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123022, Москва, Звенигородское ш., 4,
торговый центр "Электроника на Пресне", офис В-46
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I didn't know what to do.
I had imagined that you just went somewhere and told them you wanted to take Journalism, Beginning Journalism, and they'd give you a card with a schedule of your classes.
It was nothing like that.
These people knew what to do and they wouldn't talk.
I felt as if I was in grammar school again, being mutilated by the crowd who knew more than I did.
I sat down on a bench and watched them running back and forth.
Maybe I'd fake it.
I'd just tell my parents I was going to L.A.
City College and I'd come every day and lay on the lawn.
Then I saw this guy running along.
It was Baldy.
I got him from behind by the collar.
Hey, hey.
Hank! What's happening?" "I ought to cream you right now, you little asshole!" "What's wrong? What's wrong?" "How do I get a fucking class? What do I do?" "I thought you knew!" "How? How would I know? Was I born with this knowledge inside of me, fully indexed, ready to consult when needed?" I walked him over to a bench, still holding him by his shirt collar.
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