Dread.
It started in the shower.
Stomach sour – doing loop de loops.
Northern Michigan.
Late November, 1980s.
The morning shower is followed by a long walk in the dark from the dorm.
Square into the teeth of a wicked Northern Michigan wind.
Mitts. Goose down coats. Parkas. Sorel boots.
Students filing in for the 8:00 am class.
I find a seat in the middle-back. Need to get invisible.
I’m below the stoners and the drunks, adorned with hoodies.
I’m above the whizz-bangs, a**-kissers and kids with coke bottle glasses.
Three weeks earlier the Professor kicks off his class with ground rules.
“A full letter grade is determined by your class participation, frequency and quality.”
Red Pencil in hand.
He’d put a tick mark next to each name who’s hand would go up.
He’d hang over his journal scribbling after a noteworthy comment.
I’m sitting.
And shredded in half.
One half with head down to avoid being called on.
Coward.
The other half, The Angry Man – a full letter grade down before taking a single exam.
I’m half way through the term.
I’ve managed to avoid being called on.
And managed to avoid making a single comment.
No.
Correction.
I’ve managed to avoid making an attempt to make a single comment.
I’m glaring at his journal.
Wonder how many others have white space next to their names.
The classroom discussion turns to fishing.
A sweet spot.
I lift my head.
I sit up in my seat.
I sit up tall in my seat.
Professor is going on about trout fishing in Montana.
He’s backing his boat down an asphalt ramp.
He asks: Has anyone launched a boat off a ramp?
My heart is pumping.
Now.
Do it.
NOW.
My arm shoots up.
The Professor acknowledges me.
The entire class, hundreds of eyeballs weighing down on me.
“No Sir. Not backing down an ashfalt ramp but…”
I went on with my story.
A kid from the front of the class is frantically pumping his hand in the air.
He looks up the stadium seating and shouts: “Ashfalt?”
I repeat: “Ashfalt, yes.”
He repeats: “You’ve never launched a boat down an Ashfalt ramp?”
“That’s right. I’ve never backed a boat down an Ashfalt ramp.”
The Professor and Class burst out laughing.
I slump in my chair, puzzled. Dazed.
I note that the Professor doesn’t lift his Red Pencil.
The girl sitting next to me, red-faced, taps my shoulder and hands me a note:
“It’s Asphalt, and not Ashfalt.”
Source: photograph
