The Oddballs

Jack Wharton sat quietly next to the window, stroking the stubble on his jaw and feeling the sun on his back as he watched. Every few minutes for the last half an hour a new character with an air of eccentricity about them had walked in the door labeled “campus writing group” and staked out their spot. The crowd was getting larger, and he listened as pairs and trios fractured into their own conversations. To his right along the far wall a trio of girls sat on a couch and recommended authors of horror to each other, and at the long table in the middle of the room sat a pair of sci-fi geeks explaining the rules for their respective worlds to one another. He tried tuning his ears to conversations situated farther from him, but could only discern broken bits of comic writing and other fiction. He’d come there hoping to meet another like himself, or sort of like himself. Someone with a weird thirst for life and the odd things in it. But he’d heard nothing yet that struck the right note, so he continued waiting in silence for the meeting to begin.

Just as the president of the group stood to make his opening announcements, one final character came shuffling in; and this fellow caught his attention more so than any previous. He wore black leather boots, slacks, and a pullover sweater with the face of a large bear on the front. Around his neck dangled some sort of odd medallion, and a head of shoulder length curly hair framed his Lennon-esque face behind round-framed glasses. But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught Jacks attention— it was the way this newcomer carried himself in an unfamiliar place. No talk, but at the same time there was no trace of hostility in his silence; rather he gave off the impression of someone who soaks his reality in at large, another observer. Jack saw just the right amount of himself and something different in the man, and it intrigued him.

Soon the president put forth that each member should go around and give a bit of harmless info about themselves: a name, preferred reading material, and specialties in writing. Jack listened less attentively than he had been before as people around the room tossed out summaries of their joys and passions in life. When his turn came at last, he stated his piece in an even generally- directed tone.

“My names Jack Wharton. I mostly do travel writing and other forms of non-fiction. Favorite authors and pieces are Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter Thompson, On the Road by Jack Kerouac, and No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy.”

From the corner of his eye as he listed the pieces and authors, Jack saw the man in the bear-faced sweater perk up a little further with each novel and name.

“I LOVE those books” he blurted out.

“No fooling?” Jack replied. Neither of them seemed to notice the awkward silence that had befallen the room. If either of them did, neither showed a hint of caring.

“They’re easily some of the best American books written, and by some of my favorite authors as well” The man continued.

“Well its about time I found another weirdo” Jack mumbled to himself with a hint of excitement.

A certain feeling of relation came over him then, and as he became more aware of the faces and ears now tuned in on him, he made up his mind to pursue it.

“Hell, I’m coming to sit next to you man” Jack said aloud, then gathered up his materials and moved across the room towards the like minded stranger.

As the two situated themselves around an end table the rest of the group went on with introductions. Once it came down to the man in the bear-faced sweater, he simply said

“My names Jordan Rice and I’m with this guy, more or less. But I prefer Blood Meridian over No Country when it comes to McCarthy.”

The group nodded in approval before splitting off into factions again, leaving the kindred spirits to themselves.

“So what is it you like about Thompson?” Jack asked, wondering how similar Jordans answer would be to his.

“He’s just so goddamn weird man, you can‘t help but love him. But in that weirdness he found a way to have his voice heard, which I think is probably why I like him most.”

Jack could feel his excitement rising at finding another like-minded Freak at last. He rattled back to him his own reasonings post-haste.

“I couldn‘t agree more. He had, I think, the balls to call anyone out for their misdeeds. Hunter didn’t discriminate in who he laid heat on, which is again something I think more journalists and authors ought to practice.”

“Yes, yes” Jordan replied, exaggeratedly nodding his head and smiling ”What about Kerouac, why do you like him?” he asked as he finished nodding.

Jack paused for a moment, thinking out his answer.

“Hell, On the Road is the quintessential twentieth century American novel. I also think it might be one of the greatest adventure books of all time, mainly because its true. What about you?”

Jordan nodded in agreement

“I think its an astounding piece of work. Kerouac typed it all in one sitting, straight through. He had an artistic drive and vision that I think we all could learn from, or at least aspire towards.”

Now it was Jack who found himself nodding. Their discussion of American literature soon stemmed into film, music, and literature at large; and before either of them knew it they were the last ones left in the room. Even then, neither of them paid much attention to the fact until a janitor came to tell them the building was closing for the night.

The sun cast golden rays as it set while they strolled to their cars across the lot outside the building, still deep in discussion. As they came to Jordans car, Jack pulled a cigarette from the breast pocket of his jean jacket and lit it.

“So, when will we meet again?” Jack asked.

Jordan thought for a moment

“Whats your class schedule?” he replied.

“Well, I’ve got script writing with Keller at 8:00 a.m tomorrow”

”I sit in the front row” Jordan said with a smile.

Jack hadn’t noticed him before, but as he recalled the sea of classmates who sat in front of him in the lecture hall; in a fringes of his memories he remembered the curly head of hair some ten rows in front of him.

“I’ll be damned, you are. Suppose I’ll see you then?”

“Sounds about right to me” replied Jordan.

Jack put the cigarette back in his lip and extended a hand to shake.

”I think things are going to get plenty weird with us when it comes down to creating something down the road. Until then, I’ll see you in the morning amigo.”