Theater 120

I found out late last semester that not only was the joke of an English class I was enrolled in one I had already been accredited for, but my major of choice required a minor.  I was confined in the Academic Advising waiting room for thirty minutes just to have them slap me in the face.  Metaphorically, of course.

And while I was there, the only thing I had to pass the time was a stack of Forbes magazines lying on the table.  I’m assuming that they chose this particular subscription to inspire the many students of SDSU who file through that waiting room on the daily.  Y’know, let them all know that, “Hey!  Follow your dreams!  College is here for you to major in whatever you choose to pursue!  But, mu’fucka, whatever you choose better get you in this magazine, ‘cuz money makes the world go ‘round and shit.”

Thus begins my journey down Find Yourself Road.  I’ve planned out my next two semesters to systematically take a jab at each promising minor.  The first on my list of Minor Auditions: Theater Arts.  (Get it?  Auditions, theater arts?  I’m so clever.)

So I’m sitting in Little Theater 161, the locale of my newest endeavor.  This relatively normal guy comes in a little tardy and stumbles down the ramp to my particular row.  After not-so-gracefully stepping over my leather bag and French book, he plops himself down in the seat next to me.

About an hour into class, Charlie — I’ve decided to name him Charlie, go with me on this — bends over into his bag.  I glance over at Chuck but quickly return my attention to the front of the room, where my professor was enthusiastically shouting about Orson Welles.  Suddenly, through my peripheral vision, I notice that good ol’ Chuckaroo had whipped out a knife.

I don’t think he noticed my initial “WHAT THE FUCK” reaction as I kept the alarmed squeal inside my head but I’m sure he noticed my casual nudging to the gal on my left, attempting to make notice of what was happening about an inch to my right.

Then Charles took out an old fashioned wooden pencil and proceeded to go at it with the knife.

Should I run into my pal Charlie ever again, I’ve noted to have a pencil sharpener prepared with the intention of gifting it to him.  The guy scared the living daylights out of me for a whole five seconds.

But, had it been in the cards for me to die this young, I guess going out by getting shanked during theater class wouldn’t be a necessarily uninteresting way to go about it.