Craig Casselman decided to teach Mathematical Theory classes back in 1997, when the numbers flowed through his brain like music through a saxophone. He would no longer develop new theories, ideas that could capture his imagination like a brilliant dream. Those ideas could only pay for a week’s worth of food. But Karen was pleased with his decision, they could finally have the life she wanted: the 20,000 square foot house in Winter Park, the luxury of having a six-figure salary, the freedom to buy anniversary presents for herself on a whim. Craig never wanted to take that from her. So he didn’t. He kept everything from her: the banks, the phone calls, the foreclosure, Karen was kept in the dark. She just assumed that all the numbers would make sense as long as Craig kept teaching at the University. He handled the numbers, she handled Rosie and Jules.
Craig stood against the glass window on the fourth floor, or maybe the fifth floor, of the HPA Building. The memo in his hand was from the UCF School of Mathematics, it told him to screw off in such a quiet and elegant tone. The numbers stopped flowing some time ago, and the letter told him to have his office cleared no later than 5:00 pm on Friday, when finals week would be over, when he would be over. What would Karen think? What happened to our money Craig?
With a heaving breath he sighed out, “What happened?” He looked around for a caring heart or a helpful hand. He began to wish that he was strong enough to break through the window. Maybe a shard of glass would put him into a deep, deep sleep. Years would pass like a catnap and the phone calls would stop when he woke up. Or maybe he would fall out and the insurance money could be a better father, a better husband. Karen, Rosie and Jules would be happier. Just then he felt the ground shake and quiver beneath him, and across the lawn he could see Classroom One being swallowed up by the earth. Students and teachers tumbled in the hole like stones in a mudslide, bikes and skateboards looked like bingo balls in a roller as they sunk further and further down to the core of the earth. At that moment Craig wished he contemplated on that bench that disappeared into the catastrophe.
Everything settled and dust floated through the air like smoke from a forest fire. Craig walked down to the mile wide sinkhole, the smell of sewage mixing with mud filled his lungs. The students screamed out for help, a desperate plea for a life after college. He could have helped one, but for what purpose. To give them false hope? No. Instead he tossed his wallet, his keys, his shoes, his cell phone; everything into the gaping sinkhole. ‘This should be enough evidence,’ he thought.
No one has seen or heard from Craig Casselman ever since.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Pacific Flyer
Class starts in seven minutes, and I’m stuck on Gemini trying to conjure up a reasonable excuse for Mr. Holic. I had a doctor’s appointment, my electricity went out, my dog died, no. I guess traffic will have to do. I inch my way into the parking garage so I don’t send the Pacific Flyer tumbling off the bumper bike rack. How glorious it looked with its shining teal frame, the wire basket zip-tied to the handle bars, and that beautifully rusted silver bell perfectly complimenting its flawless structure. Focus Jake, no time for daydreaming.
I tumble out of the car in every effort to save what little time I have before class starts. 1:28. I scramble to collect my materials out of the cluster of junk in my back seat, halved Chick-fil-a cups and Wendy’s bags are tossed every-which-way like popcorn kernels. I finally collect my papers and assignments to turn in. 1:30. I jet stream to the Pacific Flyer hanging on for dear life on the bike rack, and in one swift motion I sweep it off its feet, or its tires I should say, and set it gently on the concrete. 1:31. I’m late.
I mount the Pacific Flyer, push the pedal to the ground and heave with all my might. Down the parking garage slopes I went. The Pacific Flyer living up to its full potential. I flew down the ramp like Lance Armstrong. I kept my head low and my knees locked in, aerodynamics can only benefit me in my efforts to save time. I came around the first bend, ringing the bell to alert any misfortunate pedestrian who would be trampled by tires of the Pacific Flyer. Breaking was not an option.
I flew around the corner on my speed contraption, the rusty chains squealing for mercy. Immobile cars flashed past my peripherals, and the Flyer made every effort to lift its self from the ground, and truly take flight to the Pacific blue skies outside. I could see the opening where I would make my escape, break out of the dark chasm of that garage. No time to slow down. 1:33. Three minutes late. I speed up.
I bursted through the exit, and made no efforts to stop.
SCREECH!
An enormous black monster exploded at me from the right. I broke left. And in the rush of adrenaline all I could make out was the silver Escalade® that displayed on the hood of the SUV.
BANG!
I thought for sure I had no way out. But after pulling off to the side and catching my breath I was able to see the extent of the damage. The rear tire was clearly unable to complete a full rotation without the bent spokes dragging across the frame. The Pacific Flyer . . . would fly no more. I looked up to see the culprit, the man responsible for the unfortunate death of the Pacific Flyer. The man who controlled the great beast named “Escalade.” I looked up and saw the stolid black SUV, fearless, merciless, an absolute monster. An explanation I demanded. But as I approached the glass curtain that separated me from the wizard, I saw that it wasn’t an evil master mind. It was not a man seeking to destroy a loyal steed. It was a family.
A seemingly wealthy family. They seemed to have been visiting the campus, possibly for some sort of orientation for a senior in the family. Maybe they were having a joy ride across UCF campus. But as I wondered why they might be here at UCF, they wondered why this crazy white boy is flying out of parking garages. The result was a moment of silence. A solid minute. I stared at them, while they stared right back at me. Speechless, on both sides. 1:37. I had class.
So to break the silence I asked, "Are you guys ok?"
I tumble out of the car in every effort to save what little time I have before class starts. 1:28. I scramble to collect my materials out of the cluster of junk in my back seat, halved Chick-fil-a cups and Wendy’s bags are tossed every-which-way like popcorn kernels. I finally collect my papers and assignments to turn in. 1:30. I jet stream to the Pacific Flyer hanging on for dear life on the bike rack, and in one swift motion I sweep it off its feet, or its tires I should say, and set it gently on the concrete. 1:31. I’m late.
I mount the Pacific Flyer, push the pedal to the ground and heave with all my might. Down the parking garage slopes I went. The Pacific Flyer living up to its full potential. I flew down the ramp like Lance Armstrong. I kept my head low and my knees locked in, aerodynamics can only benefit me in my efforts to save time. I came around the first bend, ringing the bell to alert any misfortunate pedestrian who would be trampled by tires of the Pacific Flyer. Breaking was not an option.
I flew around the corner on my speed contraption, the rusty chains squealing for mercy. Immobile cars flashed past my peripherals, and the Flyer made every effort to lift its self from the ground, and truly take flight to the Pacific blue skies outside. I could see the opening where I would make my escape, break out of the dark chasm of that garage. No time to slow down. 1:33. Three minutes late. I speed up.
I bursted through the exit, and made no efforts to stop.
SCREECH!
An enormous black monster exploded at me from the right. I broke left. And in the rush of adrenaline all I could make out was the silver Escalade® that displayed on the hood of the SUV.
BANG!
I thought for sure I had no way out. But after pulling off to the side and catching my breath I was able to see the extent of the damage. The rear tire was clearly unable to complete a full rotation without the bent spokes dragging across the frame. The Pacific Flyer . . . would fly no more. I looked up to see the culprit, the man responsible for the unfortunate death of the Pacific Flyer. The man who controlled the great beast named “Escalade.” I looked up and saw the stolid black SUV, fearless, merciless, an absolute monster. An explanation I demanded. But as I approached the glass curtain that separated me from the wizard, I saw that it wasn’t an evil master mind. It was not a man seeking to destroy a loyal steed. It was a family.
A seemingly wealthy family. They seemed to have been visiting the campus, possibly for some sort of orientation for a senior in the family. Maybe they were having a joy ride across UCF campus. But as I wondered why they might be here at UCF, they wondered why this crazy white boy is flying out of parking garages. The result was a moment of silence. A solid minute. I stared at them, while they stared right back at me. Speechless, on both sides. 1:37. I had class.
So to break the silence I asked, "Are you guys ok?"
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