The only Photoshop class that had openings started at six PM. I wasn’t overly excited about taking an evening class, but reluctantly enrolled. The first day of class, I was annoyed to discover that the class was comprised mostly of middle aged men and women. Recently married and new to the city, I had hoped to find a group of young people with whom I could cultivate friendships.
“There are more retired people in this class than there are at bingo night at the senior center,” I whined to my new husband a few days later. “And every time I turn around, there are more, they’re just coming out of the woodwork!”
“Huh,” replied my ever supportive husband.
“Huh? HUH? Is that all you have to say?” I demanded, irritated that he didn’t share my frustration. I attempted to pace the living room of our small apartment, but it was still cluttered with wedding gifts and odds and ends that hadn’t found homes yet. We had been married only a week and were still putting things away.
He shrugged. “Some old people are fun. They have good stories. Just pick one that looks interesting.”
“These people have no lives,” I insisted. “All they have are grandkids.” I grabbed the Des Moines Register off of the recliner and absently began turning the pages. “I don’t think I’ve seen a single photograph that hasn’t been of some little kid playing softball. Don’t kids do anything but play softball?”
“Well,” he bravely tried again, “at least you can talk about photography. Right?”
“Paul, I don’t think you understand.” Collapsing dramatically onto our inherited couch, I proceeded to recap the previous night’s class.
Our computer stations were arranged around a center desk all the way around the lab. I sat in the center of the East wall, with a young woman on my right and an empty seat to my left. Four desks from me was a gray-haired man who looked to be in his mid to late sixties. He was slightly overweight and wore wire-rimmed glasses from which blinked watery gray eyes. He was a quiet individual, the kind of man you suspected would know quite a bit about eighteen century blacksmithing and nothing about the Beatles.
He has started the class a few days late and seemed to be confused. We had just begun that day’s assignment and all around the lab, fifteen students hunched over their screens. His own head stared fixedly at the bright screen, but unlike his classmates, he wasn’t working. He appeared to be angry at something, muttering to himself and occasionally giving the keyboard a threatening whack. After several minutes, he turned around and looked toward our instructor, a perplexed look upon his lined face.
“I don’t know what happened,” he explained, “but I can’t do anything.” Our instructor asked politely what it was he couldn’t do, but this seemed to only make him more confused. I could tell that my classmates, in the same manner as I, were trying very hard to catch every word without appearing to listen. “I can’t do anything,” he repeated. “The little arrow went off the page and now I can’t do anything.” He gave his mouse a disgusted tap, like what might have been used to scold a small dog, and folded his arms. By this time, I had ceased trying to be polite, and was staring quite unashamedly at the man who has lost his “little arrow.”
Our teacher, evidently, having never encountered such a problem before, seemed to be at a loss. There was an awkward silence for a moment before the young man in the seat next to the distraught gentleman quietly reached over and moved his mouse across the mouse pad. The cursor, which had gone off of the screen’s edge, obediently reappeared. The gentleman looked intensely surprised, and then pleased. “Oh,” he said. Without another word, he gathered his notes and continued his class assignment.
Paul seemed to find this more amusing than did I, and smiled at me. “At least you’ll stay at the head of the class.”
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