Chemistry

His voice, like tires rolling over gravel or more likely, from years of smoking Marlboro reds, crunches down the hall as I make my way to the door marked clearly by a plaque bearing a blood-red colored 108.

An image briefly appears, a ghost before my eyes-his silent outline slumped in a faded recliner, encased by a dimly lit apartment; blue smoke, tinted by the illumination of a television, curls up toward his squinted eyes from the cigarette balanced between two jaundiced fingers...

The light changes as I step through the doorway. My eyes travel quickly to the brown leather backpack with brass buckles resting on the industrial grey carpet. It instantly gives him away, only deepening the chasm between himself and the current trends.

Clueless, he takes the helm as captain and commander of our potentially sinking ship. Calling out orders in his sandpaper voice; most are quick to follow, assuming his leadership is genuine.

I commit the first act of mutiny as I walk silently to the opposite side of the classroom to claim my seat, only too aware of maintaining a strict distance between myself and his infiltrating creepiness. Happy to float alone in my own sea of apprehension, I lug the seven pound tome from my satchel and quickly dissolve into it's Bible-thin pages.