Travel Pathology

Now that the term is coming to a close, one finds herself living inside the library. Each day unfurls in the same rhythm. I wake up uncomfortably early, throw on whatever sweatpants are nearby, maybe brush my hair, and make my way to the tall concrete building overseeing the park. At the library’s threshold, swaths of students are already funneling in through the front doors, scanning their student ID’s at the security gate, then bee-lining it straight to their desired study spot. Every student has a silent allegiance to one study space.

As for me? My spot is on the fourth floor. To reach it swiftly, I opt for the stairs, bypassing slower climbers. I can’t afford the risk of someone coveting my space, leaving me to scavenge one of the less desirable stations by the bathrooms.

Emerging from the stairwell, breathless, I veer to the right without pause. No need to think during this morning commute-save all of the thinking for the paper. Positioned at the far end of the final row of computer stations, just before the windows, lies my desk—an island sectioned off from the rest of the row, offering ample personal space. Here, I am also afforded an delightful view of the hills beyond the city and the familiar expanse of my neighborhood.

While the desktop computer signals its readying my desktop with a cute little quintet of spinning beads at the center of the screen, I fire up my laptop. Dual screens means serious business-double the productivity.

*Inhale* Exhale* I’ve accomplished the first major task of my day—I secured my station before anyone else could. Within an hour, every seat on all five floors of the building will be occupied. Students who indulged in an extra hour of sleep will shop the rows of stations, desperate for a place to settle. Alas, they will find none. It appears the University has maintained the same student count as during the pandemic when everything was conducted online, and greed compelled them to admit the same numbers if not more students despite the lack of capacity. Now, we all must vie with each other for a coveted spot in the in this dystopian academia.

With it nearly being 8 in the morning, I have all day to work on my papers. Just me, my tasks, and the ensemble of strange characters you find in the library.

The ICU patient

*Cough cough* … *AHEM hem hhheemm*

Man, this would be a rough time to catch a cold.

*COUUuuugghhh cough cough*

Hope he is utilizing the university provided disinfection wipes when he leaves his station.

*AGGGgggGGgGGHHHHEEEM* paired with a throwing into his elbow sleeve.

Oh man, is he contagious? I really cannot afford to get sick right now.

*Cough Cough.. COUGH*

BRO, go to the ICU.

The horrors persist, but so does he.

Corn on the Cob for breakfast

As you attempt to format page numbers on Microsoft word, you will begin to hear a popping crunch sound, as if a small rabbit were working it’s way through a bundle of romaine lettuce with the air of efficiency and urgency. Skipping all the unnecessary processes that converts corn into Kelloggs, she has no time to waste. It is nine in the morning and her brain can wait no longer, she has no time to run home or to the courtyard to ease it’s demands, she must do it here, now. Corn still on the cob, for breakfast, in the library.

The giggle squad

The fact that we have to focus on our upcoming assignments is hilarious to them. The idea that a group of adults would commute to a building adorned with “quiet study” signs in an attempt to tackle the numerous daunting assignments that come with the college experience amuses them. Their faces are flushed and tense with the pressure of trying to suppress their laughter. They cover their mouths, as if that would make any difference. One cannot discern whether they are recalling the latest Taylor Tomlinson Netflix special or simply in deep denial of the impending deadlines we all face with shreds of bravery.

Why, giggle squad, must you remind us of our sadness? Why must you share your funniest secrets with each other in the sterile, poorly lit, stuffy confines of the university library?

The friend-zoned couple

They think they are whispering, but really, all the consonants are there, they are just pronouncing their vowels more breathlessly. He is patiently listening as she tells him the chronicles of her weekend. He has no other excuse to get this girl to hang out with him except for a general “studying” invite to look over the powerpoint’s of their 101 lecture. If you are reading this, dude, she is into you. Just make a move.

The thunder typist

Fueled by the rage of upcoming assignments, thunder typists wage war against the keyboards provided by the University. The forte of their typing echoes three floors beneath them. Their letters are all in caps, despite caps lock being deactivated. These individuals will make headphones an absolute necessity.

The Ghost

We all see there is a notebook there. A snack of choice. A clothing item that may have been theirs. There has been no sighting of the scholar who placed their educational tools here for a number of hours. Did they give up? Do we need to call the police and report someone is missing?

Questions the rest of the student body may never know.

The Dreamer

Utilizing the some-what-peaceful and quiet environment of what is the University library, Dreamers cuddle up in their hoodie, lay their heads down, and take well deserved naps among the safety of their cohorts.

The Vampire

Just when you find yourself immersed in the dread and hopelessness of never quite figuring out why your citation software refuses to align with your professor’s recommended Harvard citation format, a beam of sunshine breaks free from the clouds beyond and streams through the large library windows—offering warmth, positivity, and hope. It’s a gracious and kind gesture from the Scottish Skye to unveil the sun, especially after this week long episode of rain.

Just as you begin to feel invigorated by the holy light spilling onto your desk and textbook, a stone-faced executioner of joy silently rises from their station by the window, grasps the little ropes dangling from the contraption attached to the top of the window, and tugs.

With a sound that resembles the cries of fairytale garden gnomes, those plastic blades cascade from the ceiling one after another until there’s a crash, and the darkness returns, the view vanishes, the church choir silenced.

I openly stare, appalled. I challenge them to make eye contact with me; I want them to see how their action effected the rest of us. But they never see me. They jerk the ropes once more for good measure, ensuring no light breaches the room. Returning to their station, they appear even more comfortable, seemingly unaffected by the consequences of their oppressive deeds.

I will never understand why Vampires choose to sit next to the windows if they hate the sunlight so much.

Me

You will find her sitting motionless, mouth slightly agape, her gaze drifting into the depths of the off-blue carpet. But in the blink of an eye, she’s transformed—suddenly, her fingers dance across the keyboard with the speed of a seasoned typist, her eyes fixed on the screen without a moment’s pause. The next second, she is laid back, swinging left and right on her swivel chair surfing through travel destinations in North Africa.

She fits a coffee mug, a journal with six different colored pens, her textbook, her notebooks, her laptop, her laptop cover, her charger, her phone, a water bottle, her headphone case, and her printed articles—all organized in satisfying right angles across her desk.

She gets up every 23 minutes to fill her water bottle or to use the restroom, as she’s always refilling her water bottle. The truth is, she keeps getting stuck with one thing or another, and her solution is to leave her desk entirely and return with a fresh start.

She’s always thinking about her next snack.

And quite possibly, she’s writing a blog post to vent.

Leave her be.