<PREFACE>
One of my jobs at the college is to play Technical Paramedic™ during honours exams in May. That means to be on call to fix sudden computer problems in the exam rooms and defuse hysteria.
Now, ya gotta unnerstan that this place has been rated the #1 liberal arts school in the country for umpteen years running, so to graduate from here at all is certainly something to plume oneself over. A well-deserved award.
But to actually willfully decide that the regular stressful workload is just not enough punishment for a body, and to thus enroll in the honours programme … weh-heh-hellll. Does the axiom “Ya made your bed…” spring to mind?
And of course, the honours exams are a culmination of one’s entire harrowing college career. Three and a half hours to regurgitate everything you’ve ever learned before you’re sent out into the big bad world. Poor dears.
</PREFACE>
Preface done, you can imagine the stress and anxiety permeating the exam rooms. You can fold it like merengue. Last year, two funny things happened in my presence as I popped into these rooms to put out fires. Er … that’s funny as in “ha-ha, look at you, you’re a mess, neener neener.”
- Boy typing away. 20 minutes of exam time left. Fingers shaking. Body rigid and quivering. A pained look in the eyes at which I couldn’t help but gawk because, after all, suffering is hip.
Sudden brain-freeze. Hands go to head and start pounding as if to jump start the poor overworked machine. He turns his head up to the ceiling, bouncing fingers off his skull, and starts a truly pitiful moan …
Ohh. Ohhhhh. oooooohhhhhh…
Suddenly the boy leaps out of his chair which goes crashing to the floor. He doesn’t notice. He’s fairly boring a hole through his skull with his fingers, pacing the room like a coked-up chicken.
I should mention that the other poor souls could not afford the time or thought to give this boy an iota of attention, and went busily about their work.
BING! Boy has an idea. One can almost smell the sulfer from the bulb exploding over his head. He picks up his chair and madly flies at the keys again. Ha ha. That was funny.
- The only actual near tragedy from last year was when the girl’s computer froze as she tried to save her work to the floppy at the end of the exam. Silly twit hadn’t saved the document once in three hours. I managed to find a temp file buried in the system that had all but ten minutes work of her paper, so her life was saved.
Later that night I was at a bar in Philly with friends and the same girl stumbled up to me.
“Oh m’gawd,” she slurred, “monsieur le Marquis!”
I didn’t recognise her … context of honours exam and drag bar being quite dissimilar.
“Don’t you remember me?” she asked. Ohh, how I hate that question, for if it must be asked, the obvious answer is, hell no, honey. I’m a rollin’ stone. I’m sure you made me feel very alive though. Love ya, mean it.
“You were present for the worse three hours of my life!” Was I that bad? “I owe you everything!” she nearly sobbed and it all clicked.
I patted her shoulder. “It’s over now honey. You win the dinette set, the Jeep Cherokee and the trip to Monaco. You don’t owe me anything.” Then, upon second thought, “‘Cept mebbe a widdle dwinkie-winkie pweeze?”
|
