Out of Place

I am currently perched at a stool before a public-access Mac. On either side f me, trapping me between the edges of the keyboard, are half-finished sodas, Arizona Iced-teas, honey roasted peanut packages, smartfood popcorn and empty sandwich boxes from the cafeteria. Flanking me like the rows of an inexperienced army are the hoards of 'rats.'

Lounge rats, to be specific. Those of the students who find comfort and shelter in the Ritz Lounge. Those minds whose imaginations need cards, dice, books and pencils to be seen by those around them. Kinsmen, near all of them. Those that wield the cards dabble in the books, and those who dabble in the books delve fully into the dice. And those delving into the dice linger on the fringes of all these activities.

Talk of campaigning and victory filter through the air and the shouts of defeat are accompanied by fists slamming on tabletops. They are all verysuccessful warriors in their minds.

Now me? I am not numbered in their ranks, per say. If this were a national army of DCC, I wouldbe one of the Silver Spears - tagging along for the paycheck. (Or in this case, for the company.) I enjoy their antics. Their amusement is contagious and their enthusiasm unavoidable.

But perhaps I'll leave the lounge for them.

Oru