On killing birds with stones, and wanting to wring the neck of another one.

Last week my Lit 201 class went to the La Jolla Playhouse at UCSD to see a reinterpretation of one of the obscure Greek plays we've read this semester. I wrote an analysis for extra credit, and I thought I might as well get a newspaper story credit out of it too.



I almost didn't get there, though. My prof told us she'd arranged for a school shuttle to pick us up at 6:15 pm, but at 6:30 there was still nothing of the sort in sight. Twenty or thirty of us were milling around, so I called public safety, who had no idea what was going on and told me they'd "look into it." One of the girls standing in the group mentioned she had the prof's number but didn't want to call her ("I'll call her if it doesn't show up by 6:45"), so I asked her for it. It was her home phone, so I got her cell from her son and left her a message.

Having paid $19 for my ticket and committed to writing the review, incensed at the thought of missing the play because of some ridiculous institutional breakdown in communication, I watched people peeling off of our group to get rides with those who had cars. I cast about for one myself and found a fellow freshman, a commuter student. At 7, we circled the campus and were about to leave, when we spotted the bus at last. Just then, my phone rang with my prof's return call. "They thought they were supposed to show up at 7:15," she said. "They only came because you called." I thanked her and got on the bus.

We made it just as the ushers were ringing the bells. The rest of the night went smoothly and the play was nothing if not entertaining. I can't confirm it, excellent journalist though I may be, but I heard later that my prof had written down "7:15" as the shuttle's arrival time.