Shifting his grip on the plastic handle of his attaché, he squared his narrow shoulders and tried again. He often thought that exiting students should be forced to move in orderly rows through the left side of the double doors so that students arriving early for the next class could enter unopposed through the right. By sliding sideways between two young women, who, oblivious to Norman’s presence, continued discussing the sexist unfairness of birth control and blow-dryers, he made it into the room and headed for his seat. Norman liked to arrive early so he could sit in the exact center of the third row, his lucky seat ever since he’d written a perfect first year calculus paper in the spot. He was taking this evening sociology class because he’d overheard two jocks in the cafeteria mention it was a great way to meet girls. So far, he wasn’t having much luck. Straightening his new leather tie, he wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t ask for a jacket. As he slid into his seat, his attaché jammed between two chair backs in the second row and jerked out of his hand.
