James M. Lang '91 | May 29, 2014 | Notre Dame Magazine
So there I was, sitting at a table outside the coffee shop in O’Shaughnessy Hall, writing in my little notebook and dreaming of literary fame, as I am wont to do during my idle hours. I scribbled a few sentences of timeless prose, paused for a sip of my coffee, and then stared out into space, savoring the familiar sights and sounds of college students bustling back and forth to their classes.
After an hour or two of this leisurely composing, I peered down the hallway to see a vaguely familiar face, framed by long brown hair, headed in my direction. This was probably someone I was going to have to chat with—maybe someone I had met at an off-campus party? Normally I welcomed the opportunity to speak to pretty girls, but I found the prospect of being interrupted at that moment vaguely irritating. I was working on something really good this time. The Juggler would kill for prose like this. I buried my head into my notebook and began writing feverishly. It didn’t help. In a moment she stood before me, hovering directly over my table.
“Tour’s over, Dad,” she said. “I’m starving. Can we get lunch?”