The Search for the Perfect Major: Part 1

Hesitantly, I stood outside my advisor’s door with my hand poised in the pre-knock position. Almost as if on cue, she opened the door and seemed startled to see me there. She was heavily laden with stacks of books and paper in a jumbled mess in her arms. The cluttered mass much resembled her hair, which seemed like a female version of Einstein’s infamous exploding hairdo. Was it my imagination, or was there a paper clip hanging from one of her stray locks?

“Oh my, I forgot all about our appointment. I’m so sorry, let me go back in my office and put this down and we can talk all about your little problems.”

Little problems? I had a major problem. And that’s exactly what it was.

I followed her as she made her way back through the door. I noticed the stacks of paper on her desk. They looked like essays and research papers. She was an English teacher. I made a mental note to avoid her classes.

Sighing, she folded her hands under her chin and propped her elbows up on the desk. “Now where were we?”
“You asked me to stop by your office today to talk about my major.”
“That’s right. What major had you chosen? I can’t remember.”
“Well, that’s the problem. Honestly, I actually haven’t picked one yet.”
“You’re certainly running out of time. Have you seen any majors that have piqued your interest?”
“No. I think I’m destined to be a professional hobo.”
“Now, don’t be hasty. I’m sure you’ll find a major soon. Why don’t you take the rest of the semester and look at your options. Let me know what you decide.”

After giving me some insight and direction on the proper way to explore the majors, she shooed me out the door so she could get to a meeting.

I strolled back to my dorm room, deep in thought. The wind wove its fingers in my hair, whipping it around the edges of my pensive face. My cheeks started to tingle with the effects of the chilly breeze. My advisor was right, my time was running out. For goodness sake, here I was halfway into the fall semester of my sophomore year, and I had no direction in my life. I didn’t need to plan out my life. I simply needed a general route for my academic pursuits.

That brings me to the present. I’ve decided to do a little research on the first major on my list… Theatre.

Homies, Day 4: "You can crash at their place."

Sometimes it's the little things about house sitting that get you. Eating the refrigerator empty. Breaking the foosball table. Clogging the shower. Running out of bunny food because you were fattening them up. Bursting the bean bag. Trying to get the smell of marinated bunny out of the kitchen.

Then, sometimes it's the big things.

I had just sat down in my first class of the day when one of my fellow classmates leaned over and started telling me all his problems. He said his wife had left him, he'd been evicted, and he was penniless and would probably freeze to death that evening.

"You think that's bad?" I asked. "We broke the foosball table earlier today."

Well, what could I do? We had been given specific instructions not to let anyone into the house besides immediate family members. I had only one option. I reinterpreted this rule in the broadest and most metaphorical of senses, and then rejected it because it was too nebulous. Then I inviting the homeless guy to crash at our place. Note that when I say our place, I mean their place.

I gave him the key and the address and said I'd be back later that afternoon. When my homie and I showed up, we found not only the homeless guy, but about a dozen of his buddies. They had pitched camp all over the downstairs and were now pillaging the pantry for vittles.

"Hey guys," I said. "I'm not comfortable with this."

"Coming through," Said a homeless guy, brushing past me with a chandelier under one arm and a glass rooster in the other.

"Hey, where's all this stuff going?"

"Garage sale," Said the homeless guy. I couldn't think of an easy way to get these guys out, so I wandered upstairs and watched a movie. When the credits rolled, I muted the sound and listened to the ruckus downstairs: rushing water, breaking glass, shouts.

Before proceeding, it's important to note that FCN is not against homeless people. We don't think they're any less honest than the rest of us and we generally feel charitable and generous toward those without four walls, a roof and a central heating and air. Anyway if our life trajectories reach their logical conclusion, we'll probably be homeless someday, so we wouldn't dream of knocking bums. It's just that, apparently, we got a bad batch.

The steam bath had gotten out of hand, and the downstairs living room, eating area, and laundry room, and bedroom were flooded. The homeless guys were plopped in front of the downstairs TV watching a pay-per-view. Everything besides the TV and couches that could be moved (and a few things that couldn't) had been hauled forcefully out into the front lawn, and signs had been erected all over the neighborhood advertising a garage sale the next morning.

I rolled my eyes and went back upstairs, where I was confronted with bad news and good news.

Bad: I would be sleeping on the floor because the bed was being peddled away.
Good: The Pooh-bears were also being peddled.

Sleep came slowly thanks to the partying downstairs. This morning at six, I came down and negotiated a 5% commission on the day's sales, because after all, it had been our stuff in an obscure, incoherent metaphysical sense for about four days.

The selling was brisk and lively. Goods flew off the lot: tables, chairs, pillows, china, shampoo, beds, pens, kitchen appliances, mousepads, a litterbox, you name it. An hour later, we were standing in a nearly empty front lawn. There was only one box left. It was full of Pooh-bears. I could have cried.

"So we sold away a five-person family's possessions, minus one entertainment set," I said. "What'd we make?"

The head homeless guy tallied it up. "Looks like almost four hundred and fifty dollars," He said, grinning toothlessly.

"What! Only four fifty for all that?"

There was an awkward silence. Somewhere in the distance, the long-last cat screeched. Then, as one, the homeless guys scattered in all directions, laughing like hyenas.

"Hey!" I shouted. "Come back! I want my twenty-two dollars and fifty cents!"

It was too late. They were gone. I wish I could say I was outraged by the systematic robbery, but I can only say I was mildly embarrassed. After all, it wasn't my stuff.

I went into the backyard, pulled up several handfuls of grass, and stuffed them through the wire into the cage of the last bunny, a slightly-neurotic but very cute black critter named Charlie. "There's no more food in the house," I told him. "I think you know what's coming."