The Man

I woke up and rubbed my eyes. Today was a slightly more important day than the rest, as I had a math test. After falling into the wall a few times in my seemingly drunken stupor, I began to get ready for school. I got some presentable clothes on, ate breakfast, and brushed my teeth. As I did so, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. A brown-haired brown-eyed male teen stared back. It bore my perpetual cool, calm, and cold stare. The house was silent, per usual. My parents had not awoken yet. Checking my fairly cheap, but effective watch, I saw that the time was 6:48. This was precisely the time that I always left for the bus. I kept time to the second, and my punctuality never went unnoticed. With that final thought, I left for the bus. When the bus arrived, I boarded. I shot a short, but kind "Hello", at the bus driver and took a seat on the driver's left. That way, I could stretch out. In addition, I had a much better field of view out of the bus. Upon reaching the high school, I bid the driver good-bye and departed. I entered the school and made my way down the halls. I always followed the same route, except for the off chance that I ran into one of my very few friends. I had a group of friends smaller and tighter than the yoga pants on the girl in front of me. Thankfully, I had just reached my locker, and stifled both a smile and a chuckle. I was an expert at this, and reserved emotion for my close friends. I then began to wonder how they could get upset from us looking when they wore yoga pants. I got what I needed from my locker and resumed my all-too familiar walk to my first hour class: history. The pleasant clip-clop of my shoes reminded me of the several action films I had seen. Jason Bourne, James Bond, Jack Ryan, all making a real, tangible difference in the world. The military was the only way to really change the world. As if God attempted to challenge my opinion, my brisk pace rustled a new flyer taped to the painted cinderblock wall. I immediately inspected it, as I had memorized virtually every miniscule detail of these hallways. I would not have noticed this flyer if it had not been new. It was for an overseas trip to Africa to help impoverished children. Apparently they needed more help building wells and water filtets. I didn't know why it was so difficult. I thought back to a 4th grade experiment in which we made filters of sand, pebbles, and clay. The one with clay and sand, mine, worked the best. Of course, it was only for filtering out dirt and large particles, but it was a start. On the flyer was an image of several black hands outstretched, each reaching into a stream of Earth's life-giving liquid. It was an image that I had seen hundreds of times before, "africa water problems", I believe, was what I had Googled. I frowned and kept walking down the hallway. As honorable as this trip's intentions were, it wouldn't make a mien of difference whether they went on that trip or not. It was an endless cycle, poverty. Even if one of those kids who the water was being sent to was saved and became a teacher in that region, it wouldn't make a scratch on the surface of history. That teacher would likely just teach to a whole bunch of kids that would die or not pay attention. In other words, that teacher would not touch the hearts of kids like they were "supposed" to do. It wasn't the most cheery thought, but then again, when is the world ever cheery? There is a fine line between realism and cynicism, I reminded myself. And I, John Blackthorne, preferred to walk it.