The other day, I was sent to one of those unnecessary
seminars on
college campus safety, the kind where you learn everything you already know about safely living in a college dormitory. A
friend of mine had asked me to bring my copy of
Labyrinths by
Argentinian author
Jorge Luis Borges with me so that he could read it while the rest of us were listening to the surge of
redundancy from the other end of the hall. Of course, I agreed to this meaningless favor.
The next day, I found my friend waiting for me in the parking lot, wearing a dark trenchcoat and sunglasses. To avoid being seen by the proctors, who would confiscate any such contraband that tried to creep over the threshold, we inconspicuously relocated our business to the other side of building. It was not until my partner cautiously slipped the piece into the secret pocket on the inside of his coat that I realized (somewhat to my disturbance) that we were like a couple of druglords about to smuggle some of South America's finest literature across this seemingly impenetrable border.