A regular Friday, or so everyone else thought his day would be. He was walking to his morning class. The same faces pass as he walks between the buildings on campus. A large bag on his shoulders makes him slightly slouch, his light blue sweatshirt just offsets the jeans being a tad darker. He is the closest someone can be to dragging their feet, without actually doing it.

He reaches the entrance door of the English Hall Building and stands behind the dozens of people taking their time. Normally he would seem inpatient, find a way around, or a way through. Today though, he didn’t care. He just stood, waiting for his path to be parted in the sea of people. He only looked down, at his feet one step after the other, watching his worn shoes move rhythmically. He had walked to class day after day, he didn’t need to look up to find the classroom. He saw the drinking fountain out of the corner of his eye and took a right. He stood in the doorway to the classroom, finally looking up. He looked at the few people already in their seats, and the teacher looking through his teaching notes one last time.

He didn’t know them, he didn’t know what they had to do, what they had to go home to. They were all just people, he hadn’t thought of them as more than just people. It’s not that he never considered it, but he never deeply thought that they are thinking about their own deep thoughts, he wonders who might be thinking of them at that very moment. What are they thinking about? It couldn’t be him, or at least not really about him, who he really is. They don’t know him, what he has to do, what he has to go home to. If they thought of him, they only thought about what they saw, heard, and felt, but they would never know who he really was. He would never know who they really were.

Another student walked up behind him, so he was forced to move out of the way and take a seat. He sat in the middle row. The front was for the up-front learners. The kids who wouldn’t get less than an A-, and even then would be upset if it wasn’t an A+. The back was for the kids who didn’t care in the slightest. They didn’t show up half of the time, and when they did they came in late with nothing but maybe an empty backpack. The middle was for the people who were just there. They were there because they had to be. Because they needed to get a credit, and a passing grade. They would work hard and do what they needed to, but that didn’t mean they wanted to be there.

The teacher walked to the middle of the board and began to write his name. He insisted writing it every day, that way at least once the students might look up and know what it is. No one ever looked at it though. He had this annoying voice, as if a cat had too many hot peppers, and had to keep clearing its throat. At least the class was only fifty minutes long. The boy sat against the wall, in the middle row, closest to the door, so that he could escape as soon as the clock would allow. He placed his backpack in the seat next to him to ensure easy departure.

The lecture began as boring as always. They all took notes, except the people in the back of course. The people in the front row might as well have an entire novel of notes per class, the boy only filled half a page, and half of that was doodles. This was his last class of the day, so he kept one eye on the time. The people around him began to put away their things and started standing. He followed their actions, standing and swinging the heavy bag over one shoulder, then over the next.

“Mr. Tuener,” he heard just before he was through the door. Over his shoulder, he saw his teacher waving a paper in the air at him. The teacher was more occupied with fitting all his miscellaneous items into his satchel with one hand than the paper in the other, he was looking down with his glasses almost falling off his nose. The boy walked back to the front of the room. “Your late assignment is graded now…” The teacher now looked up into the boy’s face, “Great work, you could really go somewhere with this if only you turned them in on time.” The boy took the paper, nodded and turned to leave, this time with no interruptions he continued out the door. He knew he could write, he knew he could write really well, so did his dad.

As soon as he made it to his car he sat inside. He looked at the paper still in his hand, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the back. He started the car and began to drive leaving the college campus in the rearview mirror. He drove to a nearby cafe. The locals call it the MVC, Must Visit Cafe. Everybody has been there at least once, and after the first time going, you have to go again. He walked inside and stood behind a small handmade sign until a waitress came to seat him.

“Is anyone else coming?” she asked looking over his shoulder at the door as if someone would walk in if she did. He shook his head, and she smiled, “Alright then, right over here.” He sat in the empty booth alone with the same old menu in hand. He used to come here with his dad. He read the menu through, even though he could probably recite it to anyone who asked. The boy had come here every Friday for four months.

The waitress came over and pulled her pen and pad out of her apron pocket.

“The biscuits and gravy, scrambled eggs, with spicy sausage, please.

” He gave her the order before she could even ask for it, she quickly wrote his request down, and with another smile took the menu away replacing it with a cold glass of water. He sat in the booth studying the quilt hanging on the wall, his dad used to tell stories about that quilt. Every time he told the story, the entire thing would change though, one time it would be about the underground railroad, and the next it would be about his great grandmother’s late husband. He stared at the quilt for a while. The only thing that pulled him from the trance was a large plate of food sliding in front of him on the table.

He couldn’t help but smile at the dish. He took his fork and began to eat, his father used to tell him it was good luck to dip the eggs in the gravy and eat them first. So he ate. The eggs, then sausage, and finally the two large biscuits coated in a very generous amount of gravy. When he was finished he sat looking at the empty plate for a while, his thoughts never ceasing. He finally stood, leaving a tip and paying the bill at the front counter.

Once again he returned to his car, but he wasn’t yet on his way home. He had just one more stop, and so he drove. This spot was a way out in the country, down some long backroads. It wasn’t even noon yet, and he could see large stretches of land as they seemed to be waking up. He drove and drove, for almost thirty minutes, before he took a side road to a nearby town. He drove another ten minutes twisting and turning through the roads. He finally came to the spot and parked on the side of the road in front of a gate.

He liked to think it was a garden. The grass within the gate was neatly mowed and a brilliant green, he continued walking and saw all different kinds of flowers. There were statues left and right, some of which were amazing and captivating. He didn’t look at them for long however, he had his destination in mind, and once again, he didn’t need to look where he was going to get there. After all, he had been there more than once a week for the last four months. He walked until he reached the rock. The white marble rock. He thought of what the stone was before it was there, maybe only four months ago it was happily sitting in the side of some small hill, then someone needed it to mark the life they no longer had, and so the rock had to sacrifice its spot to now occupy this one. The rock read “Jared Tuener, A husband and father” The rock had only been there this short time, but even now already had moss growing in each cut letter. In front of the rock, there weren’t flowers, or pictures or notes, only a small triangular frame, inside lay a flag, folded in glory.