make this cracking noise. I swear I thought all of the screws were going to fall out and my bike was about to crumble beneath me. My face changed from arrogant asshole to panic really quickly when I glanced at my tires and saw that the strap of my bag had completely tangled its way into the spokes and chain. And then, my bike stopped. So fast, in fact, that my body was thrown a little forward, forcing my elbow onto the horn, causing it to blow and attracting unwarranted and unnecessary amounts of attention on me. At this point, I felt like shit. I swing my leg over, catching my shoe onto the edge of the wire basket in the process, and start pulling the strap with all the strength my body would allow – but to no avail. Ten minutes pass. I’m squatting on the ground (my glasses are on to avoid any recognition from passerbys), and eyeing my complicated mess in defeat, when a nice guy with great freckles, plaid shorts, and an olive green t-shirt leans over..

“Want some help?”  

“No, I’m fine. My strap is just stuck.”

He stands up, puts his cellphone to his ear, and mutters:
“Tim, I’ll call you back.”

I’m really embarrassed by now, praying to all the higher powers that this guy was not as cute as I as initially saw.

I looked up.

He was.

So he picked up my bike, spun the wheel twice, and set my bag strap (and frustrations) free. He coyly smiles and says, “Welcome to UC Davis.” I probably blushed more than I ever have in my life when I smiled a quick thanks, half hoping he would ask for my name (or my number) – but he didn’t. He just walked away, opened his cellphone, called his friend Tim, and continued his life and conversation. I couldn’t help but smile all the way to my dorm.

I’m looking at all of the holes in my schedule, thinking that those spaces will be full of more embarrassing, serendipitous events to come and I can’t wait. I didn’t even say that I was a freshman, but there was something about me that was so blatantly naive to him. Even if I did know what it was that makes me “so freshman”, I wouldn’t change it. One day I’ll realize the world is dark and scary and grow out of the feeling, but not today. And plus, I think it’s just something you can’t describe, you just know it when you see it.

So to all of the great freckles, plaid shorts, and olive green t-shirted guys of UC Davis (and the world), thanks.