The Archive of Abstractions

A Fortuitous Introduction

Five minutes over! David exasperated a sigh. When will this guy learn to use the time he's allotted to cover lecture material? It wasn't the first time Mr. Branson had exceeded the hour that was Psy101. Someone else in David's class would mention a topic or question that they had and Mr. Branson could spend upwards of thirty minutes expounding student inquiries. It was apparent that Mr. Branson didn't look at the clock as often as his students, because it seemed every lecture inched close to fifteen or more minutes over an hour. No one dared interrupt him in fear of a demerit, or the chance that Mr. Branson would put something on his tests that David and his peers couldn't have known unless they left him "uninterrupted in the course of his teaching." It was rare otherwise that an uncovered Psychology question appeared in an exam if Mr. Branson was left to his own devices and the students waited patiently for him to finish lecturing or randomly glance at the clock himself. Unlike Mr. Branson, David was enamored with the time displayed clock. He had activities that he wanted to do that day, so it didn't take long before he decided he didn't want to be there anymore listening to his professor ramble on about.... "the psychology of abstract ideas" and how people "condense non-concrete".... 

David had had enough. He leaned over to the seat on his right where he had stuffed his backpack so that no one would sit next to him. Rifling around in the front pocket, he found what he was looking for: the watch his father had owned, but had given to David on a Christmas or birthday previous, although he couldn't remember which. He laced the leather strap through the loop and onto his wrist. As soon as it was buckled snugly to his forearm, he felt a familiar image creep into his head. The image David "saw" today were two meters that resembled ones you'd find on a bike pump. On the faces of the meters were a word each. On the left: fortune. On the right: misfortune. Instead of compressed air, David was seeing the amount of luck he had quantitatively at the moment he put on his father's watch. Today the images looked like air pressure meters, but tomorrow the images could look like a thermometer or a fuel meter. David didn't know why the images changed, just that they always meant the same thing no matter what he was seeing. In his mind, he imagined touching the left meter reading fortune and felt a slight warmth move from the forearm his watch sat upon to the rest of his body. 

"Ah," Mr. Branson exclaimed, "It seems I have gone over on time. I will see you all in two days for our next lecture. Perhaps we can continue where we left off with the nature and inception of abstract ideas next time. Have a good day!" At that David, and many other students, stood from their seats. He grabbed his bag from beside him, strapped it on, and began to walk towards the exit. David reexamined the meters displayed in his minds eye. The right meter displaying David's misfortune level was the same as when he had put on the watch, but the left meter displayed a couple units--David didn't really know what to call units of luck--less than he had before his professor had noticed the clock and released his captive audience. 

David reached the door and hit the lever to release the door latch. He was free to do whatever he wanted to do for the rest of the day. This time he sighed in relief rather than exasperation. Until his right foot stepped on his left shoe's lace, and David went from facing the hall before him to the ground below him. White light appeared in the back of David's skull as his face crashed to the ground. Thick streams of blood started to pool where his nose had made contact with the white marbled tile. "Ow," he groaned. He could hear the shuffle of feet around him and some giggles from those who had witnessed his misfortune. A voice or two he heard asking him if he was okay. Obviously not, he thought, does the liquid coming from my nose look like it's running to offset the green colors at Christmas? Instead of voicing his sarcasm, David replied embarrassedly, "Yeah, I'm alright." He brought his fingers to the trough of his nose and pinched firmly to halt the bleeding. David was not alright, he had been humiliated in front of his peers. He just wanted to pick up his backpack, which had fallen off somehow beside him during his tumble, and continue his exodus from campus. Which is what he did. In as smooth a motion as his aching muscles could muster he stood and leaned over to swoop up the bag into his arms and advanced towards the door leading outside the building. He hoped that a janitor or someone with knowledge of human biohazards would mop up the puddle of crimson he had left behind. David winced in pain with each step he performed. 

As David exited the building, he passed a glance to the images in his mind and watched as the meter reading misfortune ebbed closer to the zero mark as it calculated the quality of his nosedive from earlier. It stopped a couple units less of where it had sat previously. David didn't know how his luck worked, just that he had been given some control with the mysterious watch his dad had owned. Even though he had some control over it, it seemed that something, some force--David had decided to call that force "fate"--, had more control over the fortune and misfortune in his mind's luck meters. Of course "fate" decided to tap into my misfortune and send me tumbling, he thought, and right when I was starting to have a good day.