A journal of narrative writing.
Look Where You’re Going, Boy
Page 3

“Sorry, David.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“They kicked you out for fighting?”

“Guy was the son of a faculty member.”


“Professor Rudnowski, or Budnovski, or something.”

“Well, he deserved it.”

“He got his just desserts.”


“Stop saying that.”

“You turn your paper in?”

He looked at me like I had made a bad joke.

“All right. I'll do it for you.”


“It's good, David. Really.”

His scowl softened.

“It don't make any sense.”

“Yeah. I'll take care of it anyway. Think of it as my just desserts.”

“Know what,” he said. “I was going to take this with me, but then again.”

David rummaged in his pack and produced a fist-sized nest of crumpled newspaper. I unwrapped it, revealing a shot glass decorated with cartoons of bare-breasted women.

“What’s this?”

“Seeing as you can’t hold your liquor. This might help.”

I had to laugh. The shot glass went in my pocket. We watched his bus approaching from about a half mile away and neither of us spoke. I felt something just south of sadness, knowing he had no replacement. No, it wasn't sadness, just a damn shame.

When the bus arrived David swung his pack over his shoulder. We shook hands and he squeezed up the narrow stairs as best he could. As the doors closed the steam from our mouths dissipated rapidly in the air. The bus pulled away and disappeared around the corner.

I thought about calling Amy but it seemed like a waste of time. There was an Amy everywhere I looked. It was all an inane privilege. In the warmth of my pocket I felt the reassuring weight of David’s gift.