Aug. 18: "She had it comin' ''

Today was just my second day of fall classes and, as you might suspect, it requires a certain amount of adjustment.

Probably one of the biggest adjustments so far has been getting used to my parking situation. When I first enrolled in classes back in January, I managed to get a parking spot in the Commuter West parking lot, which was within easy walking distance of my classes. This semester, however, I procrastinated to the point where, when I applied for a parking decal, the only available spot was in the Coliseum Lot, about a mile-and-a-half from where my classes meet.

Fortunately, MSU has shuttle buses that service far-flung lots such as the Coliseum. So the trick has been figuring out what time I need to be at the stop to catch a bus that will get me to my classes on time.

I’ve been late to two classes, but not because of the bus. Rather, I arrived at my first class on both Wednesday and Thursday only to find out that the class had been moved to another building across campus. Of course, I wasn’t the only student to arrive late and both of my professors understood the situation.

But I have to confess that I boarded the shuttle bus in somewhat of a foul mood on Thursday. My first class on Thursday is College Algebra. I don’t like College Algebra. I don’t understand College Algebra. College Algebra is not my friend; it never has been. Most likely, College Algebra is going to mess up my otherwise pristine GPA.

So I was not happy as I boarded the bus, which was full to the point that only two seats were unoccupied, aisle seats near the back of the bus, opposite one another. On one side, sat a pretty little blonde co-ed. On the other side, was a dude. Can you guess which of the two seats I chose?

“Can I sit here?’’ I asked.

The co-ed didn’t answer. She rolled those big blue eyes of hers and snatched her enormous purse off the empty seat, her reaction being what you might expect had I asked to borrow her tooth-brush.

So I sat down on the other side, next to the dude, who sported a black T-Shirt with the message “I am ashamed of what I did for a Klondyke Bar’’ written across the front.

“How’s it going?’’ I asked, chucking at this T-shirt.

“Not bad,’’ he said. “It would be better if it wasn’t so early.’’

I looked at my watch: It was 9:10 a.m. I guess we have a different definition of “early.’’

As the bus meandered its way across campus, I was able to learn the following about the dude next to me. His name is Kyle. He’s a sophomore from Jackson. He’s majoring in Chemical Engineering. His first class on Thursday is Calculus II. Strangely, the fact that he was starting the day with a math class did not put him in a foul mood at all.

“It’s not hard,’’ he said.

Maybe, I thought, but on the other hand, this guy thinks 9:10 a.m. is “early.’’

Kyle was pleasant enough company, but for some reason I couldn’t quit thinking about the snub I had received from the blonde sitting across the aisle from me.

Normally, I am the kind to take such slights, condescensions and minor acts of rudeness in stride. But I was going to College Algebra, so I wasn’t in a forgiving mood.

I look across the aisle at the blonde and noticed she was wearing a white T-Shirt with the words “Mississippi State Baseball’’ written on it.

A devious idea popped suddenly into my head.

I looked over toward her until she felt the weight of my stare. Tipping my head so that I could gaze over the lens of my sunglasses, arching an eyebrow and using my most leering tone of voice, I asked, “So, sugar, what’s your favorite position?’’

She recoiled in disgust, her blue eyes shooting darts at me.

I let that question hang in the air for a moment, savoring the delicious aroma of co-ed smoke. Then, pointing to her shirt, I said in my most innocent voice, “you know, baseball position? I like shortstop myself.’’

Her face turned a bright, blushing red. As she was struggling to fashion a response, I turned back to Kyle and asked him how many hours he was taking this semester.

She never did answer. As the bus rolled to the final stop five minutes later, she bolted from the bus, her face still a radiating shade of red.

OK. So maybe that was sort of a mean thing to do. But, hey, I was on my way to College Algebra. Besides, if everything about college life can be a learning experience, I like to think I left her with a valuable lesson: Never roll you eyes at an old person unless the person is one of your parents. We may be old, but you DO NOT want to cross us on a day we have College Algebra.

I arrived at my College Algebra class 10 minutes early, learned the class had been switched to another classroom across campus and finally slipped into a seat just as the professor was beginning class.

As she was going over the syllabus, I stared with horror at the blackboard behind her. It was full of all sorts of numbers, letters and odd lines and slashes.

I like to think that I am open-minded, tolerant person. But I will confess I can be close-minded and deeply prejudiced on some subjects. One of those subjects is mixed marriages of numbers and letters. In my view, math classes should content themselves with numbers and leave the alphabet out of it. Same goes for language classes: Stick to the letters, words and phrases and leave the numbers to people like Kyle.

But College Algebra has no sense of propriety. It brazenly throws a letter (usually “X’’ or “Y’’) right up next to a 7 or a 3 without regard to the tender sensibilities of traditionalists like me.

So, as I stared at the blackboard, the numbers and letters seemed to me to form some sort of Hieroglyphic message. After 10 minutes of careful scrutiny, I translated Problem No. 1 thusly: “In the third year of the square root of 7 to the third power, the Great King Xerxes decreed that all males under the age of (X x 3) – (2 x Y squared) would be 13 cubed.’’

To my dismay, this was not quite right.

The professor, having finished reading the syllabus, finally turned to the blackboard. At that point she said something that made my blood run cold:

“OK. These problems are all just really a review of what you have already learned before,’’ she said. “We’ll just go over them quickly just to refresh your memory. You learned all this in high school.’’

High school? I haven't been in high school in 35 years! All I remember learning in high school was that if you stare at Julie Tutor's long, shapely legs long enough, eventually she'll catch on and give you that disppointed look that says, "I would be less ashamed of you if you were a cuter boy.''

Back then, when I was teen-ager, I worked one summer at my cousin’s produce business. One of my co-workers there was a shiftless, lazy, perpetually drunk middle-aged drifter who - having accomplished so very much in life - felt it was his duty to pass along to me the wisdom he had acquired on his way to current lofty condition.

“Always fall behind early,’’ he once told me solemnly. “It gives you more time to catch up.’’

Well, all these years later, I find that I have taken his advice, at least as far as College Algebra is concerned. I was behind before I sat down, it turns out.

Fortunately, nobody rolled their eyes at me on the shuttle ride back to my car.

Good thing.