It became apparent to Paul from the beginning of his journey that something drastic in measure was going to take place. Whether this was before or after the soft dispelling of the die-sized, sugar-like cube on the back of his tongue near his taste buds and uvula is heartily up for debate.

The only detail known for certain was the audible melody of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” claim witnesses.

His car went fast. A ghastly crimson stripe ran through the innards of the chrome paint job and wrapped tightly around the frame, choking the life out of it. It had once been a pace car for the Indianapolis 500, which is held every year during Memorial Day weekend. That was exactly five weeks after one of Paul’s most favorite days of the year. He enjoyed those 24 hours as his own “greener” sort of Earth Day.

He’s not an environmentalist per se but has built up his connoisseurship of certain exotic plants over the years, preserving several of the organically-grown greeneries inside his dormitory room.

One night in particular however, the introductory night at the beginning of this piece in fact, Paul had a revelation in the midst of woozy battle with the blacktop stretch of street leading past the Mall.

Dr. C. Russell, Paul’s weary companion, rode shotgun while scribbling notes and doodling doodles when his forehead went full frontal into hard plastic dashboard, the inky point of his pen nearly piercing his retina.

“Not my first near-death experience,” Russell said, “but my seatbelt didn’t lock and that scared the hell out of me.”

Paul reminded him that the seatbelts had been cut out months before he purchased it.

“I don’t wear one anyway,” Paul said.

They idled peacefully in the middle of East Street, Dr. Russell recovering with his pen and pad
and Paul staring idyllically out into the Mall where a band of guitar-wielding Jimi Hendrixes strode like kings on a direct route through the front entrance of the Science Center.

“I decided not to tell him about all of the damn Jimis walking across the Mall and into the building,” Paul said. “He was going to see them soon enough.”

Paul climbed out, forgetting to open the door, opting instead for the window and then fell solidly to the pavement below with a loud crrrunnncchhh. Dr. Russell took note of his friend’s fall in his notepad, stuck the pen behind his ear and exited the vehicle.

Dr. Russell helped Paul from the filthy street and then followed him towards the grassy area in front of the Science Center. Paul wore his Lee Dungaree’s a size too large and the bottoms dragged along the sidewalk behind his heels like an addict into rehab.

             
“I’ve been to rehab,” Paul said. “It didn’t work out.”

             
The three-piece suit Dr. Russell was wearing that night was nicely pressed, fresh from the cleaners until he discovered the ink blotches on the collar of his faux-silk dress shirt.

             
“The stain began to swell and undulate and that’s when I noticed Hendrixes out of the corner of my eye,” Russell said.

             
The guitar legends continued stampeding across the lawn and that’s more or less what set Paul off. He didn’t run out into the grass, choosing to not become an accessory to the crime being committed. Paul did trip over the frazzled strings of denim jean trailing him though and landed face first into the sidewalk. Blood began to pour from a wound on his cheek.

             
“They were just ruining the grass all willy-nilly,” Paul said. “That particular plant is important, no matter what kind, although some kinds are a hell of a lot better than others.”

             
Paul, directing his concern towards Dr. Russell, wanted to know when the Mall turned into “Hendrix country” and ran up and down the sidewalks for a good 15 minutes before regurgitating part of his late dinner all over Dr. Russell’s suede shoes.

             
“I still haven’t forgiven him,” Russell said. “There’s no excuse for it, it’s just grass, not even grass that makes you feel good, you can’t eat it, can’t smoke it, can’t drink it, not that you’d want to, but you know what I’m talking about.”

             
Paul passed out afterwards and when he awoke the next morning, he relayed to Dr. Russell his idea for the preserving of the grass on the Mall.

             
“It shouldn’t be walked on, stepped on or anything,” Paul said. “They’re just going to kill and leave strips of bare, dead ground. It should be for organic uses only, like for a good old fashioned trip.”

           
Paul’s companion agreed whole-heartedly with his friend’s proposal but also noted the difficulty which they may face in convincing campus officials of the benefits of such grass.

They’ve devised a plan of attack, choosing to work from a historical perspective rather than a beneficial one.

             
“Washington and Jefferson grew hemp,” Russell mentioned. “Those guys are our founding fathers, and they couldn’t find anything erroneous with taking a flame to the roots every once in awhile.”

             
“I’m not saying I want everyone on campus to be drug addicts,” Paul said. “I used to be a drug addict. I’m not anymore, but I still do drugs.”

             
The preservation of the grass on the Mall, as far as Paul and Dr. C. Russell are concerned, should be the focus of the students from here on out.

             
“No amount of grass should ever go to waste,” Paul said. “Students should start using the sidewalks so Dr. Russell and I can get this ‘green project’ off the ground.”

[Back to top]