Never Friends

300px-crislerarenaThis was the first exercise I completed in a writing class I took tonight.  First, our instructor led us through several memory prompts.  We were just to write down a few words that came into our minds with each prompt.  When she suggested, “The first time you went to a sporting event,” something resonated with me.  I ignored her other prompts and scribbled the following.

I remember the crowds – the noise – the overwhelming sense of smallness in a world that I didn’t care for and that cared not about me.  The time clock–ticking down four times.  Popcorn.  Not being heard or being able to hear.

When she later told us to spend ten minutes writing about one of our memories, this was the one I naturally chose.  Our objective was to write continuously–not to lift our pen from the paper.  Continuous stream of consciousness.  I produced the following:



The blue seats were better than the yellow.  That was the goal.  The thing to be achieved.  I dashed back and forth with the money entrusted to me to find someone selling the seats represented by small pieces of paper.  I was good.  I could always find the sellers.  But that was the only good part.

Then inside.

Inside there was the clock.  Ticking down 4 times successively.  There was an infinite of noise–enough that I could neither hear nor be heard.  I sat and watched the clock.

The ball would catch my interest sometimes.  If the clock bored me, I would control the ball–make it either fall in or miss the basket.  I was good.  I succeeded 50% of the time.

The yellow seats were better for me–quieter.  The blue seats were better for them.  Closer.  There was food that was better then both.  Hot dogs.  Popcorn.

The place didn’t belong to me.  I didn’t belong to it.  We coexisted–tolerating each other.  We never, ever, became friends.