I let myself absorb the book, drifting slightly off with my infamous deep literary concentration.

“Whatcha doin’?” A voice interrupeted. I sighed to myself. Was this interrupt Mara night or something?

“I’m fixing a car, what does it look like I’m doing?” I growled back as I looked up at another dumb jock.

“Um…hey, weren’t you in my English 402 class?” He said with a look of vague recognition.

“Oh…yeah,” I said frigidly, “How did you even get into that class anyway?”

“Some kind of mix up or something. Wasn’t Professor Lundsmore a deusche? I hated that frickin’ book we had to read, The Doomie Brothers?” He said, looking perplexed.

“You mean The Dharma Bums?”

“Whatever. It sucked,” he said.

“You’re a loser. Jack Kerouac was like, a god. The Dharma Bums was an amazing book. I’ve read it like five times,” I argued.

“Well, I didn’t even read it. There weren’t any good pictures to look at,” he shrugged.

“You have no imagination. Or a soul,” I said, getting up and walking out.