Dialogue
"OH! Sorry mister cowboy man!"
"It's ok little man, just be more careful."
"You talk funny. That cowboy hat real?"
"Quit jumpin kid. No siree, my wife made that thing 20 some odd years ago."
"Wow! Wish momma would do something like that for pa, or for me! Your wife, she pretty?"
"Little man, she done was the fairest lass in all the cornfields…"
"Damn it don't you cry! You old and stuff!"
"Yes, yes son I am."
"Huh, are you my pa??"
"No, I don't got no children anymore."
"Oh. Sorry mister cowboy! I won't ever bump into you no more!"
"Thank you, boy."
Description
The class brings a breeze of cold air as I enter. My backpack hangs heavy in this new place. The room was white, but now is yellowed with decay and wear. The tables are filled with the only modern thing- glowing desktop computers, though half of them are broken, and greasy roller seats straight from the seventies are parked at each, but they looked comfortable enough. Clutters of art and papers and posters decorate the wall. In the back, closed blinds glow concealing the outdoor light. Shelves hold typewriters- the kind I've only seen in movies- in dozens of worn colors. People sitting are clicking and tapping away at them or away at the active computers, without noticing me, all writing out things in big chunks. A few are quietly chatting, but most were listening only to their earbuds. The teacher wanders around the room with heavy feet, talking about how he smelled like coffee. And he does. I take a seat, and it seems like it's going to be a pretty cool class.
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