| Illustrations: College Life |
Posted by
Comedian on Tuesday, May 11, 2004 - 12:05 AM PST
Diqing Xu and Justin stand next to me on the edge of the downward slope, shrouded in trees and two-foot deep powder. The slope is steep, and not on any of the maps the ski resort officially puts out, for the simplest sake of liability reasons. Justin's snowboard is a custom Burton, with specialty titanium edges.
My snowblades are a pair of original unreleased, pro 83's Solomons . Xu's carving skis have about five seasons on them, but look brand new with the impeccable red and good coloring, not discounting their excellent treatment and little use. We shout "Tsu suo zai na la!" as a battle cry before jumping down the slope, each after the other, down the narrow path in the gray-light of twilight, with the light snow falling and turning the trees around us white. The phrase, our rallying cry we scream as we go down the double black diamond, means "Where is the bathroom?" in Mandarin.
Sitting in the small apartment with the New Zealander ski instructors on the eve of the college-sponsored casino party, watching a Samuel L. Jackson movie while one of them talks on the phone with his mother, begging in quiet tones for more money to cover rent and liquor and drugs. They all sit in their ski clothes, with the heater turned off to save on money. They are not poor, by far; they are just scraping metal two days before pay day. Some of the hold their brand new snowboards, others let them rest against the wall, as they debate whether or not they can bribe the repair shop man at the resort to let them get their first waxes free, given the new budgeting and the Rental Department's deficit.
Sitting in the college cafeteria and study hall, with immaculate lacquered wood tables and a roaring fireplace, on brown leather and worked pine chairs, playing 'Ghettopoly.' Monopoly in the ghetto, removed from most retail stores after the NAACP protested its sale and content as "excessively racist." The 43-year-old Catholic expert concert pianist goes broke just after the Chinese marine got him to land on a freshly hotelled Board Walk(In Ghettopoly, "Martin Luthor King Jr. Blvd."), and the young Mexican Girl lost out early in the game, just before the Polish Jew. We play until 2 A.M., an epic struggle of Slumlords, and I smile as I sit back in the plush cushioning of the chair, watching the fire, listening to the screaming and cursing and rap music blasting from the Native American's boom box.
Sitting in the back seat of the limo ferrying people to the casino from the college, listening to the limo driver talk. He's nervous, but a kind of nervousness akin to most managerial types - as we talk about the job. His most common fares are strippers and whores from outside the county up to Lake Tahoe and some of the Casinos, and various bigwigs out to the whorehouses and brothels. He gives us the low-down on the places - homes to retired porn stars, the famous women of the Vivid Video industry retire to the Moonlight Bunny Ranch and charge exorbodent amounts for their services and pleasures, upwards of $1,500 an hour. I look at the chiseled glass of the bourbon and vodka decanters in the back of the limo, and wonder how long it will be before the students figure out what they are.
I sit in the philosophy classroom, listening to the silence of students as the question posed by the professor slips past his lips and into the intellectual void in the middle of the room, and watch the snow fly as the sun creeps behind clouds. It is a kind of creamy day, the snow falling in big flakes, against the surreally bright sun, bathing everything in so rich an orange that the clouds turn to sorbert under my gaze. Fluffy, the flakes alight on snow and buil, but merely drop onto dry pavement and melt away, not even moistening the ground or darkening the gravel of the road. They discuss Jung - the first and second selves, and it occurs to me that I am not really in philosophy, but parapsychology, and this professor is imbroigled in a class that, while conceived with every good intention, the students fail to grasp. He and I have dismissed eachother from our own labours; he knows I read, and would lead the class far past the source material if given the reigns, so I retire and let him teach.
In the back parking lot of the college, we hook up an amp and a woofer box into the back of a brand-new XTerra. The boy who owns the car is a pro mountain biker - while those of us that volunteered to help him could not care less about the project. As the weather turns frigid, we care less and less, using only half the screws, slack and cold overtaking the ideal of absurdly loud bass. We finally finish, and insert the box, watching his lights dim as his battery strains to keep up with the power drain while playing some Snoop Dogg.
The tiny baby chihuahua is only seven weeks old. His eyes are solid black, bigger than his tiny maw, which he uses to try and bite the fingers of those who play with him. I hold him in my lap for just a few moments after they finish playing with him, and the Mexican Lesbian student government president tells me his name is going to be "Otso." His feet are tiny things, a marvel of creation, and his fur is fine and thin and smooth. His breathing is sharp, and his fatigue so thorough that he does not seem to care as I had him back to his owner. A tiny eye opens, sharp and wet black against the dry and reflective brown coat of fur, and closes again.
The dutch bisexual speaks on his phone to his parents, the tones gluttural and rushed as we drive in my car from subway back to the college. Occasional English breaks through the conversation, names and places and events.
Maria-Renee, the beautiful girl who works the cafeteria at the school, looks at me with big-black eyes as I place my grill order. He husband, Ronnie, is the cook. They don't let me pay any more, and in return I place my orders 'en espanol' for simplicity and respect's sake. She is a day if she is twenty, and he looks to be in his late twenties. They have passionate fights in front of the crowds, but also have a passionate love for eachother. Her two-year-old son accompanies them sometimes, along with the mother and aunt of Ronnie, and they have wild conversations long until closing time. I think of Hemingway's words, and know that they are the best sort of people.
They all are.
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