My Story For Class

Procrastination

There is a disease that plagues millions across the world. It does not discriminate against any race, age, or sex. This disease has been the cause of many arguments and failed relationships. It has lead to thousands of students failing assignments and classes. While the cure can be relatively simple, it is seldom received by those who have the disease. For some, however, the cure is painful and expensive; costing more than anyone would ever want to pay.

For as long as I can remember I have been addicted to puzzles. I have been known to spend entire weekends working on puzzles. Hovering over table tops arranging small card board pieces in what many have described as a trance. As if all that exists in the world is myself and 1000 colored shapes waiting to be set into place. Entire weekends with the only things reminding me of a world outside of a puzzle are hunger, nature's calls, and sleep.

I do not really remember how I got into puzzling, but I do know what has kept me hooked. The world around me seems to be going 1000 miles per hour with no sign of slowing down. While I do at times get caught up in the hustle and bustle, I am quickly worn out and need an escape. Puzzles have been that escape. All my worldly worries and cares float away and the only worry I have left is where the piece is to finish the chimney on the house.

Unfortunately, my guidance counselor at school tells me that there is no such thing as a professional puzzler. I am not a talented artist or photographer, so that knocks out making them. Therefore, I am forced to give into the demands of my teachers and do my school work and also comply with my parent's requirement of having a job. With those two loads on my shoulders, my puzzle time is often very limited. That does not mean that I do not, from time to time, neglect what is required of me at school, work, or home.

My punctuality has tremendously suffered and I have picked up the nasty disease of procrastination all in part to puzzling. For the most part the only repercussions have been poorly written papers turned in for paramount assignments, resulting in equally poor grades, stern lectures from my boss, and that look from my mother. The look that relays all of her feelings of anger and disappointment without saying a word. The look that gives you the feeling of standing under the spout of a concrete mixer as it pours. The look that could defeat nations, however, is soft enough to let you know that no matter what your transgression, her love is unconditional. The look I needed most after what happened.

Along with school and work, I have the responsibly of picking my sister up from school. Her school day ends an hour and a half after mine. With my school only five minutes from our house and her school only fifteen minutes away, that gives me 90 minutes to puzzle before I have to pick her up. I have been informed that I really only have 70 minutes, but most times I end up enjoying close to two hours of puzzling before my sister is picked up.

“Where have you been?” my sister interrogates me as soon as she gets into the car.

“Uh, mom wanted me to, uh, do a load of clothes and stuff,” I sputter out.

“Whatever! Obviously you didn't do your own clothes, cause something stinks. I'm sure you were probably working on those dumb puzzles of yours,” my sister says with accuracy.

“They're not dumb. You'd like them if you could just get off of Face Space for just one minute and try one,” I say somewhat defensively, but not too defensively because she was right about them being the reason I was tardy.

“Anyways, please pick me up on time from now on. Because of the redistricting, Evelyn goes to another school and can't wait with me any longer. The guys that hang out around the school really creep me out, and I would hope that your sister is more important to you than your “smart” puzzles,” she says.

“Alright,” I say finishing the conversation.

We do live in a city with high crime rates, and as hard as it is to admit, I do love my sister more than puzzles, most of the time.

The next two months went great as far as picking my sister up on time. I might have been a minute or two later here or there, but nothing enough to make her complain. I was able to contain my desires to puzzle, at least for those 30 minutes it took to get her. That was until I got the puzzle of my dreams.

I had my eye's on a Claude Monet 2000 piece puzzle for over six months. While I adore puzzles and Monet, I could not part with the $75 the shop owner wanted for it. When the price was reduced to $30, however, I was all over it. It was my first 2000 piece puzzle, and to be honest I felt somewhat overwhelmed. I got it on a Friday and spent the entire weekend toiling over each piece. It was intense. By Monday I had only 25% complete and it was all I could think about at school.

After school I jolted home and began plugging away. Caught in a trance, I let two full hours flash by before I realized I needed to pick up my sister. I jumped in my car and sped to the school. When I first got there I did not see her or anyone else. I thought perhaps maybe she walked home. I never understood why she did not just walk home any way, but she said she was afraid of the neighborhood. I decided she was probably waiting inside, so I parked and began walking inside. That's when I saw them. Flashing lights a couple blocks away from the school.

Whenever I see flashing lights I always think of the worst possible situations. The first thing that I thought was that my sister had been harmed and that was her being carried away in an ambulance. I quickly shook that thought out of my head, reassuring myself that she was inside waiting and continued towards the school. The doors were locked. I tried other entrances but they were locked too. I was startled by a voice from behind me as I began walking back to my car. I turned and it was my sister's history teacher. She was in tears.

“Davis. I'm...sorry. Your sister...” was all she could choke out before she wrapped me in a tight embrace.

I do not remember much of the week after that day. I was in another trance. This trance was different from the one caused by puzzling. Nothing broke me from me. Not hunger, nature's call, or sleep. I am sure I did those things, but I do not remember. There is only one thing I remember, but I remember it so clearly. As if it is happening right now. At the funeral I did not say a word. Neither did my mother. She just cried in my father's arms as friends and family tried in vain to offer condolences. Some time in the middle of the chaos my mother's eyes and my own met, and there was the look. The look with all the pain of a mother loosing a child, the pain of a thousand whys, the look of anger so strong that it could make one physically sick. It was the look I had seen one hundred times before. The only difference was this time I knew that all those hurtful things were not aimed at me, the only message I saw that she was intending for me was the one of unconditional love. Telling me that it was not my fault. That was when I finally cried. My mother left the comfort of my father and wrapped her arms around me and we wept together.