The first story

A chance meeting

It was so humid in the computer room that I could feel my fingers slide around on the key board. The weather was fairly average for a spring break morning on the pacific coast of Costa Rica. Air slowly propelled by a fan overhead could only begin to be described as balmy; thick is a better word, coursing in and out of my lungs like hot mud. Little droplets of condensation were running down the computer screen. The glowing bright white emitted from the screen seemed offensive and out of place in such verdant air. My colleagues and I were finally allowing ourselves to take a break which we all felt was well deserved. But in that small computer room, which was hot as hell despite being the only room with air conditioning we had access to, I was going against the spirit of a break, harkening back to the place we had all tried to leave behind. From that sauna of a room through the wonders of the internet, I was able to see exactly what had transpired two thousand miles north of me. It took quite a bit longer than I had hoped; it is a constant marvel that a university which has one of the greatest computer science programs in the entire world has such a terrible web page. I couldn’t help but stare as the blank page filled one element at a time, a cup filling with water, much like the one I was drinking from. Water was a commodity in Costa Rica, one commodity that was indeed not hot, like everything else. I was pretty much sunk when I could see all there was to see on the screen. Drawn downwards away from where I was sitting, sucked up north to the cooler climate, and finally to another webpage. This time it was e-mail.

“Professor, I would like to make a meeting to discuss some issues concerning my performance in your class.”

With this I was able to brush it all off. My colleagues and I stepped out into the sun to go grab some burgers. The tables were red and white checkered, the flies buzzed conspicuously in our ear and the waiter spoke little English. He understood just barely enough to serve us all up a dripping mess of a sandwich which we all ate happily. That beef monstrosity cost us all about a dollar forty; a mid range meal. The thing felt like a rock in my stomach; I guess the extra fries might have been one step too much. The waves were groaning even louder than my belly and had to be satiated so with my board in hand I retreated from the jungle to the sea and as the water got rougher the landscape got smoother. Right down to the rocks on the beach, it was all just nice and smooth.
One can’t stay bobbing on a board forever. Sooner or later your hands turn to prunes and the salt starts to sear your eyes. As weightless as the boulder in my belly had felt in all that buoyant saline, on land it was clear it would set a bit heavy.
The meeting I had arranged was to be proceeded by approximately 18 hours and seventeen minutes of travel. To begin: a van ride through third world roads, this time I was sweating not from the light of the sun but from the oncoming headlights in my own lane. Next: a trip though a Guatemala airport. The man who sat next to me smelled strongly of body odors and as if he had been eating garlic in copious amounts. The snorts he emitted at 5 minute intervals served like a snooze button on an alarm clock for the entirety of my overnight flight. Almost asleep, snort, cough, ruffle tissue, repeat, on and on and on. Next: a seven hour layover in LAX, sleeping upright in a chair. The air conditioning in this building definitely worked, sweat was turned to shivers. The smell of an old McDonald’s bag in the nearby trash can welcomed me back to the US of A. Finally: Cricked neck and burning eyes and tan skin, I emerged in North California, awaiting what lay for me only a few miles ahead. Only the final fraction of my travel remained.
I am never quite sure how unprofessional I look while riding on a skateboard. My gut instinct tells me the answer is very. To get to my meeting I was forced to bob and weave like a boxer. Instead of avoiding deadly blows, all I had to do was dodge the silken grey strands and two inch long grey-orange furry insect larva hanging in wait from sweet smelling trees. Arriving by skateboard to an appointment is questionable; however, there is no question that it is a faux pas to arrive with some lesser life form as copilot on your shoulder. The caterpillars aren’t even satisfying to squash, not on the way to a meeting. They don’t make a crunch. Soon enough I found myself on the final stretch, surging down the street on a piece of particle board. Wheels make miniature thunder as they fight with cracks in the asphalt. There is no handicap ramp to the office where I was headed, so the board was silenced. All that was left was the leaves rustling and the slow mulch of caterpillars eating and falling and swaying. The office door was somewhat plain, and closed, bright blue. The hallway was cool blue and filled with the low hum of an ice machine, which only made the place seem colder. Knock Knock. No voice could be heard, just the hum and the cold and the acrid smell of some chemical, maybe vinegar. Knock Knock. Where were the flies and the garlic body smell now? Knock Knock. Nothing but the hum of the ice machine, then from behind, in an ambush. “Oh hello”