It's a beautiful September day, sunny and low 70s. A woman shows up at my office door, clad head to foot in fleece, beads of sweat on her forehead and, of course, with a question. As if my own students are not odd enough.Her question is buried under tons of ramble (which is like rubble, but made of useless words). It goes something like this: "I'm supposed to be in Real Estate Law with Mr. Instructor's Fullname but they changed the room they say it's 110 but I just went there and the janitor told me there was no one there I've been just about everywhere and I can't find it I'm supposed to be in that class and to top it off I got in a car accident yesterday guy hit me it's not too bad I pissed up the seat pretty good but that's going to be okay the car's at the dealer being fixed so I've got to find this room I'm supposed to be in class with Mr. Instructor's Fullname and I can't find the room I've been to 110."
I say, "Let me check." And I call the switchboard for room information. I find out that it's in room 110, but not for another hour. So I tell her she’s got the right room, but she’s nearly an hour early.
“Oh,” she says. “Is there a place I could sit down then?”
Seems a logical request to me. “Sure,” I say. I direct her to the cafeteria down the hall and suggest she relax before class. I wisely say nothing about her perhaps slipping out of her personal sauna.
“Now tell me,” she says, “why am I sitting there relaxing while I’m supposed to be in class in room 110 with Mr. Instructor’s Fullname?”
“It doesn’t start for another hour,” I remind her, wondering, of course, how on Earth she will navigate through real estate law when the concept of time eludes her.
“Oh,” she says, with some lack of conviction, thanks me, and toddles off.
I close and lock my office door.
