Page 2/The Battalion/Monday, October 19,1987
Opinion
Death to road-blocking Gabbers
1 was on my way
to philosophy,
backpack loaded
with 1,200 pounds
of Locke,
Rousseau, Asian
politics, and blue
books from I don’t
know when. My
head was bent
down; the ground
was a blur. I had
20 seconds to
Mark
Nair
make it to class. Twenty seconds to
make it across the unbridled, untamed
A&M campus.
Twenty seconds. Fifty miles. No
problem.
But I forgot about Them.
You know who They are. You’ve seen
Them. Maybe you’re even one of Them.
They’re the people who must stand in
the middle of a busy sidewalk, right
when classes are changing, and talk.
They just stand there, talking. Gabbing.
Chatting.
1 hate'Them.
And I had 20 seconds.
“Oh, excuse me,” I told her,
slamming into her at Mach 3. Books
flew into the air. Loose-leaf paper
covered the ground. Who says it doesn’t
snow in College Station?
“Oh, like, ohmygawd!” she
exclaimed, squealing. I could tell from
her dress: the aluminum-foil shoes, the
satellite-dish earrings. She was one o r
Them. A Gabber.
“Oh, like, ohmygawd!” said her
friend. “Are you, like, OK? Now what
was that about Robby?” She helped her
friend gather her books. I grabbed my
backpack from the hole it left in the
ground, mumbled an apology, and left.
Hit and run? So what? She was a
Gabber. Hog the road, pay the price.
Besides, I had 15 seconds.
But there were more. There always
are. Standing in the busiest, narrowest
part of the sidewalk, oblivious to the
crowd trying to push its way through,
They trade jokes, tell stories, catch up
on drunken weekends. They gab.
And they are everywhere. Take Sbisa
for example.
Here I am, hungry, my tray laden
with the fruits of Mr. Sbisa’s hard day’s
labor over a hot stove. I see the path to
the French Fry line is clear. I make the
attempt, hoping to avoid the Gabbers.
But it doesn’t work. They appear out of
nowhere. Standing in the middle of the
busiest part of Sbisa, food on trays, they
talk. And talk. And talk.
I make a hard right, just in time to
avoid a rear-end collision. I save the
majority of my dinner, but sadly watch
the chicken fried steak fly off my tray
because of the momentum. The gravy
glues the chicken fried steak to the
Gabber’s back. I don’t tell him. He’ll
find out when he sits down.
If he sits down.
Fifteen seconds.
“Gary!” exclaimed the guy in front of
me, stopping suddenly. I put on the
brakes, but still left an imprint of my
face on his backpack.
“Say, dude,” said his friend.
“How’s it going?”
“OK, how’s it going?”
“OK, I’m glad it’s going OK.”
“I’m glad it’s going OK, too.”
“Dude, that’s great.”
“I heard that. That’s OK.”
“You said it, dude.”
I couldn’t bear it. Their conversation
sounded like something out of “Araby
“Hey, excuse me. Hey. Hey!”
“You know,” said Gary who was now
firmly rooted in the cement, “I really
like clogging up the flow of traffic on
these sidewalks.”
“Yeah,” said his friend. “Especially
when we engage in totally meaningless,
inane conversation.”
“Like we always do,” said Gary.
“You said it, dude,” said his friend.
They shook hands, laughed loudly, and
started talking about scholastic
probation.
“Aaaargh!” I said. When I quote
Gharlie Brown, you know it’s serious.
I pushed Gary aside into the mud.
Dodging his witty companion, I leapt
over a bush, ran out into the street, and
crashed into a stationary Volkswagen
Rabbit. Inside the car was one of Them,
a Gabber, talking to another one of
Them on the sidewalk who was holding
up traffic all by herself. Her parents
must be proud.
I yelled. I couldn’t escape.
Five seconds. I had too far to go. I’d
never make it.
Four seconds. I see the building.
Three seconds. 1 just broke the world
record for the 400 meter dash. I’m in
the building.
Two seconds. I take the stairs eight at
a time.
One second. There’s theclassrocilL , vn
won’t be late. I won’t die the profe®Mj omh ' ol( ]
miserable, horrible cold-stare death,I f or &
will live to be late for another day. ■ shaft, had
But guarding the door are twoof feyond the resi
I Iii-m. Two Gal >1 id s. juM standing Krhaps it w
there. Talking. Gabbing. Chatting. Hdeep beloi
Talking. Gabbing. Chatting. ►"XtS
Never moving. L58 hours ir
Aaaargh. I hate Them. j. ■ s j U st a glii
Mark Nair is a senior politicalscieiB?^,! evealec * "
major and a columnist for The * U
Battalion.
Quaking in L.A.
I knew Lanie
when she lived in
Atlanta. She’s a
tall, striking
blonde who is
originally from
Alabama.
Lanie’s always
had some stars in
her eyes. She
always felt there
was more out ,
there than she was
Lewis
Grizzard
getting staying put near the comforts of
friends and family.
A couple of months ago, Lanie got a
break. She was hired by a company that
organizes celebrity golf tournaments all
over the world.
The company wanted Lanie to move
to Los Angeles, and she jumped at the
chance. She took an apartment on the
third floor in West L.A.
Lanie called me the afternoon of the
Los Angeles earthquake. She was trying
to get in touch with her best friend,
Susan. She hoped I had Susan’s
number.
“I just wanted to tell Susan I’m OK,”
she said.
It took me a moment, but then I
realized why she would want to assure
her best friend she was still among the
living.
The earthquake. The one that hit
near Pasadena on Thursday morning.
The one that had killed at least six
people and injured scores of others.
“It was awful,” Lanie told me. I
sensed she was fighting back tears.
“I was in the bathtub with conditioner
in my hair. First, I hear this low
rumbling sound. You can’t imagine
anything more frightening than that
sound.
“Then, water started splashing out of
the tub. Next, the walls around me
began to shake. They looked like they
sort of swelled out, like in one of those
horror movies about haunted houses.
“Then things started falling and
shaking all around me. My perfume
bottles hit the floor.
“The lighting fixture above my head
began swinging back and forth.
“That lasted 20 or 25 seconds. Then,
I began to hear alarms going off.
“Earthquakes, somebody told me
later, always set off automobile alarms.
“Then there were all sorts of sirens,
and I could hear the screams of people
in the apartments next to me.”
“Did you panic?” I asked.
“Of course I did,” said Lanie.
“After the rumbling and the grinding
noises stopped, I got out of the tub and
ran into the living room and turned on
the news to see if I could find out what
was happening.
“You could see the news set shaking
on the TV, and the newscaster was
crawling under his desk. Everything was
still for a few minutes and then the
tremors started. I think they call them
aftershocks.
“I don’t know how many there were,
but I cried my way through each of
them, and just about the time I would
get one of them out my system, another
one would start.”
“Besides being afraid,” I asked, “what
else did you feel?”
“The worst part of the entire thing,”
said Lanie, “was the absolute lack of
control. There was no place to run, no
place to hide. I was totally helpless. But
I was lucky I didn’t get too many things
broken, including any parts of me.”
I asked Lanie if the earthquake would
bring her back home.
“I guess I’ll stick it out,” she said.
Earthquakes, to me, are the most
frightening of all natural disasters. The
ideas of the ground opening up and
swallowing me or a building crumbling
around me are terribly chilling.
“Did you think you were going to
die?” I asked Lanie.
“Worse,” she said. “I thought they
were going to find me dead in my tub,
naked, with no makeup on.”
I’ll give her six more weeks, especially
after the second earthquake struck the
West Coast. Tops.
Copyright 1987, Cowles Syndicate
The Battalion
(USPS 045 360)
Member of
Texas Press Association
Southwest Journalism Conference
The Battalion Editorial Board
Sondra Pickard, Editor
John Jarvis, Managing Editor
Sue Krenek, Opinion Page Editor
Rodney Rather, City Editor
Robbyn Lister, News Editor
Loyd Brumfield, Sports Editor
Tracy Staton, Photo Editor
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Mail Call
Before convt
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Behind the times
EDITOR:
day a new system of government will be better suitedloij
society’s ills, but for now I’ll stick with good of capitalist
Ralph Kramer ’87
On Monday night, the communist road show came to
A&M, much like a quack doctor hocking his miracle cure
for “all that ails ya.” To the ignorant masses, these
members of the Communist Party came to tell us the great
benefits of their system and how it cures all of society’s ills.
Their system’s goals are lofty ones, but looking at a
supposed communist state such as the Soviet Union, one
must wonder if their ideals and those of other communist
state are the same. True, the unemployment rate is
negligible, and their education system is good, but what of
their other goals? Their standard of living is low, and they
have to stand in long lines just to get everyday items like
toilet paper. There is no freedom of thought or
expression, unless you like Siberia. Jews are persecuted for
their beliefs, and religion as a whole is tolerated but not
accepted by the “true” party members. Alcoholism is
widespread among the people, and absenteeism from
work is a major problem.
Capitalism is not a perfect system either. Many social
problems exist, but has there ever been a system in which
all these great ideals have been embraced? Monday’s
speaker said, “The Communists have the strongest party
in the world for gaining peace and ending exploitation.”
Well, what do you call Afghanistan and an economy which
mostly supports the military regime? About as peaceful as
a pit bull on a mailman’s leg. Well, ’nough said. Maybe one
Health care, Soviet style
EDITOR:
For all students who have not had the opportuniu
visit the Soviet Union, one can experience a sliceof$oi
life right here simply by visiting our health center,lilt
Soviet Union, the health services here are free except
$15 health center fee charged each semester and anv
prescriptions we might need. As in the Soviet Unioni
wait is long; hopefully, illness happens on a day which*
academically unimportant. And finally, as in theSovici
Union, the quality of care is usually poor — not tome®
that the doctors are rude and rushed in the whole fist
minutes they spend examining you.
My suggestion is to quit charging everyone SBa
semster for “health services” or offer a quality service* 1
can trust to be thorough and treat students wilhrespet
their busy schedules.
Kelli Wright ’90
Letters to the editor should not exceed 300 words in length. The (dilt»’‘.
serves the right to edit letters for style and length, but will make r,f''
maintain the author's intent. Each letter must be signed and mustinclvii’*
sification, address and telephone number of the writer.
BLOOM COUNTY
by Berke Brea
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