Graduate school for a Master of Science degree called to me in 1979. Was it a burning desire to add more credentials to my name, or sitting in classrooms full of witty professors that I craved? I yearned to discover the truth.

Preparations were tedious, a lot of academic strategies to win their votes—those of the folks that read and processed the applications, deciding if a person was worthy. What an agonizing time! I was writing and rewriting “goal statements” and requesting transcripts of grades, grades, grades from New York and California school systems. Months of organizational chores were finalized into one tidy stack of information—multiple pages placed into a clean, 8 x 11 inch manila envelope. The package called out for a trip to the nearest post office. And so I drove.

The approaching intersection appeared unobstructed, but a drizzling rain and a momentary attention lapse obfuscated my view. Bang! Crash! I hit it—a huge, faded gray old Cadillac sitting in the middle of the crosswalk, devoid of driver or passengers. Within seconds of the loud noise, women in housecoats and pink sponge rollers peered out of windows of the nearby apartment building.

“You better not leave ‘til the man gets back,” they yelled. “We see what you did!”

There came no reply from me. I pulled over to clear the road for oncoming traffic. I parked my Volkswagen and meandered across the street, searching for someone, anyone, to lay claim to the stalled vehicle stuck in the intersection—the one that went unscathed while my car’s front end was decimated.

I paced the area waiting for "the man" to return, my anxiety building as the rain grew heavier. I crossed the street to scrutinize the accident scene from another perspective. And as I walked away from my parked car, two kids sprinted toward it. Their actions were quick, jumping into the Volkswagen and exiting back onto the street. And with their run into the nearby edifice, I observed one of the kids carrying my purse—the container of the sacred manila envelope.

Suddenly, a combination of nausea and rage built inside me. I must act. I became uninhibited, perhaps aided by the architecture of my outfit—tight jeans tucked into pointed-toe cowboy boots—a tough look that enabled my gutsy journey into the apartment building. I would impress my case upon the escaping thieves.

I walked the halls, peered into every open window, yelling to the inhabitants, loudly and repetitively, traversing the first, then second, then third story of the building. “I want that envelope. I don't care about my purse or money. Just the envelope. Please.” Loud and repetitive, I pleaded and ranted, demanding to reclaim the precious envelope containing the only copies of my graduate school application.

I peered over the balcony at the end of every floor. I waited, watched, hoped, paced, and sweat—a force obsessed with getting back that envelope. And unbelievably it finally came, flying over a railing onto the wet ground below. Nothing more, nothing less. Simply the manila envelope. The stairs to the ground floor could not get me down quick enough to retrieve the package. All the papers were inside, unscathed.

The escapades, however, were not quite over. Now, coursing and staggering up the street, came “the man.” There were two men, actually, one old, one young—an intoxicated father-son team—owners of the Cadillac, in good spirits, nonplussed by details of the accident. No cares for their stalled car. No concerns about my crushed vehicle. We never spoke of repairs or insurance. All I wanted was to get the hell out of there with my manila envelope. All they wanted was a ride home. I loaded them into my battered Volkswagen and drove them to their requested destination a few blocks away.

Some months later I received a letter from the Master of Science program. The correspondence was formal and to the point. I was congratulated on acceptance into graduate school for the up-coming Fall quarter. I would find out if my manila envelope adventure was worth the trouble.