8. Ken

Day 8- Ken

When you're an alumni visiting your friends at the college you've graduated from, it's always... interesting. There's the old things like the yummy mozzarella sticks at the favorite bar, the office to your academic adviser, dining hall food, and the favorite spot by the lake. Then there are new things like the speedy construction of the new academic building, the new plasma TV to the lobby of your dorm, and seeing friends studying when you don't have any school-related things to do. Bottom line- it's interesting to see how life has moved on without you.

Another example would be the rules for college taxis. My friend and I was sitting in a taxi, heading to our favorite Mexican restaurant. It was a silent ride until I saw the sign on a white computer paper, printed in 22-size Verdana font, it read boldly, "IF YOU PUKE, THERE WILL BE A FINE OF $50."

I had to break the silence. I giggled, "Is the really true? Your sign? If people puke, they have to pay $50?"

He shook his head and let out a tired groan. Then he scoffed, "Oh yeah, it's true."

I looked at the sign and then at him, "So... has it ever... happened? People really puke in this van?"

"Oh yeah. It has happened."  My eyes widened as I looked around the clean van, looking for any clues of vomit remnants. "It has happened a few times... when these kids puke, I have to clean it. And it takes a long time to clean. The place gets wet and it takes time to dry... and then you have to stop service for the night...then you lose money!"

I watched him from the rear view mirror as he spoke. He wore circle glasses, a Syracuse baseball cap, and a faded blue jean jacket over his black fleece coat. His driving was sharp, smooth and as slow as the city speed limit. There were hints of soft wrinkles around his eyes and his thin, smiley mouth. Both of his hands were wrapped on top of the wheel. He was a townie, raised and grown in the beautiful grey landscape of Fulton.

On his dashboard, a picture of two beautiful women covered his speed meter. I pointed as if he could see me, "Are those your daughters?"

He immediately smiled, his green gallant eyes glistened with adoration, "That's my wife and daughter."

"May I see?"

"Yes, of course!" He reached forward, grabbed the picture, and handed it back to me, eyes on the road.

The two women were beautiful. Even though they were daughter and mother, they looked young and almost identical. True story, I couldn't tell which was who. Both had long, iron-straight, black hair, pearly white teeth, almond shaped eyes, painted rosy lips. Both were wearing blue colors. Their arms were wrapped around each other tightly, both smiling at me, "If you don't mind me asking, where is your wife from?"

"The Philippines," he said proudly.

"Have you ever been?"

"Oh yes! We visit Cebu almost every summer. Whenever we can, we go," he said excitedly. His voice instantly came alive when he spoke about his wife. He shared with us the vast beauty of the Philippines, his love for the culture, listed all of his favorite Philippine food, and even started to teach me a few words in Tagalog.

Before I knew it, we arrived at our destination. Before I closed the door, I asked, "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

He smiled at us. "My name is Ken."