Russell thought about his life ahead of him. He thought that he would want to be someone who didn't just come and go completely forgotten. He'd be an explorer, the first of his family to not live a life of banality, a desk job, in a cubicle, a white stucco room with bright fluorescent lights and an antiseptic aseptic smell of cleaning supplies from the overnight crew. Russ thought his soul would just shrivel up and die if he had to live that life, the one all the unremarkable people who passed through his life lead or led. If he had to, though, he would make the very best of it. And he knew that one day, if he had a desk job, he would throw his computer through the window, sock his boss on the way out the door, where he would buy a ticket to anywhere and live there for a while. He'd sign up as a sailor when he was finished with living in that certain place and leave the freighter when he made landfall. He would live there for a while, in a place exotic and alien....

Russ was woken into reality for a little while when the poetry reading began. It was rather dry, with Dr. Seuss rhyming and petty subject matters (be specific here) that did nothing to interest him. He scoffed in his head at this dribbling pap.
Corey was reading now, holding on to that inlaid box he always did, the one that he would never show to anybody else. He had that binder too, with a crest on it and his name written on the front. He'd get very standoffish if you asked him about the binder or the box. Russell's mind wandered on what could be in it. He thought it could be a picture of a dead family member. He was being melodramatic though. Not everybody in the room hid some dark secret. The most mysterious ones probably led the most uneventful lives, least blighted by family tragedy. Russell kept thinking about what could be in the box. A gun perhaps. A treasured object. However, the subject grew boring and Russell switched back over to plans for his future as Corey read the hackneyed poem with his softened voice.

Russell's mind continued to wander. He thought of what he would do in the next exotic country. He thought to himself that he would learn their language and assemble an entourage of friends in each country he went to. He would switch countries again in a sailboat, going back to America. He would buy a horse, a cowboy's outfit and live ruggedly, drinking water from cacti, and carrying his six-shooter on his belt, shooting an odd buzzard or two out of the sky. He would traverse the Mojave, staying clear of civilization until he got tired of it, went back to the nearest city and boarded a plane to Tokyo, Japan so he could be stifled with civilization for a while.

Russ looked at the next person reading poetry. It was Seong Ho, from Korea. That was an odd one as well, thought Russ. A kid so deep in his thought he didn't hear Russ speak to him sometimes or in other instances, he answered questions Russ never asked. Seong Ho had lived in Vancouver for a while after moving from South Korea. He never said why he had moved. He explained it was because of his past, that his parents had to pack him up and send him to Vancouver alone. Who knows whom he lived with or what his past was all about? “How severe could it be?” thought Russ.
Again Russell tried to guess Seong Ho's circumstances. It could have been drugs, he thought. Seong could have been running drugs and had been caught and shipped over to Canada out of the way of any persecution. Or perhaps he had served time in juvie. Who knew? Russ could see Seong's story, almost filmic, playing out before him.

Russ settled back into his dream of tomorrow, thinking of how he wanted to write a book as well. He had no aspirations as noble as Jordan, an awkwardly tall kid who took an immediate liking to him, spouting his dreams of winning the Nobel Prize for literature. Jordan had no idea how he would be involved in winning the Nobel Prize, either. He just knew he wanted it. This kid, wide around as a tree, bemused Russ and tall as one too, speaking with his slurred speech about his dreams He was deceivingly smart though, you could take him for granted. At the same time, he was incredibly naive. Anyway, thought Russ, taking his mind off Jordan
Russell continued to think about his future, about what he would do after he wrote a great novel. He thought he would live comfortably for a little while, settle down for once, and find a familiar place. Perhaps he would go to space after that. Going to space had been a dream of his since childhood. He was always enamored by the thought of it, the thought of intrepid astronauts, and exploration into the unknown.

Camryn, playing pop songs on cups and singing them rather badly, but with stunning enthusiasm, roused him again. She’d had a rough time and she bore the scars to show for it. Her depression was hidden behind an upbeat façade. Camryn’s outgoing exterior was sometimes attractive to Russ. She never let it down, though, so Russell felt her emotional numbness behind the joviality. Russ was delving into other's lives again. He didn't know anything about Camryn. He was good at spinning stories and so he implemented them in guessing things about people. It was mostly to pass the time and keep his mind busy.

He continued to look about the room at the diverse faces and roving eyes. Everybody hailed from some different corner of the world, of the many he hoped to visit. There was Tiwa from Johannesburg, South Africa. He was a thickly built kid, filled with vigor and vivacity, standing at an imposing 6 foot 2 inches. Rain, the girl from Ho Chi Min City, Vietnam. It was an interesting crowd. Tiwa stood up, an Afro pick in his hair and read his poem. It was a light-hearted poem and the levity gave everybody a moment’s laugh.

Russ’ mind returned to his astronaut future. What was it about space? He had become engrossed in any form of media about space. It had even been his chosen profession for a while before he realized the dedication and risk involved, not to mention the impossibility of it all. Russ, at a young age, thought all he had to do was sign up, take a brief trip through space and then bound across the moon, put golf balls into oblivion, make footmarks that would last there for a very long time. He had been swayed from this career choice because of many reasons, mostly the dangers presented in such a field. He thought that perhaps he didn’t want to go space at all. So Russ grounded his dreams to the tangible and slightly realistic. He averted his attention to Ronald, the tall blondish kid who was immensely popular and outgoing. He was reading a poem about his future as a preacher. It was odd that he was so set on this profession. He seemed like a normal, well-rounded dude. He had no reservations and did just about anything he felt like doing. The only time his beliefs shone through was when somebody brought up gay marriage. He then started to spout bible quotes, Corinthians, Romans, Genesis, about how it was morally wrong and a travesty against everything pure and good. He was radically Christian as it turned out. Russ was not in the least bit religious; in fact he held a certain grudge against religion. He thought that people should be able to believe in their fairy tales as long as they didn’t deny the plain facts, falling back on their unfounded “truths” and not being able to have a level headed debate about it. Ron’s crazy beliefs and slight bigotry whittled down Russ’s respect for him ever so slightly. He wasn’t exactly the brainiest either. Once in a conversation, he had said that he would want to live in the 1950’s. He said the 50’s were pretty sick because the Industrial Revolution was going on then. Russ guessed that everybody was as clueless as Ron as to history since nobody said anything to correct him.

Russ thought about the 1950’s, thinking he’d want to live during that time. He loved film noir and he wanted desperately to walk around with a fedora and overcoat on and not look like a total tool. He loved the movies of Humphrey Bogart, Edward G. Robinson, Paul Muni, Robert Ryan, Lauren Bacall, Gloria Grahme, and Jean Gabin. He loved that time period. Everything was simple. Everybody used awesome sounding slang like gat, blotto, doll, dame, sawbuck, fin, mook, and many other fantastic words. He used some of these words in his daily life and all he got from people was a confused stare. He enjoyed being different in that sense. But he wanted to live in that time so that his difference could be the norm.

Ron was still reading his poem and Russ looked up at him. He was reading about his other aspirations to join the Air Force. That was a job Russ could envision him doing, not being a preacher even though he was definitely animated and lively enough to enrapture a congregation. Ron was indeed a commanding presence and as he read his poem, the entire room was intent on him.

Russ lost interest and thought about being a P.I. in 1946. He would be a gumshoe investigating a crime. He thought more and more about this situation. And slowly, he lost himself in his thoughts.