Chapter LXI: Auld Lang Syne

Image of the Day: Rwanda
Doo deeeee dee dee dee deee do dee, DOO DOO DEEE DOO DEE DEE DOOO... my cell phone chirps as I dig through my backpack, frantically searching for it and knocking a pencil off my desk in the process. It clatters noisily to the floor and rolls away.

Five seconds earlier...

On the TV screen, a dirt road is covered with mangled, human corpses. Flies are everywhere, and the narrator's voice fades out as the camera pans over the bodies and then shakily zooms in on the naked form of one infant boy. His arms and one leg have been hacked off and only bloody stumps remain. His genitals are missing as well.

Rwanda.

The silence in the room is palpable. You could cut it with a machete.

And then, out of nowhere, a noise--unexpected, tinny, and shockingly inappropriate. Auld Lang Syne. My phone is ringing. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

If this happened yesterday, during a lecture, it would have been merely annoying and a little bit rude. I would have turned it off quickly, with an apologetic glance to the professor.

But today, TODAY, during the Rwanda documentary, and at that very instant, right after the footage of the tortured children, and while it is utterly silent in the room, when everyone is leaning forward in their seats blown away by the scale of the tragedy, is the WORST moment for my phone to start blaring Auld Lang Syne. Only my grandfather's funeral could possibly have been more inopportune.

To make things worse, I can't find the damn thing! My backpack has literally pockets within pockets within pockets, each of which has an almost equal chance of containing my phone. The lights have been dimmed, just enough to make it impossible to see into my backpack, and the ascending ringtone means I can't use the volume of the sound to tell if I'm opening the right pockets. I have only my groping fingers to rely on. It is still the only sound in the room, still getting louder, until it sounds like a fucking New Years' Eve party in my backpack. On the screen, bereaved mothers are sobbing over the bodies of their children, killed in their classrooms while the teacher was forced to watch.

I can feel Professor Arceneaux's glare, even though he is behind me. My classmates keep their eyes carefully fixed on the screen, pretending I don't exist, not wanting to associate themselves in any way with the insensitive asshole who would let his phone go off at a moment like this, and with such an unfortunate ringtone. The ghosts of murdered Rwandan children fill the darkened room, and they stare at me, silently asking why I am desecrating their memory. I still can't find it.

In desperation I put the backpack back on the floor and stomp on it, hoping to mash a button, anything to stop the infernal noise. I'm not sure if it works, or my voicemail kicks in, but it finally ends.

I sink back into my seat, red with shame--silently apologizing to the universe.