In the midst of everyone studying for finals, I'm walking through the stacks of Powell library, and then onward through the reading room where everyone is hunkered down with their books. Most heads are still deeply engaged in the math, history, poli sci, what have you; but a few look up. And giggle. I can't help but feel a little silly myself, though I can't figure out why. To those couple of girls snickering, I turn toward them and flash a quick smile, and continue on my way.

Maybe it was that I had ten laptops with me. Maybe it was that I was making quite a bit of noise as I passed by. Or maybe it was the little red wagon that I was wheeling around.

Squeak squeak, squeak squeak, the wheels joyously chime, as I drag the wagon behind me. I have a picture in my head of the other workers joyriding this thing around the empty halls of the library. You know, if it weren't finals week. Just as I grab the keys to unlock the door, the lettering seems to jump out at you. The words "Radio Flyer" in script font and "Town and country" in bold illuminates in white on top of the cherry red boards.

Play along for a moment, and revert back to the 4th grade. You're dragging along your Radio Flyer, and you stop in front of another kid. You've never seen him in school before, but that's because he doesn't go to school. He's got on a tattered flannel shirt, with a hole just under the shoulder. It's a little too big for him, and he has a few of the buttons done on the bottom; it's much too warm on a sunny Saturday afternoon in Nebraska. No shoes either, just dirty brown feet. His overalls complete the ensemble. Busily chewing on a piece of straw, he pretends not to notice you; he just keeps on painting his fence, but you can tell that every once in a while, he steals a quick glance at you, eyes your wagon, then goes back to painting.
You're kinda curious. This boy seems pretty darn care-free, white-washin' dem fences. Mustering up enough courage to approach him, you ask:
“Hello, old chap, you got to work, huh?”
“What do you call work?” he responds.
“Why, ain’t that work?”
“Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t. All I know it suits Tom Sawyer.”
You're a little blown away by his flippant response. “Oh, come now, you don’t mean to let on that you like it?”
The brush continues to move.
“Like it? Well, I don’t see why I oughtn’t to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?”
Now you are definitely intrigued. Maybe it's more fun than the stupid little wagon after all. You say to him:
“Say, let me whitewash a little.”
He's got a glint in his eyes, but you can't see the gears in his mind churning. He looks back about to say something, but stops, then turns toward you with a smile.
"Nah, I reckon you wouldn't like it."
Now you're adamant about getting a turn at the fence. "Aww, c'mon. I'll let you play with my red wagon."
His feigned reluctance finally melts.
"Ohhhh..... alright, but only for a little while."
And suddenly you're stuck painting a fence. Or studying for finals. For the rest of your friggin life.


By the way... If you hadn't notice already, most of those lines were copied (or modified) without the expressed and written consent of the author. Cuz he's been dead for 95 years.

Maybe this is just my way of coping with the stress.