The gleaming grass stares me in the face and begs me to come enjoy it. But I’m just sitting here at my desk and resisting. What would I do with it anyway? Get naked and go touch it and frolic in its luster. That’s what I want to do, but how would that look? So instead I go for a walk with my pipe, swirling that delicious Black Cavendish in my mouth. God I love that stuff. It’s all smoky vanilla and cherries without the calories of Dr. Pepper.
I stride by the red sandstone architecture of Fort Douglas. It’s still retains this old world feel that seems totally out of place next to the hyper modern and Bauhaus of the medical school right next door. I go by the guest house and into the North campus, by the nursing school and the genetics buildings. In the face of all this propriety and sober academia, I want to do something really unexpected and out of place, bring a little bit of Fort Douglas into the landscape. So I take out this leftover bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey and proceed to chug it in front of goggling med students. Come on everybody, join me! I want to yell. I want to tear those poor nervous souls out of their shells for just a moment. Blast them with the knowledge that there’s a life outside all of this, outside their next molecular biology test!
The buildings here just seem like big parasites rooted in the earth, sending down tentacles and tendrils into the ground, sucking out fun and life as they go. Anyway, I finish the rest of the fifth and smash the glass against the building. Fuck you!
A few older suits see me and I think are making motions to call security to get the ‘crazed, pipe smoking, whiskey chugging, disturber of the peace out of their medical school.’ I flip them off and start running. I charge through the genetics building, tearing down posters and signs from billboards as I go. “Fuck this place!” I yell. A few people call after me, but I keep running, blasting out the back door and up the drive the runs behind the medical school. I run and run and run. I finally arrive, somehow, in front of the Huntsman Cancer Institute. I’m pretty sure there’s a patrol car about somewhere that’s looking for a punk matching my description so I dive into the lobby. It’s all fucking gilded and marbled! So this is where all the funds go that grandmas and marathons and philanthropic organizations and fraternities raise? What a giant wasteful shitwad, I think to myself.
There’s no real point to this story. I went and lit my pipe in the bathroom of the Cancer Institute and smoked for a little while in the stalls and contemplated existence and the gaudiness of the place I was in. After that I sort of just walked home, back to Fort Douglas, the thorn in the side of the architectural uniformity of North Campus.