Till I get to the bottom
A grimlook at your future, freshmen
We're just kidding folks. It gets better... it just has to.
GRAPHIC Amy Smith
Any way he cut it, he had no idea what he was going to do in April, and for now he had no problem with that. “Go with the flow,” he told himself, “let the chips fall.”
They were all idiots, as far as he was concerned; nothing more than spokes in the great Machine. Of course, he had no real way of knowing this; it was mostly conjecture and assumption. They could very well be model citizens, regular people in fact. And they probably were. Scott was simply having a bad day.
Enough of that, he thought. No one wants to hear you whining all the time.
If only his life was more like a spaghetti western: open deserts, sunshine and horseback gunfights. Why not? Chase the frontier.
There was really nothing to complain about, though. Everything was running along well. Grades were regular and stomach was satisfied. Cost of living was up, but nothing new there. Go to school and get the small bills paid, get your degree, and then get the big bills paid.
“Oh, you're studying too?” asked the woman on the other side of the counter.
“Um, yeah, for now anyways,” he teased, as he handed over her change.
“Up here at McGill?”
“No, I'm at Concordia.”
“Oh. And what kind of work can you get when you're done?”
What indeed. The time was long between now and graduation, and after that, there wasn't much else to hold on to. There were a few options, as there always were, but he would have to think about it. Of course, he could always pack his life up in a duffle bag and travel to some far off land, crossing border after border, and finding his inner self. Not quite. But that too could be figured out later. “Should I have made a list?” he thought, “A Powerpoint presentation? A spread sheet?”
“Calm down, you're agitating yourself again. There's no need for that. Not now.” Any way he cut it, he had no idea what he was going to do in April, and for now he had no problem with that. “Go with the flow,” he told himself, “let the chips fall.” He might have been making excuses, but there was no real way of knowing, not yet. First, he would get that piece of paper, put it in a frame, and then go for a drink, or a smoke, or a walk. Something. All those voices and questions, they could go pester some other poor soul. Their small talk wasn't going to back him into a corner.
He would figure it out later, he thought.