The Bus

One of my first weeks as a Freshman at UGA, I found myself chasing down a university bus in a frenzied attempt to make it to my astronomy class on time. It was a giant lecture-format class with several hundred students - attendance taken every day - and anyone arriving late had to enter through an extremely loud and disruptive door at the front of the lecture hall. Suffice to say, as a freshman barely a week into my college experience, the thought of that was insufferable. So there I was, backpack filled with way more books than I realistically needed to bring to class, sprinting towards the UGA bus as it began to take off. Waiting at the stop, presumably for a bus to take them to the sorority house, were a bevy of beautiful coeds. As I glanced at them for a moment, I lost my footing, and tumbled forward, doing at least one awkward somersault as a result of my over-weighted backpack. Looking up, I first saw my bloody knees and palms, then the bus slowly taking off, and finally, as I turned to my right, the half-concerned, half-amused faces of the sorority girls. All I could think of to say was, "Damn, that hurt." A few girls laughed. Most were confused. I made it to my class about 20 minutes later, to the quips of my astronomy professor and laughter from the audience.

A few years later, one of my closest friends had a much more harrowing experience with a UGA bus: he was given a ticket for jaywalking as a result of being struck and jettisoned several feet after failing a test and distractedly walking in front of the behemoth's warpath. The same guy who had earlier broken his arm while ringing the Chapel Bell and later by punching a mutual friend in the face, walked away from this particular incident completely unscathed. Very odd, I remember thinking.