The Occupational Hazards of Campus Life

Every occupation has hazards that simply go with the territory. Welders know they will likely go blind early. Car mechanics know that oil stained fingers will just be a fact of life. Wood workers know that missing thumbs and fingers are signs of true experience. In their case, missing one finger isn’t bad. But missing more than one may mean you don’t learn from your mistakes.

Campus workers face similar occupational hazards, especially those who work in the engineering building. Daily struggles include doors which open into brick walls, a maze of interconnecting passages which include slopes and twists and turns so that those who enter from the west never quite know which door they’ll come out on the opposite side, and the infamous elevator. Passengers are never quite sure the elevator will decide to work when they enter. The intrepid still take the risk daily, skipping the stairs and their supposed healthful effects in favor of the Russian roulette of the elevator.

It operates like many octogenarians. Slowly, and creakily, with occasional lapses in memory. “Was I going up or down?” the elevator seems to wonder as it pauses midway between floors. The occupants wait with baited breath, sometimes punching the button a second time to remind the elevator of its direction, other times holding back, afraid that any sudden movements will send the elevator’s rickety belts crashing downwards without warning.

With a jerk, the elevator resumes its upward movement, stopping at the next level and waiting an interminable time before deciding it is safe to open the doors and allow its passengers a shaky kneed exit.

Gonga experiences all of these hazards, and more as he makes his way across campus daily, passing out flyers for The Textbook Game and playing his accordion. It’s really not that much different than dodging cobras and tripping over rotten logs in his home in the Congo. Some things just go with the territory. Though he could really do without the people taking advantage of his poor peripheral vision to dodge up behind him and steal his hat; or worse yet, the tip money out of his suitcase. That just ruins a gorilla’s day. The only thing worse is discovering a banana shortage at the store. But that’s a story for another day.

The Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

Winter Doldrums

Fans of maritime adventures know the devastating effects of the doldrums on the moral of sailors. Those long, lazy stretches of sea where the wind has completely died out and sailors have nothing but the grinding sameness of routine to mark the time from day to day. With the modern convenience of coal power, or some other sort of internal combustion, the doldrums no longer prove much of a nuisance. But less than a hundred years ago, sailors dreaded having to pass through those latitudes. The only cure for doldrums seemed to be scrubbing the deck, or making fancy knots or playing game after game of cards. In such confined quarters, it never took long before you lost your shirt, and maybe everything else along with it. But then again, the card shark could never quite get away from you either. And who knew, if you kept playing, you just might win it back again. Anything, and nothing could happen in the doldrums.

Gonga read about the doldrums last week. And the only reason he had time to read about such things was his own experience suffering through the doldrums. As a result, Gonga had taken to likening the down week of break after Christmas to the doldrums.

The first couple of weeks of break are fantastic. Christmas preparations, parties, food, songs, colored lights everywhere! But then the festivities end, all the decorations disappear, and you’re left with two more aching weeks before classes begin again. True, about three weeks into the semester, and you’ll be wishing you were back in doldrums, enjoying the peace and sunshine. But for now, you’re stuck in it, just waiting.

Gonga has been through his CD collection three times now. The first time he re-arranged all the CD’s so that they were in the proper case. The second time, he threw away CDs he decided were trashy, and made a list of the music he would like to acquire in the next year. The third time, he arranged them all in alphabetical order by artist.

He’s not sure what to do next. He’s almost wishing he had a deck to scrub, and a grumpy skipper to crack a whip and make him scrub it. At least then things would be a bit more interesting.

When the skipper failed to materialize, Gonga sighed and leaned his chin in his hand. Was it almost morning in Congo? Then at least he could Skype his parents and see if anything interesting was going on there.

Gonga tapped his fingers against the table top. Repetitive. Endlessly repetitive. Oh how he hated the winter doldrums.

The Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

Gonga’s New Year Resolutions

Gonga has resolved to change a few things about the way he works. For one, he has spent so many hours hearing his boss complain about people showing up late for work, that he has decided to lessen this experience for himself. In other words, Gonga has resolved to show up to work at least two hours late twice this year. That way he has reduced his time spent listening to complaining by four hours.

Gonga has also determined that he will set a completely new standard when it comes to the expectation to work overtime. He will double anyone’s overtime. This means that when his buddy Derrick works three hours of overtime, Gonga will figure out how to work six hours of overtime. It also means that when his boss puts in 35 hours of overtime doing the final inventory count for the year, Gogna has resolved to put in 70 hours of overtime during that same period. How exactly he intends to do this, he hasn’t quite determined. However, since there are 168 hours in a week, he doesn’t think that hitting 110 hours should be too much of an issue. Besides, he likes the idea of bringing a sleeping bag to work and camping out between the shelves of books for the night.

Historically Gonga has struggled with his weight. He can never quite manage to get it under control. He eats like crazy one week and makes a slight gain. But the second he catches a cold, or the second Derrick proposes some new crazy adventure, the gains slough off to nothing. He often despairs of ever attaining anything close to his father’s grand 250 pounds. So this year Gonga has set a new goal. He will eat a quart of icecream every single night. He will also make himself stop by Dairy Queen for lunch every other day and add a tall milkshake to his diet. Hopefully this will add 25 pounds by the end of the year. He’d have to gain 75 to match his athletic younger brother. But Gonga knows better than to hope for that. If he can just gain 25 pounds this year, and keep it on for at least two weeks, he will be thrilled.

I know that at this point, a number of you are beginning to resent Gonga. Perhaps you wish that you could come to work late a few times, end up sleeping at work in a sleeping bag and gain 25 pounds this year. I’m not sure that I would recommend this course of action for anyone besides a gorilla. But I can assure you that this particular set of resolutions is probably within your grasp, if you so choose.

Happy New Year!!!

~Textbook Game Blogger: Laura Prather

The Magic Tree: Part III

Gonga hurried back home that night, eager to rest and make plans for his adventure. He wanted to time his arrival at the Magic Tree to coincide with darkness, when the lights would be most beautiful. He knew he was a fast walker, and could easily cover ten miles in less than three hours. But it was already past midnight, and he wanted time to plan his route to avoid the highest traffic areas.

He also had a strange desire to walk into the sunset at the beginning of his trek. Somehow, walking into the sunset seemed like it would add just the touch necessary to bring his wishes to fruition. Just maybe something would happen. Just maybe, somehow, he would re-gain contact with his family.

He lay awake for over an hour that night, and when he did sleep, confused images of his family filled his mind.

He spent the morning passing out flyers for work and took off early to pull up maps and plan his route.

The clouds had finally parted, and as he set out, he watched a spectacular red sunset. Gonga smiled to himself. Things had started well. Maybe, just maybe they would end well also. How in the world going to the Magic Tree would help him in his search for his family, he had no idea. But one can always hope. And so he did.

A scant three hours later, he stood in front of the Magic Tree, witnessing its glow for the first time in his life. He watched in awe as the lights faded almost imperceptibly from red to blue, or from blue to green and back again. It was bigger than he had imagined, and more beautiful. He smiled wryly. Few things managed to exceed expectations like that.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “You from Congo?” A teenager wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie regarded him solemnly.

Gonga nodded, wondering how the boy had been able to tell.

“I keep getting these random texts from someone. They think I’m their son or something. Or at least, they did. Till I texted back and told them they had the wrong number. They tried to call too. But I didn’t answer. My phone plan doesn’t cover international calls. No way.”

Gonga felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Then they started asking me to contact their son. Said that he was from Congo or something. Anyway, you looked different, so I thought I’d ask.”

Gonga stuttered, “My family in Congo…” then his words failed him.

In the hours of conversation that followed, he finally unraveled the mystery. In his family’s haste to escape the approach of a gorilla band, the notebook with his phone number and other contact information had been forgotten. His youngest brother had insisted that he had Gonga’s number memorized, and so when the family reached one of the major cities, they bought their first cell phone and tried contacting their son. But his brother had unwittingly flipped a couple numbers, and the only responses they received were ignored calls and strange text messages.

Until…Gonga visited the Magic Tree.

The Magic Tree: Part II

Gonga kicked at a bottle cap and watched it skitter down the road. He hadn’t heard word from his family in over a month, and he was starting to lose hope.

Gonga’s eyes drifted upward and he paused. Something bright was reflecting off the street just around the corner. He hurried down past ColdStone, staring at the tree in front of Shakespear’s pizza. It was so beautiful!

Someone had wrapped brightly colored strands of Christmas lights around the trunk, around every single limb and all the way out to individual twigs. The tree glowed in brilliant detail.

Gonga stood beneath it, staring up into the branches. Blue, green, yellow, pink, red and every shade in between.

Someone laughed. “You think this is great, you should see the real magic tree.”

Gonga’s heart twisted inside. The Magic Tree? It sounded wonderful.

“Where is it?” Gonga asked, looking at the college student sporting a windbreaker and a black and gold baseball cap.

He jerked his thumb, “Oh, somewhere down in the Cherry Hill shopping center.”

Cherry Hill? That sounded even prettier. “How far…to walk?” Gonga jerked the words out.

“Walk?” the man looked surprised. He guffawed. “You couldn’t walk that! It’s probably ten miles at least.”

“I will go walk,” Gonga breathed. “I must see this Magic Tree.” Visions of his family flickered through his mind. Maybe, just maybe something would happen.

The Magic Tree: Part I

Most people refuse to believe in magic. Yet occasionally something happens to make you wonder. There are times when things work out so perfectly or in such an unexpected manner that you can’t help believing. Or perhaps it’s something bigger than magic. Maybe there’s actually a Someone who engineered the whole thing, who planned it out beforehand, and who keeps watch to make sure the world continues on its orbit.

Gonga experienced such a moment not long ago.

Back home in Congo, communication was down. Maybe the towers had been stuck by lightning. Maybe a gorilla force had gone through and taken out the radio operators, or knocked out the internet servers. More likely someone had just decided to rip the copper wiring out of the whole country and sell it to a scrap yard.

Whatever the reason, Gonga hadn’t heard anything from his family in over a month, and the worry was beginning to set in hard. He was so accustomed to his evening Skype chats with his family that now he found himself staring at the computer screen for hours each evening; and vaguely hoped that something would change, that somehow his family would manage to get in touch with him.

This evening Gonga couldn’t take it anymore. He was tired of sitting cramped inside, waiting for nothing to happen, feeling the cold grasp of fear tightening on his heart. What if it was a gorilla band that had wreaked destruction? Had his family survived? Were they OK? Did they manage to escape? If only they had come with him to America when they had the chance so many years ago.

Gonga shambled along Hitt Street, headed towards downtown Columbia. The soles on his shoes flapped aimlessly. They had grown thin and ragged as he saved every cent possible to send back to his family in the Congo. He wanted to give them the best Christmas they had ever experienced. But now what was the point?

To be continued…

An Artist’s Follies

One would think that being an artist himself, Gonga would know the wiles of the artists and be adept at avoiding them, especially the female artists. Unfortunately, this has proved a false assumption. The simple fact that Gonga is artistic has both blinded him and made him more susceptible in a single blow.

The most recent example happened a week ago. Gogna was sitting near Middlebush, playing his accordion with all his might. A few passers tossed spare change and dollar bills into his suitcase. Between classes, students gathered in a knot around him to observe his playing and enjoy the music.

One girl in particular placed herself squarely opposite him on the ground and listened with rapt attention. Her reddish hair gleamed, and her peasant style shirt fluttered slightly in the breeze. He liked having her watch him. He liked it even more when she threw back her head and laughed at his fumbling, and his exaggerated clownish behavior.

This particular girl with the broad face and rapturous smile sat and watched him for two days in a row. On the third day, she came by a bit earlier in the morning. But this time she had a frown on her face.

Her voice was gently accented when she spoke, “I’m horribly sorry. I feel like such an awful person even asking this.” She paused, “I have no money for the parking meter. And I thought…” her voice trailed off and Gonga watched her eyes drift to the coins lying in his suitcase.

“Take,” he grunted in his gorilla voice, reaching down and catching up a handful of quarters.

“Oh thank you!” she cried, her eyes shining.

And so began a very long habit of the peasantly artistic student using Gogna’s accordion money to fill her parking meter day after day. She sat and watched him occasionally after that. But more and more, she looked rushed. At times she would appear covered in clay or pottery. Other times it was paint. And once her hair even looked as though it might have been dyed purple with wash-out dye, but there hadn’t quite been time to thoroughly get the dye washed out.

Of course, the height of it all occurred the day she, stammering, asked to borrow the textbook someone had just dropped in his accordion case. He planned to sell it at the Textbook Game and make some real money for a change. But she looked so forlorn as she explained that she had that very Physics test in less than four hours and desperately needed to study.

Gonga let her borrow the book.

It wasn’t till that evening when he headed back to The Textbook Game that he realized he had been taken in by a fellow artist. She popped out of the store right as he entered, refusing to make eye contact with him, and rushed on her way. Gonga saw the cashier lifting the book he had just purchased from the girl and putting on the trolley behind him. It was the Physics book.