February 2003

Trees stretched to the horizon, save for a solitary oval track nestled in a clearing. There were no joggers apparent - no people at all, save for a diverse group sitting around a long wooden table set in the grass at the center of the track. The two instructors had the group practicing their lines for some upcoming event. My father was with the subgroup of police officers, and I listened as he recited his lines first. He recited in a strange fake British accent, and I wondered why he bothered when he was so bad at it. But he was at least consistently bad at it, and he did know his lines. I watched this for a while, but then decided to retire back to the to commons. My home floor was several flights down, but I knew a shortcut. A series of stalls stretched down the first hall, most occupied by one or more people. I found the one that was empty and let myself slide down through a narrow vent-like hole in the floor. The sides of the duct pressed against me, but claustrophobia didn't have time to set in, as I had a method of extracting myself just as my feet hit the floor below. I knelt down, and with a twist I was free. I was impressed with my own flexibility, and looked down at my lithe legs. I was wearing khaki trousers and white socks, I noticed. Unusual. But it kind of worked for me. I was lithe. Before me stretched another cluster of stalls, similarly occupied by small groups, and there was the one unoccupied. I snaked down into the duct.