Devon Hartford - Reckless

“And speaking of classes,” Madison said, “I’ve got Spanish in ten minutes.” She stood up and slung her book bag over her shoulder.

“Oh crap! My history class is on the other end of campus! How do I manage to have classes so fricking far apart?” I grabbed my book bag and we walked out of the Student Center’s outdoor seating area.

“Try taking the campus shuttle,” she suggested as we walked up the steps beside the zig-zag fountain.

“I hate waiting for them. I’d rather walk.”

“So take the underground riot tunnels,” she winked.

We paused at the top of the stairs, on the Central Walkway.

“What are those?” I asked.

“There’s some rumor about tunnels that run under the entire SDU campus like catacombs. Supposedly, they were used in the sixties by the cops when everyone was protesting all the time. But I think Morlocks live down in them now.”

“What are Morlocks?” I asked.

“Didn’t you have to read The Time Machine by H.G. Wells in high school?”

“No, we read A Brave New World.”

“Oh. Well, Morlocks are these horrid troglodyte things. Anyway, have you ever noticed all that steam pumping out through the tall vents near the music building? The ones that look like obelisks?”

“Yeah, I always wondered about that.”

“I’m telling you,” Madison looked around cagily, “it’s the Morlock machines. And they’ll kidnap any unsuspecting young maidens they find and enslave them to work in the bowels of the earth below campus until you die young from hard labor.”

I grimaced. “Who wants to work in a bowel?”

“I know I don’t,” Madison chuckled.

“I think I’ll skip the tunnels. Well, I better run, or I’m going to be late.”

“Bye,” Madison waved as I ran off. “Watch out for Morlocks!”

As I ran, I was on my guard for Morlocks and Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse, because based on Madison’s description, they were pretty much the same thing. And I always seemed to stumble over Tiffany when I was in a hurry. I’m convinced she was bitch-stalking me. Was she the Morlock Queen? It made sense.

But I was in luck today. I made it to the other end of campus to my history class on time. It wasn’t nearly as packed as Managerial Accounting. But then again, the legendary Dr. Dorquemann wouldn’t be presiding.

I found a seat and pulled out my laptop, determined to do nothing but take notes about fascinating historical topics. I pictured myself recounting the highlights later to my friends while they all listened attentively.

Yeah, right.

Despite my best intentions, history class went over like a Roofinated sleeping potion. I could barely keep my eyes open.

I swear I had no intention of doodling during class yet again. But some alien pod creature must have suckered into my brain through my ear canal while I was carefully avoiding the Morlock tunnels. You were damned if you did, and damned if you didn’t.

When the professor finished his lecture, I realized that not only had I not taken notes, but my laptop was asleep. On the plus side, I had drawn more cartoon doodles in my sketchbook.

I did the math:

  One sketchbook full of doodles 

- One empty laptop

——————————————— 

= Time to change my major.

At least my Accounting skills were good for something.

I stuffed my laptop in my book bag and marched up the steps of the lecture hall, determined to change my major.

It was time.

Ten minutes later, I was smiling as I walked through the doors of the Registrar’s Office. Despite its DMV vibe and long lines, everything moved quickly and efficiently. I filled out the paper work to officially change my major to Bachelor of Fine Arts. And I dropped Managerial Accounting. My condolences to the great Dr. Dorquemann. I was going to miss him.

When I walked outside, the sun had broken through the overcast clouds that had hung over campus for much of the morning. Brilliant sun rays slid around the clouds, illuminating the cloudscape in shimmering bronze and gold.

Looked like a good omen to me.

Bye-bye, Sam Smith, CPA. Hello, Samantha Smith, world-renowned crayon craftswoman.

Nothing was going to stop me from following through to becoming an artist.

Now I just had to figure out how to break the news to my parents.

SAMANTHA

Christos met me at my apartment that evening for dinner. His ’68 Camaro rumbled downstairs as he pulled into a visitor’s parking space. When I glanced out the curtains, it was already dark due to the winter hours. I think the evening hour made me feel like we were any other married couple, like I should have a drink waiting for him, or dinner cooking, or whatever.

When he rang my doorbell, I had a fantasy of a little boy and a little girl running up behind me, so the whole family could greet Christos together, the kids shouting “Daddy!” in unison. My heart accelerated at the thought. I took a deep breath and reminded myself it was only a fantasy.

I opened the door and was greeted by a face full of flowers. Not the real kind, but a big oil painting of a bouquet of them. It was gorgeous.

I tried to peek around the picture frame. “Christos? You back there somewhere?”

Christos leaned over the top of the giant painting, his even white teeth gleaming back at me as he grinned.

“What’s this?”

His dimples flashed. “Most English speakers refer to this as a painting.”

“Duh, I know what it’s called. But what’s it for?”

“It’s for you, agápi mou,” he smiled. “I painted it.”

I was flabbergasted. “What? When? Today?”

“No,” he chuckled. “Between Thanksgiving and Winter Break, when you were avoiding me. I wanted to do something special for you. Show you how important you were to me. Anyone can buy flowers, but I figured a painting of them would be twice as nice, and it lasts forever.”

“Oh my God, Christos, you shouldn’t have done this,” I was tearing up already.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, shouldn’t you save this for a special occasion? Like an anniversary or whatever?”

“Every day is a special occasion with you, agápi mou. That seems reason enough to me.”

My heart hammered again. It seemed like this evening was going to be rich with fantasy fulfillment.

Christos walked through the doorway, careful not to bump the painting into the doorframe. “Where should I hang it?”

I had a chance to better appreciate the painting as he held it up for me to inspect. It was intricate and breathtakingly beautiful.

“How long did this take you to paint?” I gaped.

“Does it matter?” he smiled.

“Yes, it matters! It looks like it must have taken forever!”

“For you, agápi mou, forever is the right amount of time,” he grinned.

“Oh, Christos,” I smiled. Yes, tears were imminent.

“How about I hang it on this wall?”

“That would be perfect,” I sniffed.

He pulled a hammer out of his back pocket, and some small nails. After eye-balling the wall, he tapped several nails into the plaster, then hung the painting. “How’s that?”

“It’s perfect.”

“Remember, don’t over-water them. That’s a common mistake,” he winked.

“I won’t,” I laughed. “It’s beautiful, Christos.” I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “This is the best bouquet ever.”

“Anything for you, agápi mou.” He kissed the top of my head softly. “You ready for some dinner?”

“I’m getting sort of hungry.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a bit tired of takeout. We’re going to have to either start spending more time over at my place so I can cook for you myself, or I’m going to have to stock up your fridge so I can cook for you here.”

“Wait, both of those options are you cooking for me. Isn’t that only one option?”

“That I cook for you is a given,” he smiled, “it’s only a question of where.”

I frowned. “Are you saying I can’t cook?”

He grinned. “Samantha, I have no doubt you make a mean ice cream sundae. But a man requires sustenance. So what’ll it be?”

“An ice cream sundae sounds pretty good right about now,” I winked.

“I’ve got a better idea. Grab your purse.”

Five minutes later, Christos parked his Camaro on the Pacific Coast Highway and we walked toward a restaurant with big blue awning. He held the door for me as we entered Pizza Port.

“I’ve never been here before,” I said.

“What? How can you not have discovered Pizza Port? You practically live right on top of it!”

The interior was covered in crisscrossed bare wood, surfboards hanging from the ceiling, and photos of surfers all over the walls. Picnic tables with the attached benches were laid out on the floor. A bunch of kids in soccer uniforms and their parents occupied most of the seats in the room.

“Wow, it’s packed,” I said. “My parents would never go to a rowdy place like this.”

“Do you want to go someplace else?”

“No, I kind of like it,” I smiled. “It’s perfect.”

While we waited in line to order, I noticed they had these huge metal tanks behind the counter. “What are those tanks?”

“They brew their own beer,” Christos said. “It’s good stuff. I can buy some for you, if you want.”

“Oh, I’m good.”

At Christos’ suggestion, we ordered a Pizza Carlsbad, which had pesto, grilled chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and feta. Then we found a place on the benches to sit, squeezed between what looked like two opposing soccer teams, green uniforms on one side of the divide, orange on the other.