It’s early Sunday morning, the last of my Sunday mornings (for now, at least) on this penthouse perch overlooking the expanse of grass – less than a park, more than a yard – that abuts Neil Street and ends where the Champaign mall parking lot begins. My first two “patients” were also perched on the power line that is my waiting room until a few moments ago. I was about to invite them in for our session when one flew off in a huff, followed by the other an instant later. As they flew by I could have sworn I heard the first exclaim, “I told you, I don’t need to see a shrink!”
The second, a distinctly female voice, trailed behind like the Doppler effect created by a passing train whistle fading in the distance, “Oh yes, you dooooooooo…”
I should be studying and will be very shortly, but I don’t want to lose this brief onset of reverie, surfacing alongside the weariness that’s been dogging me the past few days. We’re (my roommate and I) nearly at the end. Tomorrow evening we’ll drive west to Peoria, the nearest available testing site, register into a motel, and try to keep one another sane and relaxed until Tuesday, test day, dawns.
We’ve commiserated, complained, and cursed, all the while trying to contrive every possible way to cram concepts and clue words into our brains over the past eight weeks. We were friends before we arrived, but the stress of war has turned us into brothers in arms and Tuesday we’ll march into the face of the enemy, side by side.
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