"Change. It seemed too simple to be the cure for depression; nevertheless, a cure it was. " CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Black Hawk College When fall classes began at college and I found myself on the inside looking out, time was once again a rare gem. Balancing a full load of study in one hand and what had evolved into a hateful job in the other, I soon found myself nervous beyond all levels of acceptability. Some people thrived on activity, and the more deadlines they had to meet the better they performed. I did not. For me, school in itself expended plenty of effort, and with the added pressure of my job, wherein I now had to work at a newly installed, central cashier island, I watched helplessly as my sanity wore away. The new system was chaotic and inefficient; two cashiers had to meet the demands of patrons who congregated on all four sides of the island. There were no numbers or lines to assure that customers were served at their proper time, and special sales from the surrounding departments were never clarified to any reasonable extent, leaving us to distinguish "bargains" through catalogued stock numbers and tips from the customer. Under such slow procedures, anger and pandemonium were the routine terrors of employment. My desire to please was a virtual impossibility. To the public, "I was the store" and any disagreeable feature of the store or its policies were doused on me while the upper echelon stood beaming at a safe distance. "You'll get used to it," one particularly brash fellow would comment as I propped myself up on the counter after a long and grueling siege. Then he would spin around and walk leisurely to the escalator while I gritted my teeth in silence. I am sure he was responsible for many "bitten" tongues through the years. When I was relieved of cashier duty my nerves were as taut as a bow-string, and to dissipate my energy, I would zing about the department like an arrow to its target. I hung clothes and arranged the stock with such speed that an onlooker might have thought I was competing in a marathon. Once home, I still could not relax. Homework, if any, demanded my thorough attention after work, so I would routinely plug in the coffee maker and brew twelve cups of caffeine. With a warm mug in one hand, I was able to perceive with intelligence the content of books and write themes which otherwise might have dissolved altogether through the debilitating numbness of fatigue. When I had completed my studies to my satisfaction I allowed myself the liberty to prepare for sleep. "Going to get your four hours?" Norm would tease. Actually, it was more like six hours. I am sure my body would have preferred eight. However, the caffeine had the ability to bluff my body's requirements and I happened to need all of the waking hours I could reasonably obtain. Thus, six hours of sleep plus twelve cups of coffee equaled one day of maximum level performance.