Here we go, chapter four. This took a bit longer than I planned as I got lost in a haze of descriptive language and metaphor and I had to hack my way out.
This, in places, is probably one of the best things I've written – I thought that about parts of the last chapter but only one person reviewed it, so I am obviously delusional, hopefully someone [please anyone?] will review tis chapter and give me some feedback.
Anyway, I hope you the reader [whomever you are] enjoys this.
Apocalypse Now: The Enrolment
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More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads.
One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness; the other, to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.
Woody Allen
Have you ever noticed how bright the sun is in the morning?
Have you ever noticed the correlation between the brightness of the sun and the amount of alcohol you've consumed the night before.
Greg did, and at the ungodly hour of 7:30AM he really wished the sun came with a dimmer switch.
Coming home at 5:00AM probably hadn't helped, although at the time it seemed perfectly appropriate.
It had been a week since Greg had left the CSI lab and it had been a week where Greg exercised his democratic right to do absolutely nothing that could in any way be considered healthy, wholesome or beneficial to the biological unit commonly identified as his body; his spirit on the other hand was ecstatic. As is often the case, the bondage we hold ourselves in only becomes truly apparent when we are free of the fetters of its containment. It had taken Greg several years to understand that the chains that bind are forged in the fires of a person's fears and regrets and it is the fact that we hold onto these fears that stops us moving on.
But now, he was free, even if the sun was too bright.
Another hour spent tossing, turning and futilely trying to convince himself that holding the pillow over his eyes would induce sleep came to nought and thus, heaving himself out of bed, Greg headed, zombie-like, towards his potential salvation, the eternally brewing pot of coffee on the stovetop. Coffee was a habit that Greg had acquired working at the lab and despite numerous attempts to wean himself from the vicious, viscous black substance he found himself falling ever deeper into its caffeinated embrace.
Settling himself in the armchair beside the window Greg thought about the day ahead and the process of enrolling at the university. His chat with the admissions advisor the week previous had been positive, and had become even more so as she read the glowing transcripts from his previous university study. Greg's thoughts were interrupted by an undignified pile of grey fur that was indignantly yowling about the distinct lack of anything resembling food in her bowl. Reproachful yellow eyes regarded her owner with an implied directive for Greg to shift butt.
Groaning the groan of the oppressed, Greg wearily lifted himself from the chair and proceeded to the refrigerator his furred companion in hot pursuit. To his dismay all that remained, and was passing edible – or indeed recognisable as food - was the fillet mignon he was saving for his dinner. Resigned to the inevitable he diced the meat and presented it to his cat, "You'd better appreciate that hairball", the hairball in questioned indicated it's undying devotion to Greg by promptly ignoring him and burying its face in the food.
Refilling his coffee, Greg returned to the chair. His thoughts drifted aimlessly finally, and somewhat inevitably, settling on his last day at the lab. He had managed to scuttle any hint or suggestion of a farewell party but that hadn't stopped the CSI's, singly and in pairs, dropping in for final goodbyes and assorted snippets of wisdom and advice, some of which was even useful.
It was Warrick, long-limbed and laconic, who had started the procession; effortlessly pouring himself into the lab he regarded Greg with the practised cynicism of those who've actually had the experiences to back up what they think they know.
"Time to go huh?"
Greg checked the clock on his PC, "Not for another four hours and twelve minutes; not, I hasten to add, that I'm counting".
Easing himself onto the visitor's stool, the tall man immediately went straight to the heart of the matter "So you actually going to say what you're doing, or does the shroud of eternal secrecy follow you out the door? I mean, what's the big hush Greg? It's not like you're going to pursue a life of crime is it?"
"Stop fishing Warrick. As I said to Catherine and as I'll say to you, and probably the others: I'm going, that's it, sayonara. It's not personal".
Warrick shrugged, "Whatever, merely asking. Anyway, gotta split, looking at the remains of a jumper off the Hyatt, who, if reports are true, is Bob Beamon's long lost twin", offering Greg his hand Warrick left with a "take care and stay out of trouble".
The sound of the 9AM news on the radio brought Greg back to the present. Remembering that enrolment started at 10, and that he had to get to the other side of town, the coffee cup was ditched as Greg hurriedly washed, dressed, combed and avoided tripping over the cat on his way out the door. His departure was short-lived as he soon returned to acquire the omnipresent, but ever required, raft of papers seemingly required to do just about anything in the modern age.
This time he failed to dodge the cat on the way out the door.
The quickest way to get to the University was to actually drive in opposite direction, leave Las Vegas and circle back on the interstate; it added nearly 10 miles to the total distance but usually saved half an hour's worth of traffic lights, drivers with non-functioning indicators and various other luminaries who drove with their faith placed in the Force instead of the road code.
And then, there were the tourists.
Turning on the radio to pass the time, Greg was soon irritated by the incessant blathering of the DJ; it was one reason he had brought his own music in to the lab, it saved him being constantly harassed by the terminally chirpy hosts who proclaimed that every day was a great day in the greatest city in the world. He'd had his music especially loud on his final night subconsciously hoping that the additional noise would keep away assorted well-wishers. It didn't work of course and about an hour into the shift Sara Sidle stomped into the lab with ever-present grace and charm cascading behind her in a miasma of tactless assurance.
"So this is it then?"
So much for 'hi Greg', he thought.
"God you're selfish. Who the hell do you think you are up and leaving?"
"Well thanks for the kind words Sara. I thought you'd learned your lesson about jumping to conclusions"
"What do you mean Greg?" the words were razor edged.
"Remember Warrick, and the casino tape? Why do you assume that my reasons for leaving are selfish? I wasn't aware that I had to clear my actions with you first. I've had enough problems with Grissom being clueless thanks; if you're going to be an ant, find another picnic".
Immediately aggravated at this reminder of her past presumption, Sara also had no wish to go to war with Greg, attempting to mollify the agitated lab tech, Sara raised her hand in apology, "Look, Greg, it's not like decent lab techs grow on trees, it's a waste you're going, we need you here".
"And would you have me stay if I was truly unhappy?"
"Well…no" was the grudging response "but…but…that's not the…"
"The point, Sara? The point is that I'm leaving. Sure, it's for my own selfish reasons, but they are still …look dammit, I'm sick of saying this, I'm leaving, can't you people just accept that? Maybe if I hung a sign outside the door or something"
Sara looked defeated, more she looked like she didn't understand - and she hated that feeling more than anything; giving Greg a half-hearted wave she left.
Greg's gaze followed her out the door; sometimes you just couldn't win he thought. He always seemed too be at odds with Sara, and it wasn't for lack of trying, after all, she was a major hottie, and he had a pulse. He wasn't sure what it was, but something in their personalities just clashed, maybe it was because she seemed to have been cloned from Grissom, at least in her attitude to what constituted 'professional'.
The screeching of brakes and the angry honking of a car horn abruptly snatched Greg back to the present. A young woman with an expression light years beyond irate slammed her car door and stalked over to a very confused looking Greg. "What's your fucking problem moron, are your indicators just painted on or something…"
The content of the woman's words were lost on Greg, for if Sara was a hottie then this woman was a walking furnace. Greg tried to concentrate, he really did, but he was distracted by the gymnastic antics of her full breasts beneath her thin cotton top as she gesticulated wildly at him. Greg's subconscious surfaced briefly in a desperate attempt to treat the situation with a degree of solemnity only to have the woman shout "…and stop staring at my fucking tits you pervert", before she walked back to her car and departed with the acrid smell of burnt rubber in her wake. Greg would have denied the woman's accusation about being a pervert but he was too busy checking out her butt as she returned to her car; and then she was gone.
Mentally castigating himself for not paying attention to the road, he couldn't help but grin, yes indeed, it was good to be back at college.
Finding a park at the university wasn't as much of a problem as Greg had anticipated, probably because the architect who had designed the facility had appeared to have been blessed with a degree of common sense, or at least a basic understanding of logistics, and had planned for a continual growth in student numbers and by extension cars. Pulling to a graceful stop underneath a spreading chestnut tree, Greg got out and tried to orient himself. First stop was the administration building and there right beside the tree was a sign clearly emblazoned with 'Administration Building', which directed Greg to take the first path on his left. Grateful at not having to wander around like a child lost at the mall, Greg headed towards the Administration Building.
Although it had been nearly six years since Greg had last been at university some things never changed. Groups of teenagers were scattered across the lawns as if a giant hand had had randomly thrown them about like driftwood on a forgotten beach. Errant Frisbees were pursued with vigour by youth even more wayward and interspersing the gentle sounds of fragmented conversations were the whispers of music from a multitude of radios, each assaulting the airwaves with its own tribute to the latest in pop fabrication; the one exception being the lonely voice of Vaughan-Williams' 'A Lark Ascending', which defined itself in the creative vacuum left by its contemporary siblings.
The same architect who had laid out the campus had obviously not designed the Administration Building; it was a rambling affair, a Daliesque nightmare combining the worst elements of a French Gothic cathedral, a geodesic monstrosity that would have terrified Buckminster Fuller and completed in a colour scheme that made the worst acid flashback appear almost tranquil. Only the most generous critique would have called it interesting, those less inclined to understatement simply avoided looking at it, Greg being neither, determined to get in and out as quickly as possible.
The woman at the front desk appeared to have been having a bad for the past ten years and her defeated posture was a silent, yet eloquent testimony to dealing with students who had inevitably forgotten to bring anything even slightly connected with the basics of enrolment. Her world-weariness reminded Greg of having to bring Grissom bad news.
It wasn't that it was anyone's fault as it wasn't like you could make DNA match solely because you wanted it to, but Grissom, seated behind his desk, took each failure as something akin to your having run over his dog. To be fair to his former boss, Grissom always gave recognition when it was due even if such recognition amounted to little more than a semi-coherent mumble. On Greg's final night, however, it had been different, Grissom, while hardly effusive, had strung together several sentences which not only appeared to indicate approval of Greg's abilities as a lab tech but, if the listener: [a] knew Grissom and [b] was feeling generous, could be translated as wishing Greg well.
Greg had been almost rendered speechless but had settled for turning bright red and mumbling something inarticulate about thank you before he fled through the doors of the building.
If he had looked back he would have seen a faint, wry smile flicker briefly over Grissom's face, before the chief CSI turned and slowly walked back to his office.
Greg snapped back to reality as he realised the woman behind the desk was talking to him. Realising that she was asking for his completed enrolment form and proof of identity he handed her the relevant envelope and quietly waited while she checked his papers over. Taking the distinct lack of hissing and snarling as a positive sign, Greg tentatively inquired if everything was in order. Regarding the young man with eyes made sightless through years of dealing with the university bureaucracy, something akin to a personality briefly surfaced in the woman. Gifting Greg with a raised eyebrow and a quirk of the lips she murmured something about him being the first to get it right today before, in a clearer voice, she directed him to the Graduate Admissions office to complete his enrolment.
As you would expect, the Graduate Admissions office was, according to the woman at the main admissions desk, on the other side of the campus, and Greg, after pausing at a nearby vendor's for something, which proclaimed itself to be but clearly wasn't coffee, headed towards his destination; or at least what he thought was he destination as soon found that the ubiquitous 'other side of the campus' bore a passing resemblance to the end of the eponymous rainbow.
While the layout of the campus was obviously well planned the same could not be said of appropriately placed signage. After finding the main admissions building so easily by, logically enough, following a sign, Greg had been lured into a false sense of security, he was now coming to the somewhat inevitable conclusion that he had previously found the only sign on campus that actually pointed anywhere; any time soon, he thought, I'll be passed by a white rabbit muttering something about being late.
Swallowing his pride, Greg decided to ask for directions, but the lawn previously filled with students was now deserted. Giving up, he resigned himself to returning to the Administration Building to ask for a fresh set of directions, the irony of looking for a new direction was not lost on him and he laughed inwardly. His amusement was abruptly curtailed when, with a bump, he walked into someone. Mentally berating himself for daydreaming he started to apologise when a very familiar voice interrupted him.
"Can't drive a fucking car and you obviously can't walk in a straight line either, are you fucking retarded?" Oh joy, Greg thought, the psychotic bitch from this morning. Making sure his eyes looked everywhere except at her chest, he attempted to steer a tricky course between ingratiation and abuse.
"Err no, actually I'm lost".
"I'm not surprised, I doubt you could find you arse with both hands, a map and a flashlight".
"I'll settle for the Graduate Admissions Office. I'll try finding my arse later if it will make you happy".
"No, that's fine", was the hasty response. Looking at Greg more closely the flame haired virago made a conscious effort to modify her manner. "Well I guess you can't be a complete write-off if you're looking for the graduate office, although I'd suggest you give up driving and get a guide dog. Now, you see that spire over there?" She inquired, pointing in a direction about 90 degrees left of where Greg thought he should have been going. "Walk straight towards that, then look for an old brick building about a hundred metres from that".
"Umm, just in case, precisely HOW MANY brick buildings are a hundred metres from the spire, considering the effort that's gone into signposting this place I don't want to take my chances".
Grinning almost sympathetically - the almost was somewhat undermined by the feral gleam that lit her eyes – the woman shrugged, "Only the one. You're just lucky you didn't have to find the accommodation services building; they probably would have had to send out a search party for you. Anyway, good luck, and try not to walk into anyone else", and with that she was gone.
Assuming that Catherine hadn't been cloned, Greg decided that was pretty much what she must have been like when she was younger, if not in look, then definitely in attitude. Come to think of it, he mused, the attitude's identical; it's definitely a clone. Resuming his quest, he followed the directions given to him by the clone and this time reached his destination with relative ease; there was even a sigh affixed to the exterior of the building that stated: Graduate Admissions, Greg suspected a trap but went in anyway.
The Graduate Admissions building bespoke style and refinement – which essentially meant it wasn't the Hawaiian shirt designer's nightmare the main admissions building was. Unlike the other building, there was no main counter instead individual desks were strategically positioned about the room and behind each of them was a fresh-faced smiling person who emanated an air of helpfulness. Having worked inside the bureaucracy of the police department for several years such an environment made Greg extremely suspicious. Tentatively approaching the desk of one of the fresh-faced, smiling beings the former lab tech was the living incarnation of caution, "Excuse me", he asked "The lady over at the Administration Building said I needed to come here to complete my enrolment, is that correct?"
The smiling being straightened in its chair, gifted Greg with a welcoming gesture and asked him to sit down. "Did you bring your enrolment papers Mr…Sanders?" it said, reading Greg's name from the proffered envelope before grasping the weakly offered papers. "Take a seat, and we'll have a look and see what the system tells us".
The omnipresent smile disappeared from the face of the administration being as it focused its attention on the data spewing forth from its computer. Intermittent grimaces, frowns and tics indicated that something was indeed happening but precisely what was unclear. After several minutes Greg began to grow worried, had he forgotten something? He was sure his fees were paid. He'd even talked to the Dean of the Music Department to ensure his choice of courses met the department's criteria for post-graduate study. Just as his worries began to crescendo the administration being returned to the current space/time continuum, "Everything appears to be in order Mr Sanders. I'll just get you to sign, this, this, this and this. Oh, and this one twice; here and here.
Greg, not wishing to chance his luck, just signed where he was told and fled the area. He really hoped that his first day, the following Monday would be less confusing.