Desperate Student, Episode 16: Cupid Loveline

This continues the Desperate Student series. Get caught up here before proceeding. Or you can just wait for the book.

I hate medic planes.

You would too if you contracted the obscure VIRUS 200 (vernacular: Orangutan flu) during a job-related safari and woke up on your way back to the states for extensive medical testing.

I don't remember most of it. I recall waking up - always with a nurse standing next to my bed with a clipboard - and being asked all kinds of fairly intuitive questions like "Would you have a beer with a pony you'd never met?" and "What color are triangles?"

You know. The sort of questions you ask people with Orangutan flu.

When we finally landed, my arms, chest, and back were pocked with needle marks and there were about thirty little sensor things taped onto various parts of my head and torso. I had an IV running on each arm and a third, smaller one on my left thumb. There were staples holding together a fresh scar near where my appendix presumably no longer hung out. Everyone was now wearing blue face masks and the light had been dimmed.

"Wh ... whuh hathibined?" I asked. My jaw was numb.

"We ran some tests," Said the nurse with the clipboard.

"I'm guh be okay, righ?"

"You were never in any danger. Orangutan flu is like a severe head cold."

"Buh theh why dih you do all thah? I nevah gay you puhmishuh."

"Yes, you did, sir. We have a signed consent form given to us by your former employer."

Jane was more wily than even I'd given her credit for. "Cah I go now?"

The nurse shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

"Wuh abow ah this stuff ah me?"

"You're welcome to take it off, sir."

"Wew ah we?"

"O'Hare International Airport. We'll disembark in a few moments."

"I wan go now."

"Suit yourself." The nurse tossed her clipboard onto the table next to my cot and walked off into another room. I noticed zebra doodles all over it.

With great effort (I was feeling pretty weak), I yanked all the probes and needles out of myself and staggered to my feet. It felt like the room was whizzing by; I fought to stay standing and took a hesitant step forward, steadying myself against the cot.

"Careful," the nurse called from the other room. "You've lost a lot of blood."

I reached the door to the plane and sagged against it. The plane was about a quarter mile from the bustling O'Hara airport B terminal. With careful deliberation, I took the first step onto the stairs down to the tarmac.

I awoke on the tarmac with pieces of asphalt embedded in my forehead. I stood slowly and staggered across a vast expanse of criss-crossing runway to a chain link fence, which was made of chain link, the bottom of which was poorly buried. I yanked up a section and wriggled under. Then I wandered for a few hours with a vague understanding I needed to get away from anything related to Jane Goodall.

I awoke at the foot of a rundown white building in an old metropolitan section of town. A burned-out sign outside read: "Chicago Herald."

Now I don't expect you to believe this. I suppose if you believe I once took a bullet for the president this might not seem like that big a jump. But to me, what happened next was the most extraordinary and absurd thing I'd ever experienced since my episodic autobiography began. There was a fifty-dollar bill slid under my left hand. No unique markings. No note. No one around. I just suddenly had fifty dollars. For a moment my mind flashed back to the tales of King Midas. But King Midas never forged Mexican citizenship papers so he could work as an agricultural laborer.

I slowly pushed myself up to my feet, weighing the bill in my hand. Besides this bill, I was at rock bottom. And even with it I couldn't go home or survive for very long. This was no time to be conservative. I studied the money for a long moment. Ulysses S. Grant stared back at me with unblinking eyes that seemed to give me quiet reserves in inner strength.

"Go ahead, son," He seemed to be saying. "I didn't split the confederacy in half by eating taco bell until my funds ran out." It wasn't so much the words so much as the fact that Grant seemed to be talking that really got me. I knew I needed help. I had to shake things up. I crumpled the bill tightly into my fist and walked deliberately into the Chicago Herald office.

There was a payphone in the corner. I checked the number, then walked to the receptionist and spoke through clenched teeth.

"I want to take out an ad - the best you can get me for tomorrow's circulation with fifty dollars."

"For 47.99 I can give you an inch-by-half-inch with simple text."

"Perfect. I want it to say: 'Don't like what you see? Stop the blind search with a personal matchmaker. Professional, discreet, guaranteed happy match within two weeks. (847) 334-6991.' Can you fit that into an ad that size?"

"That's a bit wordy."

Eventually she got me down to a more reasonable ad. It ran:

MATCHMAKER (847) 334-6991

Very economical.

Satisfied, I went back to the somewhat dilapidated couch and passed out. I was awakened at ten o'clock by a janitor. "Can I help you?" He asked.

"Hm? No. Thanks. I'm waiting for somebody."

The janitor looked dubious but nodded and moved on. I passed out again.

At around eight the next morning, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver before the first ring ended, then spoke, trying not to sound too eager:

"Hello?"

"I saw an ad in today's paper for a matchmaker?"

"You've got the right number. That is, I'm him. I am he. This is him."

"My name is Wade Roberts."

"I'm ... Cupid ... Loveline."

The man sounded confused. "What should I call you?"

"My friends call me ... Cupid."

"Can we meet?"

"How about we just discuss over the phone. It's faster."

"All right. What do you charge?"

I thought fast. "Five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred!"

"Well, yes, I mean ..."

"That's a fraction the cost of the last person I called."

"Well I mean, five hundred for the basic service. It's two thousand for the premium service."

"What do I get with premium?"

"Most of it is behind the scenes. We use a complex process to bring your chance of success from ninety percent to ninety-nine percent."

"I want the premium. Sign me up right now."

"All right, Mr Roberts ..."

"Call me Wade."

"Wade. So tell me a little about yourself."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"You mean you don't know me already?"

"Should I?"

"I mean everyone knows me. Just everyone! You haven't heard my music?"

"I don't think so ..."

"Last Time I Kissed You? I Could Be The One?"

"I don't think I've heard those."

"Why, that's amazing. You're one in a million. I'm very popular. That's why I want a matchmaker. I want to use a forged name so I don't get swarmed by adoring fans."

"They won't recognize your face?"

"Uh ... well ... I mean there's always that risk. But people don't seem to recognize me generally. I mean I go out all the time and no one takes another look. It's because I'm so reclusive. It's what A-list celebrities do."

"So what are your interests? Your hobbies?"

"What, am I on a date with you now?"

"No, I just wanted to know a thing or two about you so I could match you."

"Listen Cupid. You're the professional. I don't pay you to make small talk. I pay you to find me the girl I'll be happy with until a highly publicized and messy divorce in four or five years. Make it happen!"

"All right - well what kind of a girl are you looking for?"

"You know - sweet, pretty, smart, fun, talented, a good smile, looks good in blue jeans. Also I want someone who will hang on my arm and announce all my achievements at parties so I don't look quite so boorish. And stare at me across the room with an adoring look. And call me all the time when I'm out of town. And leave me sweet little notes in random places. And she needs to be good at yoga."

"I can get you a girl like that within the week, Wade."

"Fantastic!"

"Let's talk about payment."

"Half now, half when we're engaged?"

"Fair enough. Where do you live?"

"In the ritzy section of town."

"I'm out of Chicago on a private mansion. I'll send one of my lowly servants out to meet you halfway to pick up the money."

"Where's halfway?"

"Oh, shall we say ... the Chicago Herald Office? It seems fitting somehow."

"That's not in a good section of town."

"It'll be good for you. Oh, and bring cash." I hung up hastily. My hands were cold and clammy; I rubbed them together briskly. Someone was coming with a thousand dollars to my location. Maybe life was finally starting to pick up.

I waited outside for half an hour, then a black limousine pulled up and a tall beefy man in a suit with sunglasses got out. He walked straight to me. "Cupid Loveline?"

"I work for him."

"Please deliver this briefcase on behalf of my client, Wade Roberts." He handed me a light but promising black leather briefcase. I tried to accept it as casually as possible, wondering in the back of my head if I'd ever been this close to so much money.

For several minutes after the limo drove away, I stood on the sidewalk holding the suitcase in an agony of indecision. A big part of me wanted to jump ship - to take my thousand dollars and fly away and pull the same hoax on someone else later on. But for some reason I stayed. I'm not sure if it was the chance of more money later on down the line or a vague sense of moral compulsion. But I was contracted as a matchmaker, and I was going to follow through.

Cupid Loveline was going to make Wade Roberts a happy man.

Desperate Student, Episode 15: Schmoozer

This continues the tragic tale of the Desperate Student. If you're not up to date, read up. Matthew, this is your chance. Start at Episode 1. Heh.

The problem with being stranded in Zimbabwe is that it's a lot like being stranded in Zimbabwe.

It doesn't get much worse than getting lost in a war-torn African country with a flimsy one million Zimbabwean currency (read: 7.81 USD), an angry world explorer on the loose, and the national police hunting for your rebel face.

Of course, I am a Desperate Student. I was undaunted by these apparent challenges. Other, less motivated people might have turned themselves in to the authorities or gone running to Jane Goodall for forgiveness. But not I. I was determined to see this through. Somehow, someway, I would get back to the states, and when I arrived I'd have enough money to treat Suzy the way she deserved to be treated.

Sticking to the shadows, I wended my way downtown in search of the American consulate. If I announced myself as a US citizen, I reasoned, they might have some sort of program to get me back to the states. It was worth a try.

I shouldn't have been surprised to find the consulate surrounded by concrete barriers, barbed wire, and machine guns. The building had a net suspended a yard from the outside wall to catch RPGs and a dozen soldiers with M16A2s were milling around outside. One of them extended his hand palm forward when I got close and I stopped instantly, overwhelmed by authority.

I felt a faint scratchiness in my throat. "I'm an American citizen," I said.

"Let's see a passport."

I stopped cold. I hadn't been issued a passport in years and certainly hadn't packed one when Jeeves had come to pick me up - was it just a few days ago? I thought fast. "Our 17th president was Martin van Buren. Independence Day is ..."

"I can't let you in without ID," The guard said.

"I lost it!"

"Then I'm glad I'm not you."

"Wait. Hang on. I have a driver's license." I reached for my back pocket and found myself looking down the business end of the guard's rifle. "Just getting my wallet," I said.

"You're in no rush."

I slowly retrieved the wallet and opened it. The guard studied for a moment. "Seems valid," He conceded.

"So do I get in?"

"No. A license isn't enough to prove you're a citizen. You might be from California."

I paused for a moment, temporarily stymied. I knew I would get into the consulate. I just didn't know how yet. It was at this moment of consideration that an unwelcome face appeared at the door behind the guards. It was the one person I least wanted to see - the person with the power and the motivation to ruin my life forever - the person who could make a hardened criminal quake in fear. I had seen her throw my co-workers to piranhas and shoot at RFCN contributors without fear or remorse.

"He's one of mine," Said Jane Goodall with a slight smirk on her face. "I've been expecting him."

"You know," I said, "I actually ... you're right. I'm an illegal immigrant. I got this license in California. You're so right. Nice catch. I'll be going ..."

"Not so fast," Said Jane. "This man is a criminal. He made off with my equipment a few hours ago in the jungle with a few of his cronies. Place him under arrest immediately."

"You can't let me into the consulate," I said, digging frantically through my wallet. Then I found what I was looking for. I produced the Mexican citizenship documents I had collected from a blackmailed mayor in a previous episode. "See? I'm not a US citizen."

"We still have authority to take you into custody," Said the soldier, grabbing my arm. I struggled, so a few more men came up and smashed the butts of their rifles into my ribs a few times. That took the fight out of me a for a moment. As I was dragged through the gate into the courtyard beyond, I screamed: "I want my phone call! Call the Mexican government! When they find out I'm here, they'll ... uh ... be ... all ... sad for me!" Then I shut up.

I was taken into the building and over to an elevator. The guard punched B2 and we went down two floors. We opened into a dismal concrete corridor with steel doors marked with ominous titles like I, II, III, and even IV. I was put in IV. The room was small with a low ceiling and a single naked light bulb hanging down at head level. There was a table with two chairs. I took one. Jane took the other. The guard stood behind me, ready to strike.

"Can we talk about this?" I asked, extending my hands in a pleading gesture.

"Let's," Said Jane with her usual impeccable coolness. She slowly raised one eyebrow. "Where do we begin?"

I cleared my throat again. The scratchiness was intensifying. "How about where I beg for forgiveness and ask you to please spare my life."

Jane studied me for a long moment as if she had just noticed something new. "You should know by now that I never forget."

"I ..."

"I'm not finished, do not interrupt me."

"Sorry. I'm really sorry."

Jane waited a moment as if to make sure I was done talking. "You should know by now that I never forget and I never forgive."

"But surely there's something I could do - some way to redeem myself."

"There is not. Someday, I will destroy you. Until then, you may live in fear."

"You mean ... you're not going to throw me in jail right this instant?"

"No. Not if you agree to a little bargain I have in mind."

"I knew it! Thanks, Ms. Goodall ... you won't regret it."

"You have not yet heard my offer."

"But I have accepted it, so tell me what to do."

"If only you were so willing this morning."

"I was shoveling monkey doo this morning!"

"No, you were collecting it, which is hardly the same thing."

"You don't want me to go back, do you?"

"Not at all. I have something much more ... American for you to take care of."

"Name it then."

Jane laced her fingers and rested her chin on them. "On the roof of this building, several local dignitaries are attending a party. Two of them are of special interest to you. The first is named Jared Woone. He's an assistant to the American consul. He's smitten with an attractive young Zimbabwean named Amadika. He has tried to meet her several times but she has rejected him. In fact, she has rejected all other men who have approached her. They are both at the party. You will arrange a meeting between Woone and Amadika."

"... Why?"

"For reasons known only to me. Convince Amadika to have a drink with Woone, and I will refrain from jailing you."

"But you'll still ruin my life."

"Eventually."

"Consider it done. Show me the way."

Jane led me back into the elevator and punched a button marked R. We went up six floors and got out on a roof-top pool party. The population consisted of fat people in suits and party dresses and skinny people swimming. Jane quietly pointed to a white guy in an expensive blue pinstripe suit standing in the corner nursing a whiskey and scowling.

Then she pointed to a gorgeous African girl sitting at the bar looking bored. I mean, we're talking Beyonce meets Ashanti. I was really intimidated. I'm not good with women, in case you hadn't noticed. But they don't call me Desperate Student because I only do what I'm good at!

After a moment of deliberation, I walked confidently up to the bar and plopped myself into the seat to Amadika's left. I cleared my throat once. The scratchiness in my throat hadn't gone away. "Well," I said, "Here comes the next contestant."

Amadika turned slowly to face me with a bored expression. "And what's your story?" She asked with a delightful Zimbabwean accent.

"I was born in a hospital with white sheets. Then some stuff happened. Then I met you."

She waited for a second, then smiled slightly. "That's actually kind of a good one."

"Good enough to let me buy you a drink?"

"All right."

"Well, I'm not going to buy you a drink."

"... Okay?"

"But I know a guy who will."

"What, did someone send you here to talk for him?"

"The man I'm about to mention, I've never even met."

"Then, what is this?"

"I saw him watching you across the room and I saw you sitting here alone."

"Jared Woone?"

"Yes."

"I won't drink with him."

"I think you could have a great conversation! Come on, Amadika. Just one drink."

"How do you know my name?"

I hesitated for a second. Then leaned forward. "Listen, I'm going to tell you something that sounds totally ridiculous, but it's true."

She crossed her arms skeptically. "Try me."

"I'm a Mexican citizen. I was taken into the consulate for committing crimes against Americans and secured a deal for my release. I have to convince you to have a drink with Jared Woone or they'll lock me up and throw away the key."

"You're right, that does sound ridiculous."

"But you believe me, don't you?"

"You seem honest." She studied my face for a moment, tapping her lips with her finger. "You're from Mexico?"

"No, I'm a Mexican citizen."

"And you were arrested for crimes against Americans?"

"Of which I am guilty."

"What crimes?"

"I stole an armed jeep and a bunch of weaponry and assisted in the attempted assassination of the President of Zimbabwe."

"Why?"

I reached into my pocket and produced a handful of loose change. "For this."

"You need money?"

"I need to get back to America."

"You mean Mexico."

"No, America."

She looked very confused. "If you were lying you would have come up with a better story than this. I believe you, Mister ..."

"Just call me Desperate Student."

"I believe you, Mister Student. I will have your drink with Mister Woone."

I clapped my hands in exultation. "Thanks, Amadika. You won't regret it!" And with that, I dashed off in Woone's direction.

"Woone!" I cried, grabbing his arm. This was a bad way to start. The man jumped backward in surprise, spilling whiskey on himself.

"What on earth?" He muttered, brushing at his tie. "Of all the nerve ..."

"Amadika wants to have a drink with you."

"You are sadly mistaken," He scowled.

"No, I'm serious. I just talked her into it."

He studied me more closely. "You? Why?"

"It's really complicated. Don't keep her waiting! Come on!"

"You listen to me," Said Woone, grabbing the front of my shirt. He paused with his finger in my face, then slowly released my shirt and wiped the hand on his pant thigh. "If you're having me on," He growled, "I will personally throw you off the building."

"It's for real. Honest."

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and backed up. "How do I look?"

"Smashing," I lied. "Go to her."

He brushed his hands through his thinning hair nervously. "All right. All right I will." He waddled briskly off toward Amadika, as if to get it over with as quickly as possible. I shook my head sadly. Poor guy. He didn't stand a chance.

I turned and walked back to where Jane and the unnamed guard were watching with raised eyebrows and slight frowns.

"Well done," Jane said, surprised to hear herself say it. "I will drop all charges against you."

"Sweet! So can I go?"

She found what I said amusing. For the first time, I saw Jane flash a genuine smile. White teeth flashed, which she covered with her hand. "Of course. Good bye."

The guard showed me back to the gate of the consulate. I stepped out with a feeling that, though I hadn't escaped the country, I had done a good deed. I had given Jared Woone a chance with the girl of his dreams and I had cleared my criminal past (one portion of it, anyway - I don't suppose we should count my terrorist attack against a gas station in Episode 6).

I stepped back into the road in war-torn Harare and took a deep breath. It tickled something deep in my lungs and I coughed. My throat was very scratchy. Something was wrong. A coughing spell overtook me and I fell to my hands and knees. The force of the coughing built with every moment. I smelled the jungle. I gasped for breath. Then the street faded away.

I woke in a cot with white sheets. A nurse was standing next to my bed with a clipboard. I looked around for a moment and then focused on her. She made a check mark on the page.

"I'm Nancy," She said.

"Where am I? What happened?" Speaking hurt.

"You've contracted a rare, virulent disease. It's officially called VIRUS 200, but around here we call it Orangutan Flu. We're flying you back to the states, where you will be placed under indefinite study as a specimen."

I could almost hear Jane Goodall laughing.

Desperate Student, Special Episode: Last Will and Testament

Last Will And Testament Of The Desperate Student
Filed December 20, 2007

I, Desperate Student, a resident and citizen of California, being of sound mind and disposable memory, do hereby make, publish and declare this instrument to be my last will and testament, hereby revoking any and all wills and codicils by me at any time heretofore made.

Item I
Debts, Expenses and Taxes

I direct my Executor, hereinafter named, to pay all of my extensive debts and my funeral expenses, which had better not be cheap, as well as the costs and expenses of the administration of my estate, as soon after my death as practicable, and only after my pulse is checked so he knows for sure I'm dead. I further direct that all estate, inheritance, transfer and succession taxes which are payable by reason under this will, be paid out of my residuary estate, or, failing that, out of the estates of my former friends; and I hereby waive on behalf of my estate any right to recover from any person any part of such taxes so paid. My Executor, in his sole discretion, may pay from my domiciliary estate all or any portion of the costs of ancillary administration and similar proceedings in other jurisdictions, etc etc, bla bla bla.

Item II
Instruction Concerning Personal Property: Enjoyment in Specie

I anticipate that included as a part of my property and estate at the time of my death will be tangible personal property of various kinds, characters and values, including a rusty Vietnam-era rifle and a poster of Tom Cruise.

I hereby bequeath my Definitive Switchfoot Collection to Suzy, my former girlfriend, even though we never actually went on a date as of the filing of this document.

I hereby bequeath all my money, such as it may be accumulated, in any form, currency, or counterfeit, to be distributed equally amongst my room mates for the payment of rent or to buy beer and DVDs, at the discretion of the beneficiaries.

I hereby bequeath all my school supplies to Ivan, who really needs to go to school and get a better job. Not that I'm qualified to talk about getting a better job.

I hereby specifically instruct all concerned that my Executor, herein appointed, shall have complete freedom and discretion as to disposal of any and all property not named above so long as he shall act in good faith and in the best interest of my estate and my beneficiaries, and not in the interest of Jake, who once reconstructed my face to look like George Bush and whom I do not like very much; and his discretion so exercised shall not be subject to question by anyone whomsoever, including and in particular Jake.

Item III
Residuary Trust

I absolutely and explicitly do not divide any of my estate or income for the support of health, education, support, comfortable maintenance, or welfare of anyone, including my own mother. I will not be made into a vending machine. No way. Not me.

Item IV
Unenforceable Provisions

If any provisions of this will are unenforceable, the remaining provisions will be stricken and my estate will be rendered in whole to the United States government, to be converted into emu farm subsidies.

Item V
Life Insurance

If my estate is the beneficiary of any life insurance on my life at the time of my death, I direct that the proceeds therefrom will be rendered in whole to my local community college, for the foundation of a Desperate Student scholarship. A modest and sustainable award is to be given each year to the competitor who submits an essay with the most absurd professional aspiration.

Item VI
Creditor Provision

If my estate has outstanding debts at the time of my death, my Executor is to laugh in the faces of any creditor seeking repayment. They are to be given this message: "I'm dead, loser. What are you going to do? Sue me?"

I would like also to be recorded at this time the sentiment that I wish I could see their faces when the above message is delivered. Unfortunately this would defeat the purpose.

Item VII
Executor

I appoint as executor of this, my last will and testament, my said roomie.

Item VIII
Funeral Proceedings

I am not in any way particular about the manner of my burial. I will, however specifically stipulate that my headstone is to be dark grey and plain, and to be inscribed with my name and the dates of my birth and death, along with the words: "FOR THE LAST TIME IT WAS NOT A KISS."

Item IX
Closing Thoughts

Life is hard. I learned a thing or two going down life's short and brutal path. I would now like to offer a few of these lessons to those who will be present for the reading of my will.

i) Don't give up on her. So what if she thinks you're a creep. She already thinks you're a creep. Keep calling her already. What have you got to lose?
ii) Don't stand up for yourself as much. I know nobody else tells you that, but it's true. You'll get stepped on a lot less often, and people will be less likely to notice when you steal a few cookies.
iii) Wear gloves. Splinters hurt. Who needs that?
iv) Don't spend as much time around little kids. Little kids are full of bad ideas. You don't want to run the risk that some of them will rub off on you. I remember once I tried to swim from Baja to Cancun because a six-year old double dog dared me to do it. I washed ashore in Seattle two weeks later.
v) Run for it. Explosions aren't like the movies. You can't realize the bomb is about to go off and then jump through a window and make a dramatic slow-motion exit as fire and smoke billows behind you. Explosions don't happen in slow motion. Also, you aren't as smart or as lucky as movie stars. If you have any suspicion that there are explosives in the area, yell that there's a bomb and run screaming for the car.
vi) The police are not necessarily your friends. They have their own agendas.
vii) Don't be a hero. It sounds nice to jump in front of a bullet for someone else, but trust me, it just hurts a lot and people will forget about it later. Also, bullets are really dangerous, particularly if they land in the wrong spots.
viii) Aim before firing. While we're on the subject of bullets, I would like to point out that your accuracy will be significantly improved if you keep at least one eye open and pointed at the target. This matters because your target is less likely to kill you if he is in the process of being shot.
ix) Don't pick up hitchhikers.
x) Wash your hands often.

In witness thereof, I, the said Desperate Student, do hereunto set my hand and seal in the presence of two (2) competent witnesses, and in their presence do publish and declare this instrument to be my Last Will and Testament, this 20th day of December, 2007.

Desperate Student, Episode 14: Rebel Fighter

This is the 14th episode of the Desperate Student series. Get caught up before proceeding.

There's something about looking down the barrels of dozens of automatic weapons that makes you wish you were back in America stapling pages.

I found myself stranded on an airport tarmac deep in Zimbabwe surrounded by rebels, clutching the triggers to a jeep-mounted machine gun. My comrades, Ned, Vince, and Xavier, just sat and stared.

The silence got awkward fast.

One of the rebels lowered his weapon and marched forward with his left palm facing us. He had a red scarf wrapped around his head and appeared to wield authority over the others.

"Don't shoot," It wasn't a request. The rebel's English was only slightly accented. "You get off jeep."

"What do we do?" Vince moaned.

"We do as he says," Said Ned, unbuckling. He stepped confidently out of the jeep, arms raised.

Xavier and Vince followed suit. After a moment of hesitation, I let go of the triggers and hopped down. "We come in peace," I said.

"No," Said the man. "You come for war."

"Oh no!" Vince screamed. "They're going to kill us! Oh, mama! I don't want to die out here!"

"Shut up," Said the rebel.

"Please don't shoot," Vince wailed, falling to his knees. "I'm too desperate to die."

This resonated with me, and I got down next to Vince. "He's right," I said, raising clasped hands. "Surely there's a way we can talk ourselves out of this!"

The rebel stared at us for several seconds. "You Americans?" He asked.

"Yes!" Cried Vince. "We're Americans! You can hold us for ..."

"Quiet!" Shouted Xavier.

"My name," Said the rebel, "Is Banga Banga. You cowboys help us win fight."

There were several seconds of stunned silence. Xavier was the first to realize what Banga Banga wanted. "Get off jeep, he say ..."

"We'll do it," Said Ned. "Where do we sign?"

"You have guns?"

"We have the machine gun and some explosives."

Banga Banga turned to his minions and shouted a few words in Zimbabwean. All the rebels cheered and fired shots into the air.

"You go blow up Mugabe's palace with explosives."

"We're going to die," Vince moaned.

"Keep it together," I hissed. Then, louder: "What do we get in exchange?"

"In exchange, we give you one million dollar!"

"Sweet mama," Vince whispered.

"Don't forget you have to split it four ways," Said Xavier.

"We'll do it anyway," Said Ned. "Where's Mugabe's palace?"

Banga Banga pointed at a pre-teen boy carrying an RPG. "This my son, Chipa Chipo. He show you the way."

Chipa tossed the rocket launcher casually at Xavier, who dove to catch it. "Go!" Chipa Chipo cried, hopping onto the back bumper. "Go, go!"

Ned climbed back behind the wheel and buckled up. "Okay," He said as the rest of us loaded up, "How are we going to do this?"

"We've got a box of dynamite and two grenades," I said. "Anyone know anything about demolition?"

Ned slowly pulled off the tarmac and onto the road. Chipa Chipo pointed north. "Go!" We accelerated slowly. I kept my eyes peeled for loyalist patrols.

"Seriously, you guys," Said Xavier. "You want us to ride an obviously hostile jeep straight into the capital of Zimbabwe, walk past a bunch of armed guards, and build bombs out of volatile materials we have no idea how to use?"

"Oh, mama," Moaned Vince. "We're going to die after all."

"We have no choice," Said Ned. "So let's find a way to do this."

"Why don't we just forget the rebels?" I asked. "Let's sell the jeep for tickets home."

"Tickets from where? The airport is gone," Xavier pointed out.

"And if we stay here much longer, Jane is bound to find us," Added Ned.

"I don't want to die," Vince wailed.

"Pull yourselves together, people!" I shouted. "Come on! There's a million dollars on the line. If we succeed, we can all go home on the black market and support girlfriends when we get there. If not, we die. So let's think calmly! Come on!"

"You're right," Said Ned, very sensibly I thought. "What are our options?"

"I say we divide up with specific tasks," I suggested, "Then make it up as we go along."

"Sounds fool proof," Said Ned.

"I call lookout!" Cried Vince.

Xavier sighed. "You'll make me light the fuse. I just know it."

Ned took charge. "I'll take Chipa Chipo into the palace to disable the guards. Vince, you keep watch."

"I'll lay the dynamite," I offered.

"And Xavier, you'll light the fuse. It'll be fun."

For a half-hour, we rode with only the sound of the motor and Xavier's quiet muttering. Then the jungle road widened and we hit pavement, and moments later we were zipping through downtown Harare. The citizens all stopped and stared as we drove by; even the police (who rode in white and red vans) seemed too surprised by us to lift a finger. Chipa Chipo's directions were flawless. He had Ned weaving in and out of traffic, maneuvering deeper and deeper into the city, taking every shortcut ever invented (which is a lot).

After another ten minutes, we parked at the edge of a lawn. Past the lawn was a high concrete wall. There was barbed wire ringing the top, and machine gun towers watched the whole area from every corner.

"Is this it?" Ned asked.

Chipa Chipo nodded eagerly and pointed at the gate, which was watched by six armed guards. "Go!"

The guards had noticed my machine gun; two of them peeled off and marched toward us.

"Here they come!" Vince shouted. "Shoot! Shoot!"

I squeezed the triggers. Hot lead poured from the .50 cal and strafed the lawn. Clods of grassy dirt were tossed into the breeze; the air heated and grew smoky.

Over the bone-rattling din of the gun, I heard Vince cry: "Frag out!"

"No!" Cried Ned. "We need that grenade to set off the ..." His lament was drowned by a deafening boom. I was unlucky enough to be looking straight at the grenade when it went off; I saw a flash of light and got pretty dizzy. Next thing I knew I was lying on the ground behind the jeep.

Chipa Chipo mounted up; his arms were barely able to reach the triggers. "Go!" He shouted.

"Okay, but I don't like this," Said Ned. He floored the gas. I was left behind in a cloud of dust, warm bullet casings, and monkey doo-doo labels. The jeep careened past the guards, through the gate, into the compound, and out of sight.

The guards stopped to reload. I noticed that no one seemed to be hurt.

All was quiet.

Then they saw me lying on the lawn.

I've lived a life full of social faux pas. I'm not good at handling people. I often say the wrong thing at the wrong time. But I tell you honestly that that was the most awkward moment of my life. For fully thirty seconds, we just stared at each other.

I was the first to break the silence. I raised my right hand and waved hesitantly. "Hey guys," I called softly. "What's up?"

As if snapping out of a daze, the guards all lifted their weapons and pointed them at me. I searched desperately for some form of cover. I was totally exposed. It seemed my desperate antics had finally gotten the best of me.

Then I heard a Vince's loud shout from inside the compound: "Oh, mama!" Then a massive boom; the sky was filled with red smoke, and pieces of jeep rained down all around. I took advantage of the distraction to turn and run for dear life.

My flight carried me into an angry mob of citizens carrying improvised explosives, old rifles, and of course, pitchforks. I struggled against the human tide, but for several seconds I found myself powerless against it. Then I heard the machine gun towers start firing, and my desperation conquered my etiquette (as usual). With a roar, I plunged into the human tide, kicking, punching, and shoving. The crowd parted like a wave before me; I sprinted down the street and turned a few corners. I didn't stop to catch my breath until the mob was just a distant roar. Then I clapped my hands on my knees and gasped for a few minutes.

When I lifted my head, Banga Banga and his rebels were standing all around.

Another awkward moment.

"I tell you blow up palace!" Banga Banga shouted.

"I know, I'm sorry. I was going to, but ..."

"You great hero in Zimbabwe nation." Banga Banga flashed a huge smile and slapped me roundly on the back. "Great hero! Very great hero. You understand?"

"I understand money," I said.

"Yes, yes. I give you one million dollar." Banga Banga reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He started pulling out bills and counting. "Two hundred, four, six hundred, eight hundred ... one million dollar." He pushed the money into my hand with another smile. "Great hero," He repeated. Then he and his men charged down the street and were gone.

I looked down at the massive sum of money in my hand. I had thought it would be bigger. It was just twenty little pieces of paper. Well, I wasn't about to go looking for my comrades to split up the loot. Nor did I have any intention of sticking around waiting for the rebels, the loyalists, or worse, Jane, to figure me out and invite me to a party. I could use this money to go home, set myself up nicely, and sweep Suzy off her feet once and for all. Life was finally going to be okay.

I made my way to the nearest bank and converted the money into US currency. It was the first paycheck I had received in Africa. The grand total: seven American dollars and eighty-one cents.

Desperate Student, Episode 13: Dung Collector

This story continues the sad, sad story of the Desperate Student. If you're not up to speed, catch up here.

Warning: This episode contains brutally vivid descriptions of desperate survival in the wilderness. While this tale of human tenacity and hardiness may inspire some, it will probably be unsuitable to our more disturbable readers. So, as if you needed anything more than the title to warn you: proceed with caution.

We pitched camp in a man-made clearing several miles from a war-torn Zimbabwean airport, deep in native-infested jungle. Jane was a beacon of assurance and stability. She stood calmly on the hood of the jeep cradling her sniper rifle, supervising the men and giving orders without raising her voice. I'm sure that without her, we would all have panicked and started killing each other. Our Nikes would have squished with blood.

Anyway, we eventually got the two large tents erected. One was for storing and testing the samples and equipment. The other was for living quarters. The latter tent had a partition running halfway down the middle, delineating men's and women's areas. In retrospect, it seems a bit strange that no one complained about how much space Jane took up.

We slept an uneasy and very sweaty six hours. Uneasy because we were surrounded on all sides by loyalist soldiers, well-armed rebels, and extremely indigenous tribal peoples. Sweaty because Jane's partition didn't give the thirteen of us enough room to spread our sleeping bags so we ended up lying all over each other like someone forgot to put away the lincoln logs. I kept waking up with a start, believing I'd heard a low whistle - which everyone knows is the signal to move in quietly and kill everyone in their sleep - and then Vince, who was mostly on top of me, would shout: "Ginger! Ginger don't leave me!" and everyone else would wake up grumbling.

"Join up, she say," Muttered Xavier, whose head was under Gordon, the burliest man there. "It'll be fun, she say."

We used the crack of dawn as an excuse to crawl out of the tent to catch some hot and muggy morning breeze. Jane was already awake, still cradling the rifle. She had erected a small table in the middle of camp, on which she was lighting a small propane stove. Her makeup was flawless.

"Oatmeal will be served in ten minutes," She said. "Go clean yourselves up."

"How?" Vince asked. I noticed that he was the only male who looked even remotely well-rested. "There's no showers anywhere."

"There's a river half a mile north of here. Just watch for piranha. They're especially voracious in the morning."

We all moved away from the camp into the trees, half expecting to be stabbed by tribesmen before we even reached the river.

"Watch out for piranha, she says." Muttered Xavier. "It'll be fun, she says."

"Well, I don't know about you guys," Said Vince, "But I'm all for telling her we cleaned but actually just hiding in the jungle for ten minutes."

"She'll know," I warned.

"Better than being thrown to the carnivorous fish!"

"That's debatable," Said Ned, a tall fellow with thick glasses.

"He's got a point," Vince conceded. "So maybe we should just splash water on ourselves from the shore."

"And get out hands eaten clean off?" Xavier cried.

"Good point," Vince conceded again. "Maybe we should rub ourselves with large, juicy leaves."

Seven minutes later, we licked ourselves clean.

The moment I looked Jane in the eye, I knew she saw right through our cheap scam. The corners of her mouth turned down slightly but she said nothing. We ate our breakfast in awkward silence from biodegradable bowls. Then we dug a compost pit and put the bowls in, followed by the coffee grounds and Gordon's sleeping bag.

With that, we got down to the business of collecting samples. Jane split us up into groups of 3 and four and had us spread out with 2-way radios in search of Orangutan habitat, the defining characteristic of which would be big orange monkeys lounging in the overhead canopy. I went with Vince, Xavier, and Ned. Ned took the walkie, the rest of us used machetes. We brought meals and water, but everything was gone by noon.

We wandered all day. The going was definitively arduous. The sticky heat melded skin and shirt together. The tough vines yielded only to several harsh blows from our machetes. We left a sweat trail so deep we were afraid the piranhas would use it to catch up to us.

Eventually we reached a place where the overhead canopy was thicker, which meant it was cooler down on the floor and the vegetation was sparser.

"I say we take a break here," Said Vince, collapsing against a tree.

"She'll know," I warned.

"And she'll probably have you thrown to the natives," Ned added.

Vince slid slowly down until he was lying on his back. His eyes rolled back into his head. "There's no way she'll know if I just take a half hour break. And even if she does - I really don't care anymore. You know, this has got to be the worst job ever! I can't believe I agreed to come here for minimum wage!"

"Look at the bright side," I urged. "At least you're not ..."

At that moment, Jane appeared up ahead, with Gordon, Bob, and Harry in tow.

Vince had his eyes closed and didn't notice. "There is no bright side," He said. "We're being paid a pittance to collect mammal mud in blazing heat with all manner of flora and fauna out to kill us! Jane Goodall is a loon."

"Gordon," Jane said calmly, "Throw Vince into the river."

"Oh great," Said Vince, not opening his eyes. Gordon scooped Vince up and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then marched toward the river.

"How goes the search?" Jane asked.

There was an awkward silence. Everyone was watching Gordon and Vince disappear into the trees. Then Ned shook himself as if from a daze. "We have yet to find any habitats, ma'am."

She nodded, unsurprised. "Keep looking." Then, with a motion to Bob and Harry, she pushed on into the jungle.

We searched for the rest of the day, and never encountered anything bigger than a chihuahua. Note that we didn't see a chihuahua, either. We returned to camp suffering from near-total exhaustion and ravenous thirst.

Jane was by the picnic table, staring calmly at the jungle with her ever-present rifle ready. Bob was lying face-down in the mud and Harry was pulling two blue arrows from his back. Three others were leaning against trees looking like they were in a London bombing shelter listening to the Luftwaffe overhead.

"Hey guys," I said. "What's up?"

"Injun attack," Said Ferguson. "They got Ian's squad - him, Jack, and Wes."

"They weren't injuns, you doofus," Cried Bob, lifting his head from the ground enough to speak clearly. "They were natives. Injuns don't run this far south. Where were you in fourth grade?"

"Learning how to save you from injuns," Said Ferguson stubbornly.

"That's a burn," Harry reported, yanking the last arrow out with a satisfied grunt. "Nice one, Ferguson."

Jane stirred from her place at the table. "Three of our men perished in the jungle due to carelessness and poor coordination with the rest of the team. I'm sure the rest of you won't make the same mistake."

"We won't," Said Bob, rising slowly. "Say, where's Gordon and Vince gotten to? Shouldn't they be here by now?"

"It matter little," Jane said. "This team was deliberately overstaffed in anticipation of near-certain casualties. Now, let's focus on the task at hand - collecting samples of Orangutan dung for further study. Ferguson's squad spotted an excellent habitat about three miles north of here. Ferguson, your squad will rise at dawn and go to the position to collect samples. Ned, your squad will relieve him at noon. We will relieve you at four with further orders. Are there any questions?"

There weren't any.

"Then get some sleep. We have a big day tommorow."

We all crawled glumly into our side of the tent. "Get some sleep, she say," Growled Xavier. "It'll be fun, she say."

"I heard that," Jane said calmly from the other side of the partition.

We passed the night in silent discomfort. Of course, with five of the team members missing, we had a lot more room than we'd had the night before.

Ned shook me awake around eleven the next morning. Without getting too disgusting, let me just say that peeling my sleeping bag off preempted breakfast. I joined Ned and Xavier outside and we followed Ferguson's well-macheted trail to the Orangutan breeding grounds. We found our hapless team members engaged in an activity that made even me pause. I can honestly say that in all my history - serving as everything from Santa Clause to an assassinated body double - orangutan dung collection may have been the worst job I have ever held down to date.

Ferguson briefed us on the details, and then he and his boys fled down the trail, screaming.

The job was this. We patrolled an area covering approximately a square quarter mile. It contained perhaps twenty orangutans, which are sloths which orange shaggy fur. When we suspected that one of them was going to do its thing, we would signal to the others, and together, we'd hold a tarp under the creature and collect the specimen. Then we'd wrap it up, label and date it, and put it in a pile near the trail head.

A few things that made the job nasty: First, the obvious downside of collecting monkey doodoo. Second, the heat. Third, the bugs. Fourth, the humidity. Fifth, the swampy river running straight through the patrol zone, which forced us to swing across like Tarzan while crocodiles watched from below with greedy eyes. Sixth, the obvious downside of collecting monkey doodoo.
It was four of the worst hours of my life, perhaps comparable only with the time a bunch of FDA freaks spoon-fed poison into my eyes. Finally, Jane made her much-anticipated appearance, with a haggard Bob and Harry close behind. She took one look at the specimen stack and sniffed disdainfully. "We'll have to step up the collection pace," She said.

"Hey, come on," Xavier whined. "You can't just snap your fingers and make these things ..."

"I am perfectly aware of what you can and cannot do to communicate to Orangutans. May I remind you that I spent six months among them in disguise until they incorporated me into their culture."

"You what!?"

"Come on," I said, tugging him by the arm. "Let's go."

"Yes," Said Jane. "Go back to camp. Ferguson picked up signs of increased hostile native activity. He's fortifying now. Help him dig rifle pits. It'll be fun."

We double-timed it back to camp. My utter misery grew more intense with every step. I wished I'd never taken this job. Unemployment was a better option. Why had I accepted, anyway? It wasn't like I needed to fool Suzy into thinking I was financially solvent. She'd already dumped me.

Camp was deserted. I didn't see any signs of fortification, but most of the supplies were gone and there was a trail of dropped provisions running down the path back to the airport. The stuff that had been left behind - mostly scientific equipment - was covered with tooth marks made by very large jaws.

"Fortify, she say," Xavier moaned. "It'll be fun, she say."

It took us about five minutes to salvage what was left from the camp and load it into the other jeep. Ned got behind the wheel with Xavier riding shotgun. I loaded into the back and readied the machine gun.

We were about to punch it when Vince came back into camp from the direction Ferguson had left. He was covered with chew marks and pieces of him were missing all over, but he was still going strong. "Dinosaurs," He rasped, pointing ominously down the trail. "We ... we'll all die!"

"Not if I can help it," I said, grimly patting the top of the gun. "Load up, Vince. Let's get you out of here."

Vince loaded up, looking totally defeated, and pulled a few grenades out of his pockets. "Just in case," He explained, putting them on the floor between the extra gasoline tank and the dynamite.

"Hit the road, Ned!" I cried. Ned floored the gas. Moments later, we were whizzing through the dense jungle as fast as the four wheeler could take us. I watched the path ahead with total concentration, ready to shred anything that moved. Eventually we lost the trail. I don't pretend to know how it happened. The path ahead was simply not penetrable. It took me just seconds to find a solution. I squeezed the triggers and poured a whithering hail of lead into the foliage. The leaves and branches stripped and tore, then collapsed on themselves. Within seconds, the line of fire had opened a new path through the jungle.

"Go!" I shouted without releasing the triggers. We pushed onward, with me clearing the way. We went about twenty miles, during which time more damage was done to the rain forest than had been in done in the past decade by global warming, acid rain, urbanization, American Imperialism, and the Ford Motor Company combined. Finally the jungle began to thin out, and moments later, our jeep leapt from the cover of the trees and out onto the airport tarmac.

The terminal was in flames, and dozens of rebels were dancing around Jane Goodall's plane squeezing shots off into the air. I stopped firing and Ned slammed the brakes. We stared at each other for a full ten seconds of very awkward silence, punctuated by the hiss of the barrel as it cooled.

"Hit the road, he say," Xavier whispered. "It'll be fun, he say."

One of the rebels who appeared to hold a position of authority signaled to the others. A dozen rebels pointed the AK-47s in our direction with menacing grins.

"Gentlemen," I said quietly, "No matter what happens, I want to make sure you know that I regret coming to Africa. This was a waste of time and an unworthy cause to die for. I should have stayed home eating Milky Way bars and collecting unemployment benefits."

"Amen," Said Vince solemnly. We shook hands all around and prepared to meet our fates.

Desperate Student, Episode 12: Mercenary

This post picks up where previous episodes left off. Make sure you're caught up before proceeding.

Well, I'm back from Africa. But this story will take at least two episodes to tell.

I awoke bright and early, ready to face the day. Then I got a wiff of room 7 in the It'll Have to Do Hotel, and life got dull and dreary right quick.

I heard a knocking outside my window and stumbled over. A black limousine was parked outside. A uniformed chauffeur with a massive forehead stood by the open door, staring at his watch with impatience. I pulled on my clothes, which were starting to smell pretty bad, and stumbled out into the parking lot. The chauffeur straightened and sniffed the air.

"Do you have any baggage, sir?"

"Only the emotional kind," I said, brushing past him into the car. "You're with Jane Goodall, right?"

"Yes, sir." The man dutifully closed the door and went around to the driver's side. I stretched myself out on the luxurious leather upholstery as the car pulled out of the lot and toward the highway. The ride was surprisingly bumpy. I had expected limos to be more comfy.

The ride to the airport was reasonably uneventful and mindlessly boring. We parked near the entrance in a reserved parking spot, and the chauffeur opened the door.

"I am to escort you to the plane," He said stiffly. I nodded and followed him into the main building. The chauffeur, whose name I later learned to be Jeeves, produced two boarding passes at the security checkpoint.

The TSA agents made me strip down to my underwear and put everything in ziploc bags, which were put into rather less-than-sanitary gray bins. The gray bins were put onto a conveyor belt and went under some hanging rubber flaps into a machine. Then came a beep, a flash, and a puff of smoke. I never saw them again.

"Step forward, please," Said an agent, motioning to have me go through a metal detector.

"Will that do the same thing to me that you did to my clothes?"

The agent frowned. His left hand slowly moved across his belt toward his baton. "Step forward, sir."

I stepped forward. Nothing happened. The agent winced and had me step through again. This time, there was a beep. I threw my hands up to my face reflexively and felt hot air rush over my near-naked body. I pulled my hands slowly away. They were covered with hair.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Sterilized you," The agent said casually. Then he frisked me.

Forty minutes later, we ran across the tarmac to a private jet painted with two apes grooming each other. I was wearing a plain blue jumpsuit that Jeeves had ingeniously produced the moment we got through security. Jane Goodall stood at the door of the plane in regal splendor, arms folded. She looked like Hera surveying her domain.

I ran up the steps quickly with Jeeves in tow. "Hey, I'm the Desperate Student."

"And I am Miss Goodall. I look forward to working with you."

I felt like I was in the presence of one of the greatest scientific minds of our age. "Uh ... likewise. Shall we go?"

"Not just yet. We're waiting for the other team members."

I went into the plane, which was luxuriously furnished, and took a seat on one of the couches. Two hours went by. Then tires squeeled outside, doors slammed, and a flurry of shouts and pounding boots sounded up the steps.

"Come on, come on! We're gonna be late!"

"You already are," Said Jane quietly as a dozen men in blue jumpsuits bustled past her into the plane. "You will never be tardy again." Her voice was packed with authority. The men skulked toward their seats with guilty expressions.

Jane took the front. "My friends," She said, "Thank you for your interest in this expedition. The information we are about to collect on orangutans will do wonders toward filling in the gaps in our understanding of these enigmatic and rare animals, and help us build a picture of what steps need to be taken to ensure their continued survival into the next millennium. The work will be difficult, dangerous, and dirty. Your total enthusiasm in this operation is its only hope for success. I'm sure I can count on your one hundred and ten percent effort." Everyone looked around. I got the sense that my fellow team mates were as stupid and lazy as I was. Jane nodded with a slight frown. "Very well. Off we go!"

I fell asleep during the very long ride. No one talked. Nobody really moved. One of the blue jump suit boys shook me awake as we landed.

"Hey, I'm Vince."

"Nice to meet you, Vince. Where are you ..." The wheels slammed into the tarmac, and the whole plane shook and rattled violently. Vince and I were thrown up into the ceiling. Then the couch slid out from under us and down the hall, and we landed face-first on the thick carpet. Vince got up slowly, nose bleeding. The plane had stopped.

"Crash landing?" He asked.

Jane materialized in the doorway, the picture of calm. "There's been a coup," She said. "The airport is in turmoil. Collect the gear and meet me at the cargo bay door in three minutes. We'll have to disembark under fire."

That didn't sound good. I followed Jane to the hold and helped her pack supplies into two rugged jeeps. The other crewmen, led by Vince, and the two pilots appeared soon after. I heard automatic gunfire outside. It didn't sound far off.

Jane took a position in the front passenger seat and pulled a briefcase from the glove compartment, from which she produced an easy-to-assemble sniper rifle. "Who knows how to use a machine gun?" She asked. No one raised their hand. She pointed at me. "Get in the back and ready the .50 caliber." I dutifully loaded up and pulled a massive gun and tripod out of the trunk. The tripod bolted to the floor and gave me an excellent position for laying down fire anywhere the jeep was pointing. Vince hopped up next to me and loaded a belt into the side. Someone else got into the passenger seat. Two more people hopped onto the back bumper armed with sub-machine guns.

"Did you know we'd need all this weaponry?" I asked nervously as our comrades piled into the other jeep and got the rocket launcher ready.

"This is Africa," Said Jane. She reached out with the butt of her rifle and threw a lever on the wall. The back of the plane lowered; the driver tromped on the gas.

We drove out into an open tarmac. We had the only plane on the ground. A dozen vans with red flags were parked alongside the chain-link fence that surrounded the airport, and men with red and white bandannas were shooting in toward the terminal, taking cover from behind their vehicles and the occasional rock or bush. I looked back over my shoulder and saw a desperate handful of Zimbabwean soldiers, most of them armed with pistols, making a stand on the roof. They were being massacred.

I heard a terrific cracking noise and looked down to see Jane calmly chambering the next round into her rifle. "You may fire as soon as you find a target," She said quietly. I squeezed the triggers to the machine gun. Long yellow streamers leapt from the barrel, shredding everything they came in contact with. The whole gun shook violently and my teeth chattered against my tongue. I had a hard time focusing as the jeep careened toward the fence, gaining speed by the second. A rocket whizzed by overhead, leaving a scorching hot exhaust trail, and pounded into the nearest van, sending shrapnel in all directions. I saw white and my ears started to ring. The jeeps raced through the new hole in the fence and off into the foliage beyond. I heard the people in jeep two hosing down the rebels from behind with their SMGs. I became dimly aware that my fingers were still on the triggers. I released them sheepishly and looked over my shoulder. The hail of bullets had decimated a hundred square feet of rain forest. Jane sniffed but said nothing.

Vince slammed the next bullet belt into position and cranked the gun. "This thing is hot," He said.

I nodded. "Well, I think we're done firing it for awhile."

I saw a flash of blue to my right and pivoted the smoking barrel, ready to unleash heck at the slightest provocation. Jane raised her hand and the driver stopped.

"We're being followed," She said. We all stopped and listened to the very loud and chaotic rainforest for several seconds. I wanted to fire in all directions at once, so I didn't fire at all. Finally, Jane nodded. "Continue."

Alas, we only made it a hundred more feet before the bumper riders were forced to walk ahead, slashing the trail with machetes. The going was unspeakably slow. The day was hot and sticky. The men (including myself) removed as much as we thought Jane would allow and guzzled water from the canteens. Jane sat calmly in the passenger seat nursing her rifle. She didn't even break a sweat.

Nightfall brought little relief from the heat. We turned on the jeep headlights and kept pushing, taking thirty minute shifts with the machetes. I don't think we went more than two miles per hour.

They attacked at sunrise.

The foliage was just starting to lighten when I heard a twang behind me. A bright blue arrow thudded into Vince, who fell to the ground, frothing at the mouth. It took me just four seconds to get the machine gun turned around and working. Hundreds of bullets tore the foliage, ripping the jungle to shreds. The air heated around me. I saw distortion above the gun.

Someone fired a rocket. It detonated against the wall of trees, and the blast lifted two unlucky crewmen into the air. Their flailing arms tangled in the vines overhead and stayed there. I saw a tall, half-naked savage jump into the path we had cut into the jungle. His aspect was hideous - his body smeared with blue paint; tooth necklaces dangling from his neck; a curious horn design tattooed onto his face. He raised his bow to the canopy above and released a savage yell. I swiveled and blasted away.

For about ten seconds, no one moved. The bullets seemed to hit anything and everything but the savage. Then Jane leveled the rifle and fired. The native yelped and ducked into the trees. A few moments later, he was gone. A few moments after that, the gun jammed.

"Report!" Jane ordered. No one moved for a moment. I noticed she was looking at me.

"Uh ... we were attacked. By savages. Can't have been less than a dozen. They killed three of our men. I think we nicked one. We should probably keep moving before they tell the others."

"You are an imbecile," Jane reported. She didn't say it maliciously. She just wanted to let me know. "There were two of them. They fired a single arrow, probably as a warning. No one was seriously hurt."

"... oh."

"In the future, you will emulate my accuracy in all your reports."

"Okay."

"You didn't recognize the markings?"

"Uh ... no."

"Those were contributors to the humor blog Really Funny Class Notes. I doubt they'll be back."

Vince got up, wiping his mouth, and pulled the shaft from his back. "Itches," He reported.

"Let us proceed to the campsite," Jane ordered.

We kept going until around noon. Finally, we reached a modest sort of clearing, which appeared to have been carefully situated in the exact middle of nowhere. Jane nodded approvingly and dismounted.

"Pitch camp," She ordered. "Tomorrow, the hard work begins."

Desperate Student, Episode 11: Agricultural Laborer

This continues the epic saga of the Desperate Student. If you aren't up to speed, read up.

Life comes at you fast. One moment, you're the darling of the city, so popular that the mayor is almost forced to hire you. The next, you're running for your life. Okay, maybe you isn't the right word in that context. A better word would probably be: me. Yes, me. Me used to be popular, but now me's running for me life.

Actually, me might not be the right word, either.

I woke up groggy and itchy in the It'll Have To Do Hotel and wandered down for the two star continental breakfast, which consisted of orange juice and coffee. Then I dutifully checked FCN. Gummi had a helpful comment on my last episode. He/she observed that I should try a career as an illegal alien, and get a job in a vineyard or something. I had heard Michael Savage tell me that the illegals were stealing American jobs. That sounded great. I wanted in on the action. A little snipping, a few burritos ... what was the danger in that?

So I waltzed on down to a phone booth, reached into my pocket, and came up short. It took fifty cents to place a call, and I only had a quarter. The universe was out to get me. What the universe had neglected to remember was that I was desperate, and desperate people multiply their resources. I plugged the quarter into a newspaper stand, popped it open, and lifted the whole stack. Then I went to the nearest stoplight and knocked on the door of a hummer. The driver rolled the window down. It was a middle-aged blonde woman with bags under her eyes.

"Can I help you?"

"Uh, yes, hi. I was wondering if you'd like to buy a newspaper."

She obviously didn't know how to handle that information. I decided to give her more. "It's for the Salvation Army. The proceeds go to Africa to help feed starving African babies from Africa."

She wrinkled her nose, hesitating. I moved in for the kill. "Please," I said. "I'm desperate. My dad's in jail, my mother's sick, and my little sister isn't eating so we can have enough money to buy grandma's medicine. I really, really need this. Please."

"I thought you said the proceeds were going to Africa."

"Right, right. I guess I did say that. Well, it's complicated. Charity type stuff."

After some more hesitation, she nodded. "How much?"

"Just a dollar, but you can buy the whole stack of a dozen for just fifteen bucks." More hesitation. "You can send a little African boy to college with that money." She nodded and started counting me the bills. The light turned green, cars started honking. She handed me a twenty.

"Keep the change." Then she drove away. I didn't even get to give her a newspaper. So I cracked the twenty into loose change off a helpful motorcyclist in a parking lot, then went back to the machine and put the papers back. Then I hit the phone booth and called a local ag labor foreman.

"Hello, this is Jose."

"Hey, uh - yeah, hi Jose. I'm looking for work."

"You do cherry harvesting?"

"I'm a regular pro at it."

"Where are you from?"

"Central California, why?"

"Sorry, I don't hire workers from those parts."

"But you work here! You don't hire workers from around here?"

"Buh-bye now."

I slammed the phone into the cradle, aggravated. Then gummi's advice flitted through my fertile brain. I dialed the number again.

"Hello, this is Jose."

"Hola. Yo esta una worker dudo. Yo esta searcho for worko."

"Who is this?"

"Una worker dudo! Mucho dudo!"

"Can you harvest cherries?"

"Si!"

"Where are you from?"

"Deepesto, darkesto Mexico."

"You were born there?"

"Si. Born and raisedo."

"So you speak spanish pretty well then?"

"Si! Esta mi native linguo. Comprende?"

"Something's not right here. You're an illegal immigrant, right?"

"Ja, ja!"

"Mexican?"

"Oui!"

I could hear him hesitating over the phone. Finally, he spoke. "Then show up for work tomorrow at six. The orchard is on the north corner of Redman and Beetle. Don't be late."

"Gracias, senorita! You'll no regreto esta!"

"One other thing. When you show up, bring proof of your current Mexican citizenship. If you can't produce, you're off the crew. Got it?"

I was in a pickle and we both knew it, but I had faith in my desperation. "Uh, mucho bueno. Yo see usted tomorowo, okay?"

"Yeah. See ya."

I hung up and pondered the situation for several minutes. Then I picked up the phone and called one of my many former employers, Mayor Sanchez. The good mayor was almost as desperate as I was. On his agenda: making sure that I stayed as far away from him as possible so he wouldn't be implicated in a dog-related incident the week before.

A snotty female voice picked up. "Sanchez' office, who's calling please?"

"This is former dog catcher ..."

"Please hold."

"Sanchez here. What is it? What do you need? Passport to another country?"

"Close," I said. "I need Mexican citizenship papers."

"I'll file it myself and overnight them over."

"No, I need them by six tommorow morning."

Sanchez sputtered for several seconds. Then he sighed. "All right. All right, all right. I'll drive it over tonight. Where do I meet you?"

"I'm in the It'll Have to Do Hotel, room 7."

"I am so there." He hung up.

I went back to my room and watched Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen (starring Lindsay Lohan), during which I used up an entire roll of tissue wiping away my tears. Soon after the movie ended, I heard an urgent knock on the door. I opened to find the good mayor with a manila envelope.

"I think you'll find everything is in order," He said. "And if there's anything else, please don't hesitate to call. Do you have my cell?"

"No."

Sanchez looked both ways nervously and started edging away. "Fornixeleveree. Call any time."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch the area code." He was already gone, pelting down the hall with his arm in front of his face.

I showed up for work the next morning with a decidedly sunny disposition. The orchard was about sixty acres, or slightly bigger than the state of Rhode Island. Several very tired cars were parked on the edge of the orchard, and various workers were standing around with hand crates. I pulled up and got out. A man with a huge white cowboy hat (No, not a sombrero. I can tell the difference. Thank you very much.) approached me, hand extended.

"You still saying you're an illegal?"

I shoved the papers in his face with a satisfied smile, grabbed a crate, and got to work, leaving him blathering meaninglessly by the side of the road.

We worked for four hours. The work was pretty simple. We just pulled cherries off the trees, popped them in the crates, then stacked the crates at the edge of the orchard and went in to do it again. It was boring, but not fatiguing or challenging. I was starting to think I might make an excellent agricultural laborer. Life got even better when the taco truck showed up. It played a delightful little ditty, and everyone dropped what they were doing (which probably bruised the fruit) and made a mad dash for the truck. I was slow to react and ended up being last in line. I had to wait for a whole forty seconds for the entire crew to be served. Then it came to me.

"What'll it be?" Asked the man in the truck.

"Uh ... what do you suggest?"

The man studied me for a moment, then cracked a wide smile. The ends of his moustache pointed straight up. "You're new?"

"Just this moment arrived."

He laughed. Not a friendly, how-do-you-do laugh. Not an amused, that-was-pretty-funny laugh. It was more like a devious, I-just-found-the-secret-ingredient-to-make-the-undead-
birthday-cake-that-will-blow-up-the-world sort of laugh. I didn't like it.

"I have just the thing for you," He said. Then he turned back into the kitchen. I heard him rattling around in the back of his cabinets. There was a chopping sound, then an oink, then a squirt. A hot, steamy pile of something was handed to me, wrapped in oily paper. It smelled awesome. The food was pretty powerful, but I honestly can't remember what it tasted like now.

I gobbled it down, shrugged, and got back to work. An hour later, I noticed that I still had some of the lunch on my fingers. It had turned from brown to a sort of glow-in-the-dark green. It itched. I rubbed it off on the side of the crate. We continued another hour, during which the heat became so strong it made Arizona look bad. The sweat ran down my face and drizzled into the cherries.

Finally, we stopped. I was paid just under minimum wage and scooted on back to the It'll Have To Do Hotel. Then I clicked on the news. There was a breaking story about some contaminated cherries in the area. People were getting sick and dying. Whole blocks were being quarantined, but the toxic nastiness was spreading all over the city. I realized that I might easily have harvested those very cherries. I was pretty darn fortunate not to have been exposed.

The phone rang. I picked it up. "Hello?"

I heard the friendly voice of a mature woman. "Are you the one that worked for the FDA on eyeballs?"

"Probably."

"Do you still do that kind of work?"

"No. Ha! Just kidding. Yes, I do. Are you hiring?"

"My name is Jane Goodall. Let's talk."

We chatted for another fifteen minutes. Jane was a delightful woman. She painted beautiful word pictures about a world where all creatures great and small were equal and where the little guy in the world had a fighting chance against the best of them. I got all excited. When she asked me to travel to Zimbabwe with her team to collect samples of Orangutan dung for study, I immediately agreed.

So that's where I'm headed. I fly out early tomorrow, just as soon as I'm done checking FCN and downing another coffee-orange-juice suicide. I'll be gone for several weeks, during which I leave this blog in the hands of my capable co-writers, who are both slobbering morons. I'll join Jane and her team in the Zimbabwean rainforest to do some of the most grueling, disgusting work known to homo sapiens.

Goodbye, America. Maybe I'll send a postcard.

Desperate Student, Episode 10: Dog Catcher

This continues the epic, sweeping saga of the Desperate Student. Get caught up here.

I awoke bright and early. The birds were chirping, the neighbor's sprinklers were quietly tap-tapping, and my new roomie Ivan was shaking me roughly by the shoulders.

"Get out of the bathtub, punk. I need a shower."

This was a fact with which I could not agree more. Still a bit bleary-eyed, I pulled my bedding out of the bathtub and tossed it into the hall closet. After a short, waterless morning toilette, I snatched a bagel off the counter and headed out the door. Burke was getting ready to drive in to work (he's a bouncer for a bad guy who smokes cigars and discusses dastardly plans while loose women lounge around his chair). I bummed a ride off him to the city capitol, which is just a block to the east and a hundred feet above Burke's place of employment.

A few minutes later, I knocked at the door to the Mayor's office. He ushered me in and gave me a seat.

"So, you're the Desperate Student," He said, sizing me up. I brushed absently at my hair and noticed it was slightly singed. I couldn't remember how that had happened. Wierd.

"Uh ... yes, that's me."

"Well, the people love you, anyway." He sniffed, reached into his desk, and pulled out a long brown trenchcoat, a plain brown baseball cap, a badge, and a strange device that looked something like what national park service people use to pick up litter. "You're the City Animal Control Officer," Said the mayor, draping the coat around my shoulders.

"I thought I was a dog catcher."

"Will you shut up and let me do this?"

"Sorry."

"Right. Where was I ... oh yes. You're the City Animal Control Officer. The people of this community look to you to protect them from the ravenous creatures that patrol the shadows in search of unsuspecting prey. You are the only defense against the malicious. You are a bastion of safety and assurance. It is in you, and you alone, that we place our trust as ACO." He leaned in close. His breath smelled like Skittles. "I trust that you will not abuse that trust."

"Anything you ..."

"Shut up and let me finish!"

"Sorry."

"Ahem. So ... it is in you, and you alone ... blablabla ... oh yes. You will not abuse that trust. Okay. So." He turned and looked out the window, hands behind his back. The blinds were closed. "It is not just the citizens who must be protected from the animals. It is the animals who must be protected from the citizens. You must ensure that the dogs and cats of this county never meet a fate crueler than they deserve. We have facilities for this sort of thing - animal shelters. Pounds. Hospices. Death camps." He whirled and fixed an eagle eye on me. "You control the fate of our irrational mammalian friends. To them, you are God."

Then he grabbed the litter-picker. It was a yard-long metal pole with a rubberized clamp on one end and a noose on the other. "It's very easy to use," Said the mayor, holding it by the clamp end. I noticed a small button beneath his thumb. "Simply guide the noose over the neck of the dog." He demonstrated by guiding the noose over my head. "Then squeeze the clamps to tighten." A band of pain exploded around my neck. Blood started swelling in my head. My eyes bugged out. I fell to my knees, gasping for breath. The room spun. I heard the mayor saying: "That's strange, this button was supposed to release."

Then I blacked out.

Sometime later - only the mayor knows for sure how long - I was standing at the capitol steps in the City Animal Control Officer garb (now soaked) and clutching the dog-noose like a lifeline. The apologetic Mayor stood beside me, patting me on the back. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. The main thing is to take the job seriously. Goodness knows we don't get taken seriously enough around here. Anyway, you've got a radio and flashlight on your belt, and uh ... here's the key to the car." I perked up. The mayor pressed a tiny key into my hand and pointed at a dull brown van at the edge of the parking lot. It had siren lights and a small satellite dish on the top.

"Obviously, gas and maintenance will come at the cost of the city," Said the mayor.

"Cooooool," I whispered.

"If you have any questions, call my office. It's sixtuforvineeteven." He placed both hands on my shoulder and shook me gently. The back of my neck hurt. "I know the weight of responsibility weighs heavy on you now, but take courage. I know you can handle it." He bit his lip, nodded, gave me one last pat, and fled, snickering, into the building.

I loaded into the van, which felt like a converted ambulance from around 1965 or so. After a few tries, I got the engine started. It was only then that I realized that I had no idea where to go. I turned the engine off, cranked up the volume on my two-way radio, and waited.

Ten minutes later, I revved up 101.9 FM and leaned my chair back.

Twenty minutes later, I gave up on the air conditioning.

Thirty minutes later, I dozed off.

Three hours later, the two-way started going crazy. "This is Whiskey-Hotel-Oscar-Echo-Victor-Echo-Romeo, does anyone read? Come in."

I mashed the talk button. "Uh, hey, this is ... uh ... Denmark-Edison-Santiago-Paris-Edison-Roma-Amsterdam-Tripoli ... uh ..."

"What on earth are you talking about? Over."

"Just ... giving my call signs."

"Who are you? Over."

"Um ... the City Animal Control Officer?"

"You're the new Dog? Over."

"Dog catcher, actually."

"No, that's your callsign: Dog. Over."

"Oh - roger that, sir."

"That's Whiskey-Hotel-Oscar-Echo-Victor-Echo-Romeo to you, smartypants. Now listen up. We've got a dog bite situation on Maple and Main. How soon can you get there? Over."

"Give me five minutes."

"Do you have backup? Ammunition? Over."

"I've got a dog noose."

"Good enough. Get over here. Over."

"Roger that."

"Whiskey-Hotel-Oscar-Echo-Victor-Echo-Romeo out."

"Uh ... Dog out."

I tromped on the pedal and sped out of the parking lot and through the city. The corner of Maple and Main was an old suburban area with tall oak trees and narrow, cracked sidewalks. I found Whiskey-Hotel-Oscar-Echo-Victor-Echo-Romeo standing behind the door of his police car watching through binoculars as two fat white male neighbors yelled themselves hoarse.

I pulled up behind the police car and got out.

"Finally, you're here," said Whiskey-Hotel-Oscar-Echo-Victor-Echo-Romeo.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"You're the man. Get in there and resolve this."

I went up onto the lawn and pushed the two men apart. "All right, all right," I said. "I'm the City Animal Control Officer. Now give me your names and tell me what happened, starting with you, sir."

"I'm Blake Finley," Growled the first man. "I've been keeping my grandma's dog since she passed away six years ago. Little Poochie wouldn't hurt a fly. And now this scumbag wants me to think that a dinky toy poodle went and ..."

"What do you mean, wants you to think?" The second man demanded. He reached down and hiked up his jeans, revealing a massive, festering bite wound. I was amazed he was still standing. "Drink that in!" He shouted. "You think I did that myself?"

"I think that's exactly what you did," Said Blake, taking a threatening step forward. "And if you don't get back on your own lawn in the next ten seconds my dog will be the least of your worries!"

The second man looked down at the street, where a mailbox stood as a marker, apparently differentiating who's lawn was who's. The man took a half-step back onto his own territory.

"Now," Said Blake. "As I was saying ..."

"You've said your piece!" Shouted the second man. "It's my turn!"

"All right," I said. "Let's hear your story."

"Adam Finley," said the second man. "I was in the backyard minding my own business when that mongrel busted over my fence and tore a chunk out of my leg before I even knew what was happening! Now imagine if I had been an old person, or a little girl ..."

"I wish you had been," Shouted Blake. "Then maybe I wouldn't have to deal with all this ..."

"Enough!" I shouted. "I'm taking the dog in to be checked - make sure it doesn't have any issues."

Blake's voice softened. "Look," He said. "Poochie's the only thing I have left from my darling grandma. Surely you wouldn't ..."

"He's lying!" Said Adam. "He's got that gator-skin purse she gave him last Christmas!"

"It's not a purse!"

Blake stepped onto Adam's lawn and they started another toe-to-toe shoutout. I gripped the dog noose tightly and walked to the wooden gate leading to Blake's backyard. A low growl sounded behind me. I took a deep breath, steeled my courage, and reached for the latch. Then I drew my hand away and pulled out my cell phone.

I left a message on Suzy's machine: "Suzy, it's me ... I just want you to know that ... well ... whatever happens ... I love you. I always have. Anyway. I'll ... yeah." Then I hung up and reached for the latch before I lost my nerve. The cutest toy poodle I've ever seen was waiting on the other side of the door. It was about nine inches tall, all white, with perfectly groomed soft white curls. It's tiny pink tongue was hanging from its mouth, and tiny, needle-sharp teeth were exposed. I couldn't tell from the haircut, but I think its hackles were up.

It leapt for my face. I stepped left and swung the noose like a bat. It was foul ball. Poochie sailed thirty feet over my head in a loose arc and landed in the street. Then it charged Whiskey-Hotel-Oscar-Echo-Victor-Echo-Romeo. I saw Poochie disappear behind the car. Then came a quick grunt followed by twelve shots. Adam and Blake let go of each other's necks and turned to look. Poochie came around the corner with an evil grin. Whiskey-Hotel-Oscar-Echo-Victor-Echo-Romeo was nowhere to be seen.

Poochie tamely sat there while I put the noose around the neck and tightened. I hastily stuffed the dog in the back of the van and got into my car.

"Hey!" Shouted Blake. "How do I contact the shelter to get my poochie back?"

"Call sixtuforvineeteven," I said, then tromped on the gas and headed out.

I dropped off Poochie at the death camp without event (at least, without event for me ... I suspect the workers there may have had an adventure or two, but this is not their blog). Satisfied, I turned my car toward the capitol to await the next call. The Mayor was waiting in the parking lot as I pulled in. I rolled down the window. He put his hands on the door and leaned in, obviously very nervous.

"You have to run," He hissed. "When the people find out what happened, you'll be implicated. You have to separate yourself from me."

"How?"

The mayor reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook. "Here's ... let's say ... five grand. That should get you on your way." He tore the check off and handed it to me hastily. "Now promise me you'll run from here and never come back." Without hesitation, I agreed. Then I turned the van around and drove west.

I write this post on the lobby computer of the It'll Have To Do Hotel. I intend to put as much space as possible between me and my dark, desperate past.

Desperate Student, Episode 9: Political Activist

Sitting in one's home feeling sorry for oneself is actually surprisingly entertaining. Soon after my return from a fateful tour of New York and Surrounding Environs, I found myself in my still-sparkling home staring at the wall mourning my perpetual and inescapable bad luck.

While I had been gone, my roomie had taken on five new room mates to help lower the cost of rent. The house was designed for two. Two people slept in each of the two tiny bedrooms, two people took the couch, and my blankies and pillow were moved to the bathtub. By the time I returned, it was too late to protest.

I decided it was time to move out and find another place. Unfortunately, that meant money. Money meant another act of suicidal desperation. After several hours of mournful introspection, I rose and borrowed my roomie's new laptop while he wasn't looking.

Monster.Com > Jobs For People Who Can't Fog A Mirror > No Bingo.

For the first time ever, Monster had no jobs available for cold bodies. This was bad. This was very, very bad. I would have to get creative. I leaned back in the chair, deep in thought, and suddenly found myself navigating the corridors of FCN. Tim's comment about speech writing got me thinking. Why not start a career in politics? No manual labor, job skills, training, or moral principles were required. I seemed cut out for it in a big way.

An image flashed across my memory from my days roaming the streets as a drug dealer (this was before FCN's reformation). I had seen a sign with the smiling face of my favorite politician over the words: "Get Involved 2008". That was my ticket.

I coerced one of the new roomies, a thick red-bearded frat boy named Ivan, to give me a lift. The office was part of a complex rented mostly by medicinal specialists like orthodontists and witch doctors. I knocked on a door covered with patriotic stickers and slogans.

"Come on in," Someone shouted. I opened the door. The main room had no furniture. The floors were covered with poorly organized stacks of paper, which were being sifted by a young blonde with hair tied in such a way that she looked very much like a cow. The walls were covered with posters and pictures.

"Hey," I said hesitantly. "Is this Nancy Pelosi's office? I saw her picture on the ..."

"No," The girl said. "Sorry. This is Hillary Clinton's office."

"Oh." I was dejected, but not quite ready to give up. "What's the difference?"

"Makeup, mostly," Said the girl. "Why? Do you want to help out?"

"Does it pay?"

"It's mostly volunteer work, but if you do really well, you could work your way up the ladder and start making a lot of money."

That sounded risky to me, but I was desperate, so I agreed. "Tell me what to do."

The girl, whose name was Ricky (I didn't understand it, either) gave me a stapler and pointed at a huge stack of papers in the corner. "Four sheets each," She said.

I started stapling with abandon. The work was easy and boring. Ricky moved about the room sorting papers with no apparent rhyme or reason. After about two hours, something in my wrist cracked and I cried out in pain.

"Ow!"

"What?"

"I think I broke something."

"Do you mind if I play some music?"

"That's fine."

She started playing Shania Twain's I Feel Like A Woman on repeat. Another hour passed.

"Hey, Ricky?"

"What?"

"Do you listen to anything else?"

"No, why?"

"No special reason."

"This is the Hillary Clinton for President Theme Song. If you don't like it, go work for Obasaka." She said the last word with utter contempt.

"Why? What do they listen to?"

"I Feel Like A Disenfranchised Discriminated Cinderella Story Inspiring Young Idealist Guy From Kenya."

"Sounds catchy."

She glared and got back to her sorting, this time humming along with the music. Another hour.

"Ow!"

"What?"

"Look at my hand! It's flapping up and down!"

"Yeah, so?"

"So I can't stop it!"

"Wierd." She turned up the music. I knew I wasn't going to quit now. I had a bright political future ahead of me. I could just see people humming to the catching tune of I Feel Like A Desperate Student:

I'm staying late tonight
I have papers to write
I'm getting worried about my grade
Jealous of my room mates
Because they all have dates
Been a week since I was paid

Never successful
Life is so stressful
Pearls before the swine
When I was six I had some good luck
But now it feels bad all the time

The worst thing about being a student
Is when you get caught doing things that you shouldn't!

O-wuh-uh-uh! Go totally crazy! Incurably lazy!
Long nights, lost fights!
O-wuh-uh-uh! Minimum wage, yeah! Stapling pages!
O-wuh-uh-uh! I don't have a fever, but I never get near her!
Don't clean my shirt, can't smell the dirt!
O-wuh-uh-uh! Wish I were rich, yeah! Don't like how I feel:
Dude! I feel like a Desperate Student.

My wrist is gonna break
It's starting to shake
Now I'm stapling to save the furry
Not much romance
Don't know how to dance
But that's the least of my worries

The worst thing about being a student
Is when you're desperate nothing seems to be imprudent!

O-wuh-uh-uh! Go totally crazy! Life's getting hazy!
I guessed, flunked test!
O-wuh-uh-uh! Terrible jobs, yeah! Living like a slob!
O-wuh-uh-uh! Never in action! No job satisfaction!
Don't comb my hair, life is unfair!
O-wuh-uh-uh! Wish I were rich, yeah! Don't like how I feel:
Dude! I feel like a Desperate Student.

The worst thing about being a student
Is when you wake and know today will be a torment!

O-wuh-uh-uh! Go totally crazy! Can't handle a lady!
Bad jests, worst dressed!
O-wuh-uh-uh! I need some moola! To buy Coca-Cola!
O-wuh-uh-uh! I'm breaking my arm! I cause social harm!
I sit in the back, developing plaque!
O-wuh-uh-uh! Wish I were rich, yeah! Don't like how I feel:
Dude! I feel like a Desperate Student.

I know. It's catchy. Come on, baby. It kept me company as I harnessed the uncontrollable flapping up-and-down motion to continue stapling pages for yet another hour. By then, hunger was beginning to take control.

"Ricky, do you ever take breaks or anything?"

"Sure."

"When?"

"All the time. I left for lunch earlier but you didn't notice."

"Can I go for lunch now?"

"Sure."

"Can I scalp some lunch money?"

"This is campaign money you're asking for. Do you really want to take the risk that the Alaskan Caribou will be overrun by filthy capitalist dogs?"

I was perfectly ready to take that risk if it meant a free lunch, but I had the sense not to say so. Instead, I went outside and hailed a taxi. The plan was to "hitch a ride," that is, have him take me to In N Out Burger and then make a break for it without paying. Fortunately, since I wasn't explicitly depriving him of any material possessions, this act doesn't technically qualify as stealing. Note that the previous sentence is completely untrue.

When I reached for the door of the taxi, my wildly flapping right hand threw the door back much further than I'd hoped. I'm not totally clear on the physics, but I was thrown over the taxi and into the street beyond. It was at this unfortunate moment that a greyhound bus, which was innocently sweeping through town, swerved wildly to avoid me, turned sideways, and smashed through the glass front of a fancy fashion store run by a manager who swore he would kill me if I ran his name on FCN.

The bus windows were open, and when it tipped, a very cute 2-year-old dressed in some adorable frilly pink stuff fell out the window and into my bewildered lap. That's the situation I was in when the reporters showed up. They managed to take some great pictures of the sobbing mother retrieving her baby and thanking me profusely. I objected half-heartedly until an *BC News reporter shoved a microphone in my face.

"Tell me, did you really just jump in front of that bus to save that baby?"

"What can I say?"

"Would you call yourself a hero?"

"Well, I didn't really do anything that special. It was more of an accident."

"That's very modest of you. What's your name?"

"You can call me Desperate Student." I extended my hand to shake, but the wrist clenched and I fell to the ground, my face contorted in agony.

"He's hurt!" Someone shouted, and then an ambulance came and a hospital doctor checked me out and told me the damage was permanent. I hate it when that happens.

Within hours, my face was up and around all over the place - on TV, newspapers, and yes, even the internet. People were inspired by my sacrificial act and thought something should be done to improve my miserable lot in life. "Nice people shouldn't have to work for a living," Said one commentator. I couldn't agree more.

That evening, as I sat at home by the stove nursing a hot mug of green tea and occasionally screaming in agony over the pain in my wrist, I got a phone call. Burke, one of the new roomies, picked it up.

"Yo. Burke. Uhuh. Yeah, he's here." He handed me the phone. "For you."

I reached for the phone with my right hand and pain shot up my arm. I reached to rub the strained joint with my left hand and poured scalding hot green tea into my lap. With tears in my eyes, I took the phone.

"He ... hi?"

"Desperate Student, this is Mayor Chavez. Are you sitting down?"

"Uncontrollably," I answered.

"Um .... good. I have bad news and good news. The bad news is that the city dog catcher perished in the bus crash. The good news is that I've appointed you to fill that role until the next election can be held. Will you take it?"

"What does the job entail?"

"Well, you ..."

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Of course I'll take the job. When do we start?"

"Come to my office tomorrow at nine and I'll integrate you into the administration. In the mean time, get a good night's rest."

"Thanks, mayor."

"No. Thank you."

Chavez hung up. I was about to give the phone back to Burke when it rang again in my hand. I answered.

"Hello, City Dog Catcher's office."

"I think I have the wrong number. Sorry ..."

I recognized the voice. "Wait!"

"Yes?"

"Suzy?"

"Hey ... yeah, it's me."

I quivered with happiness but tried to maintain a manly distance with my ex. "What's up, Suzy?"

"I think I misjudged you. I mean, I saw what you did on Al-Jazeera TV this evening, and you ... well ... I don't think I gave you credit for your inner reservoirs of ..."

Then the line went dead. My thumb moved to call her back when an irritating woman's voice played into my ear.

"We're sorry, but calling people costs money, which you haven't paid us for the last four months. Now your line has been disconnected, and our lawyers are taking action against you. Thank you, and have a good day. Not!"

I hung up the phone and went to the bathroom to wring the tea out of my pants. Then I climbed into the bathtub and slowly closed my eyes. It had been a long day, but, for the first time in weeks, I was actually looking forward to tomorrow.