Stupid Studying Room

*This is fiction, an adaption of The Catcher in the Rye. This is the part where Holden goes to the Museum of Natural History in New York, and stops before he goes in. The narrator is a boy similar to Holden Caulfield.

The thing is, there’s a special studying room for seniors on the 11^th floor. But it’s kinda phony, since it can’t hold all seniors. So we cast lots, boy, cast lots! The lucky lots get seats, and the unlucky bits don’t. I got one, too. For Chrissake. I’ve never been lucky in my whole life, and I’m using my luck in this sort of phony stuff. But I take my seat anyway. It’ll be mine for one year. Unless I get kicked out, that is.

My seat is number 26. It’s by the hallway, far from the entrance. Fourth aisle. It’s seat is blocked by a partition. That’s the whole point of this “studying room”. You are supposed to not get distracted by others. On the left partition, some sounavitch wrote “12^th grade”. God damn it. Who the hell doesn’t know he’s a 12^th grader? Right on the bookshelf, there are traces of good old scotch tape being ripped off. On the smooth, waxed desk there are strange engraved Chinese letters. I don’t know, they’re the company name that made this desk or something. The first day I got in, I stared and stroked the engraved letters for a long time. I kinda got curious. Who did they do that? I took out a penknife from my pocket and started to saw my desk. It was waxed, but still, it was wood. It couldn’t resist my knife. Finally, I left a tiny mark on the desk, and it was as straight and deep as the letters. From that point on, my desk never changed. 

I kinda liked having a seat in the room because you get to get the same seat every time and get to leave stuff there. And as long as I don’t touch anything, nobody does. I mean, everything stays in place- the old scribble, ripped tape, engraved letters, even my own incised mark. Nothing’d move. I could go there a hundred times, and that scribble would still say “12^th grade”. Nothing’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you’d be so much older or anything. It wouldn’t be that, exactly. You’d just be different, that’s all. You’d wear black socks this time. Or your hair would be all tangled and messy. Or the kid that was next to me would be different. Or you’d just talked to Mr. Yoon for an hour and a half. Or you’d just have been dumped by your girlfriend. Or you’d have just fallen off the stairs. I mean you’d be different in some way- I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it. 

One day I went into the studying room, right on time. The thing is, since they lack seats, anyone who’s not using the studying room properly is kicked out. Late or absent three times in a week and you’re out. To prove it, you’d sign some stupid paper that you were there, right on time, in stupid Chinese letters. I stood in line in turn to sign that damn thing. Then a funny thing happened. When it was my turn, I didn’t want to sign it. I jumped up three floors in a hurry just to get in time, but I didn't want to sign it. I mean, in my aisle people are frequently not in their seats, doing something else on the outside or having classes or something. Some of them almost never actually study in there. And still they keep their seats just because they signed that stupid paper. And a number of students are dying to get in there and have a seat! Well, that’s because you can’t use your laptop inside the room, so anybody who has to use their laptop frequently rarely come in there. But they still keep their seats! For Chrissake. What phonies. Why don’t they just get out of their stupid, never-occupied seats?

So I didn’t sign the damn paper, three times in a row. I mean, I don’t want to get fettered by some stupid studying room rules! I have my own rules. And maybe the next-in-line would have more use of that stupid seat. I don’t need it, anyway. I can just study in my room or at 11^th floor, outside the enclosed studying room. And I got kicked out, damn it.

On the Subway

*It feel so weird, the essay just shoots all over the place.... haha.

The ground is rattling. A distant voice calls; this station is Namtaeryung, Namtearyung…

Almost there. I can’t sleep, I might miss my station. I blankly stare at the people come and go. They go by, paying no attention to me or anybody. Blank faces, blank gestures. Whenever I am surrounded by a group of strangers, I feel loneliness, more than when I am actually alone. It's like an unimaginable glass wall exists between the people and separate them. And I miss people. I wish I had someone beside me. Instead, I concentrate on the heat from the bottom and the thick red muffler around my neck. The heat of the heater slowly slithers upward, surrounding my body. I roll my body and bury my face deeper into the muffler. This haggard piece of wool is something my grandfather gave me as a birthday present. Grandpa. his feeble smile, shaggy white hair, and harsh wrinkled hand flash inside my head. His face, I’ve never seen in almost four years, I’ll never see in my lifetime.

My eyesight is getting all blurred now, so I cut out my thoughts. I mean, I can't just cry in a subway full of people; it would be a harm to everybody! To stem my stream of consciousness, I grab a book from my backpack- Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell, my favorite English novel. There are scribbles all over the place- my impressions, sudden ideas, related issues… although I have read this story many, many times, the story feels different every time, as I mature every moment. My handwriting is pretty messy, I can’t even read my notes clearly, but it doesn’t matter. I value the scribbling itself. 

However, not even the “I love you” note from Julia or the fascinating theory of O’Brien can capture my attention for the moment. After a few unfruitful attempts to grasp the meaning of the sentence, not just the pronunciation, I close the book. The blue pupil on the cover looks at me accusingly, but I just stuff it into my backpack. I catch a glimpse of my own eyes reflected on the window. The underground is all black, turning the window into a mirror. Out of boredom, I make funny faces at the mirror- grimacing, smiling, wining, surprised. My friends always say that my facial expressions are kind of a mystery; they could never figure out what I was thinking. I giggle at the twisted face. At that moment, I meet someone else’s eyes. I freeze of embarrassment.

I slowly detach my hands from my face and turn around. An old man with a wrinkled face and soft white hair is smiling at me, looking quite amused. Suddenly, I feel like I was cordially accepted into this whole unfamiliar world. I slightly blush and smile back. I think of my grandfather again. How were his last few moments of his life like? What kind of regrets did he have? How does he feel, now that he transferred to the heaven, probably? I am happy for him, for I know he has gone to a better place. Still, I miss him. I wish, I wish, that I could guard his transfer.

           But for now, it is time for me to transfer. How life would have been much easier, if only you could stay at one train and still get to the destination! But it’s not that easy; I can’t just sit down and sleep along the way. Every subway, bus, train, airplane, bicycle, even feet has its distinct quality, a virtue of its own. 

Throughout my 17 years of life, I have had many transfers. I attended so many schools and lived in so many houses that a process of transfer seems so familiar to me. Familiar, yet, of course, new every time. Although transfer does require a bit of adjustment and rattling, it allows you to see a different world, a different perspective, a different route. I like the changes brought by a transfer. And often times, transfer is the only way you can get to your destination. So I stand up and head towards the door, towards the station, towards another subway line- another little transfer for me!