Periphery people

When I was in law school, about a hundred years ago, there was this girl who had her nose in a big fat book* throughout the better part of the first semester of our Civil Litigation’s class. I was intrigued with her because she was so immersed in the pages she was reading, huddled over them as if they would fly away at any moment out of her grasp, that it soon became my mission to know where it was that she was going within those closely guarded pages. 

From time to time, my eyes would furtively stray from the notes I was scribing, just to catch a glimpse of that book. Every now and again, I would even slip her a little smile, all the while knowing my motives to be ulterior. She never responded explicitly or in-kind, and for always guarding her treasure. Until one evening.

“You should be paying attention in class.” Her words grazed me as she sashayed down the stairs then out onto the sidewalk where it was raining. But not just a drizzle of rain. It was raining hard through the clap of lightening that shook the windows and lit up the night sky. Sherman Oaks was under siege.

That night, after class, we took cover under the awning where I was waiting for it to let up so I could make a run for my car. “Do you have a ride?“ She ignored me, covered her head with her book-bag and began sprinting through the puddles toward Ventura Boulevard, a few blocks down.

She hadn’t gone more than a block when I caught up with her. “Get in,” I yelled over the thunderous sound of the rain, “I’ll take you home. Get in.” Rain water was getting the passenger seat wet, and I was about to just leave her there when she got in and rolled-up the window.

“Where to?” I asked as I slipped into traffic.

“I’m just the other side of Ventura Boulevard and a block over.”

We drove in silence the short distance, “Right here. You can just drop me off here.” I barely had time to stop the car when she was out in the rain again, running down the sidewalk and around the corner. Oh well, I thought.

She wasn’t in civil lit. that next night, nor the one after that. A week later, on my desk, was the book she’d been reading. I never saw her again.



*The Good War by Studs Terkel (1912-2008).
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