Innocent-seeming bed.
It doesn't look very threatening, does it? Perhaps a bit lower than a normal bed, but what's six inches between friends? (And that is NOT what she said.)
My otherwise-gracious and honest subletter over the summer let me know every pertinent fact about the room I moved into. She sent me pictures, described the funishings, and is even paying over half the rent. It would seem omitting the fact the bed was six inches too short was a small thing and easily overlooked. Or so I thought when I first moved in. Yet, six inches, as it turns out, is the difference between a bed with an actual mattress and a quasi-bed that consists solely of a box spring on a frame. That may not seem like a big difference to you; at first it didn't to me, either. As it turns out, however, those six inches are the difference between a lot of things. They are the difference between:
-A night of peaceful slumber and a night of muttered expletives.
-A morning of eager hope for the new day and a morning of muttered expletives.
-Holding your mug with hands full of cool confidence in the morning and dropping your mug because you scarcely slept for the past three weeks, and then shouting expletives.
-Paying for at least two cups of coffee a day instead of just one because your sleep intake has been effectively halved and replaced by an ever-increasing number of muttered (and shouted) expletives.
-Waking up with bruises in all sorts of interesting and normally-ignored places as opposed to healing, which is apparently what the body is supposed to do during sleep. I wouldn't know, though. It's been far too long for me.
What lies beneath.
Long ago, when I was still referring to myself in the third person, I alluded to a mysterious group of people found wandering around State and Monroe on weekdays and significantly less reputable places on weekends. I have affectionately named this group "The S.S." for reasons that will become apparent in the near future. Allow me to explain.
The S.S. are an amalgamation of approximately 90 individuals whose lifestyles, while exhibiting some variety in scale, are eerily similar. Half get up before 8 a.m. and the rest are up by 10 at the very latest. They seem to have a strange affinity for gothic architecture and long, painstaking hours perusing incomprehensible books. To the outsider, this behavior is horribly perplexing, especially since few of them seem to actually enjoy the books they read and many of them complain volubly and at length about how much frustration they derive from them.
An odd and disconcerting fear palpitates through the S.S. Rumours have flown in secretive whispers about one or more "gunners" that may have infiltrated the group. The neutral observer would perhaps be alarmed by such frequent mentions of potential violence, but the S.S. seem to be an uncommonly bold crowd. More often than not the supposed “gunner” is discussed with disdain, mild humour or sarcasm; seldom, if ever, is he or she taken seriously. One wonders if the S.S.’s casual treatment of this marginalized member of society might perpetuate the very behavior the S.S. seem so universally to scorn. One equally wonders if this individual even exists outside the collective paranoia that pervades the S.S. It seems only time will tell, but I join every human with a shred of compassion in praying this “gunner” is a figment of their collective imagination and, barring that, that at least he/she finds salvation before doing something drastic.
Rumours aside, the S.S. are an agreeable bunch. Although they try to seem as normal as possible most of the time, little things give them away — conversational use of “the law of diminishing marginal returns,” reproachful references to “undergrads,” and the occasional citation of Friedrich Engels, to name a few. They are an educated lot, but largely unpretentious. I have befriended a number of them. Allow me to introduce a few.
No doubt you recognize the fellow on the left, so I shan't bother introducing him. Proceeding left-to-right after him, then, are Colin, Lauren and Chris, all members of the S.S. They are all wonderful individuals and I am reasonably confident none of them is the feared "gunner" who has psychologically terrorized Ann Arbor for the past month.
Over the course of my interactions with these S.S. members, I have come to understand who they are and what they are about. "S.S." stands for "Summer Starters" at Michigan Law School. From them I learned that the term "gunner" carries with it a completely different connotation in legal education than in the rest of the world. In law school, gunners are students "gunning" for the top spot in the class via any means necessary -- honest, dishonest, onerous or irritating, and often all at the same time. At first, I was relieved to hear my fears of physical violence were unfounded, but on further reflection I became as fearful of the gunner as the S.S. were. Here were a group of people heading into an occupation not particularly noted for its moral qualities, yet there existed an individual disagreeable enough to strike terror into them, a group of future lawyers?! I found myself wondering if a gunner in the more traditional sense might not be less dangerous.
Concerns about the gunner aside, I so enjoyed the company of the S.S. that I became one, at least briefly. "Briefly?!?!" you ask in shock and dismay, nerves (naturally) hinging on my every word. "What do you mean 'briefly?' Come to think of it, I noticed on your facebook posts that you recently visited the public library and have designs on learning a new language. You're in law school, for Christ's sake; you can't possibly have the time to teach yourself a bloody language whilst keeping up in Contracts and Torts! What are you on about?"
The answer is coming, dear reader, but you must wait for the next post. This one is growing a bit out of control. My captivating prose, be it ever so enthralling, is still subject to the finite limits of the average adult attention span. Drop by next time for an inquiry on brevity, new languages, facebook, and how they all relate to the life of Jonathan David Whitsett III.
