Stuff I Probably Don’t Have Enough Time to Actually be Doing

The following is the complete, unabridged, and unaltered text of the summary of this week’s house meeting I wrote for our dorm secretary and sent to our dorm chat list.

The brisk fall evening air felt soothing against his skin.  Sagging against the wall of the alley as he half-crawled, half-stumbled away from the crime scene, John Carlos Ferdinand van Zeigl III desperately hoped the police wouldn’t notice the trail of blood leading away from the 7-11 parking lot and into the dark alley.

Wednesday – sand volleyball from 2-4 pm.  Sign up on

It was no use.  The harsh halogen spotlights of the police helicopter easily picked out the cadmium red smear against the dismal gray of the concrete alleyway.  JCFvZIII heard the wail of sirens as a squadron of police cars sped down the I 95 towards him, and

West Flo goes to Monterey on May 25
2 trips—see Anna’s email for more info
Signups tomorrow at noon, first-come first-serve $10 deposit to Anna

crouched behind a dumpster.  Eveything had gone wrong.  Zippy McFrances had been shot in the stomach–JCFvZIII had just left the poor kid in the slushie aisle, and he didn’t even want to think about the pain he must be in as cold, syrupy ice seeped into his bleeding wound–and now JCFvZIII was sitting in an alleyway behind a dumpster with a bullet hole in his leg and two in his shoulder, contemplating how the last few minutes of his life would play out.

Broomball Thursday at midnight – sign up on Angela’s door.  DRIVERS NEEDED.  No, we are not Volkswagon or whatver the hell car company has that slogan.

JCFvZIII took out his cell phone and dialed the number he knew he didn’t know well enough.  A warm, affectionate voice–one that would remind you of summer afternoons on the family farm, or of newborn puppies dressed in adorable baby bonnets–answered.

“John Carlos Ferdinand, is that you?”

“Yes, Momma.” JCFvZIII couldn’t help it.  He began to sob.  “Momma, I don’t think I’m gonna make it home for Thanksgiving dinner.  You better tell Dad.  …No, I don’t want you to put it in some Tupperware and save it for me.  …I KNOW it will still taste good, I just don’t want any! I–look, I have to go Momma.  And Momma?  I love you.”

Flolympics 2-4 pm on FloMo field on Saturday.  Come and compete.  Winning dorm gets fabulous prizes.

With that, JCFvZIII hung up the phone, brought it to his lips, and kissed it gently. Dropping the phone into the pool of blood at his feet, he reached into his trench coat and slowly pulled out the Peruvian blow dart gun he kept hidden under his clothes for emergencies.  Loading the blow gun, he stepped out from behind the dumpster.

Planet Earth showing maybe Friday or Sunday

“FREEZE!” the police shouted.  “COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”  JFCvZIII looked slowly around at the semicircle of five police cars surrounding the entrance to the alley, the officers all crouched behind their car doors, pistols and shotguns pointed at his heart.  The same heart that, not twenty minutes ago, and been sundered in two by the love of his life.  The same life that would soon be a life no more.

Vote for FINAL dorm t-shirts – two designs enter, one design leaves
Giant squid bursting out of a man’s chest or little stick people.  More details to follow. YOU MUST CHOOSE.

JFCvZIII managed to take two of the cops out before the first bullets hit him.  It was the second cop that made him pause–he was a young guy, probably just out of the academy.  JFCvZIII watched the horror in his eyes as the exotic Peruvian poison slowly swelled inside his veins until his entire circulatory system exploded out of his skin in a welter of blood.  It was the pause, in the end, that killed JFCvZIII.  Just enough time for the grizzled veteran of the officers to get a bead on him, just enough time for his pistol’s bullet to tear through the air and into JFCvZIII’s left lung.  JFCvZIII collapsed to the ground, painfully gasping for air.  As the world began to spin and its edges faded, JFCvZIII drifted off to a place far above his own bleeding, dying body.  With his last, raking, excruciating breath, JFCvZIII whispered the one word he loved, the one word he cared about in the world, the one word that, twenty minutes earlier, could have made him barge into the 7-11 to steal enough money to buy a wedding ring–and though the word may have rejected him when she saw him and Zippy standing over the half-Indian sales clerk with pistols drawn, JFCvZIII knew that he still loved her: Esmerelda.


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