At the Bailey-Howe
Published April 29, 2008
By Max C. Bookman
M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes” blasts through a cell phone, interrupting me as I blankly stare out the window to the right of my desk. “All I wanna do is Bang Bang Bang Bang! and a Click! and a Ching! and-a take your mon-ay.” A sweet song, but the fact that it has become a ringtone means that it is rapidly approaching Overplayed Status.
A female voice comes from a few desks behind me, responding to the ringing phone with an enthusiastic “Hi! I’m at the library!” She’s not whispering. She’s not even pretending to whisper. Didn’t she see the big QUIET painted in blue on the column by the stairs?
Such a grave infraction of the library code would normally pass by if the conversation ended after,say, fifteen seconds. But it continues. “Oh, I’m not sure if I’m doing anything tonight,” she laments (loudly), “Really? Is he going to be there? No way.”
I don’t want to ask her to take the conversation elsewhere, so I decide to go downstairs to the Cyber Café while Ms. Paper Planes continues chatting. I may have only arrived ten minutes ago, but I’m tired and thirsty, and lookin’ for some lovin’ from the lovely Cyber Café ladies.
On the way down the stairs, I bump into Kacy. She’s lugging a backpack on the brink of explosion and her pearly white MacBook is tucked under one arm. Now comes the ritual commiserating that comes with any trip to the library. We exchange knowing glances that involve rolling our eyes, followed by one-liners like “I feel like I live here,” or “I hate my life right now.”
Then we have to tell each other how much work each of us has. Everybody at the library always wants to tell you how much work they have, but no one ever wants to hear what you have to do. After I explain to Kacy that I have a fifteen page paper to write on Rousseau, she retorts “No, you really don’t understand. I have, like, so much to do.”
It’s finals time.
Trust me, I understand.
Down at the Cyber Café (definitely named in the 90’s), I find the coffee that’s labeled “our version of rocket fuel” and fill my disposable non-biodegradable cup to the top. My stomach is screaming for food, but there’s no time for that. Back up the stairs.
Got my coffee. Laptop is powered on. Ready to go.
Oh wait, there’s no power outlet at this desk. Shit! I get up, relocate, sit back down, plug my computer in, turn it on. I sip my rocket fuel as it boots up. Applications. VPN Client. Connecting… Connecting… Connecting… It’s not going to connect. I furiously click connect, but it’s just fucking everything up even worse. No CatsPaws! Why is the wireless coverage so shoddy around here? Come on, it’s 2008!
Get up, relocate, plug in, boot up, start VPN Client. Nice. Now we’re in business. I’ve been here for thirty minutes already, and haven’t written a single word about Rousseau.
This new desk comes complete with a great view of the library steps and the Davis Center. The sun is beginning to set, and I stare out the window at all the people passing by on their way back home for the evening. I don’t know if it’s just me, but people seem so much more attractive when I’m at the library. It’s nice out, the girls walking past the window are all hot, and I’m stuck in here writing a paper on Rousseau.
Focus!
I turn away from the window. Way too distracting. Leaning over, I reach to retrieve my notebook off the floor. Someone has carved “Lick my balls” into the base of the desk. The graffiti on the desks at the Bailey-Howe has not matured much beyond that of my middle school library. For some reason, I guess I had expected college libraries to have a little more intelligent vandalism. Something like “Jean-Jacques Rousseau can perform fellatio on my testicles.”
Right. Rousseau. An hour spent at the library and all I have on the screen in front of me is “Max Bookman – Final Paper.” I need to focus. I wish I had some Adderall. I bet there’s about five pounds of Adderall in this library right now. Wait, no. I want to get to bed before 3:30 tonight. Okay, “Rousseau wrote the Social Contract.” That’s a good start.
My bladder, now full of rocket fuel, is calling for my attention in the same annoying way the icons on my Mac relentlessly bounce until I take heed. The best bathroom in the whole library is the first floor men’s room way past the computers and reference desk. I like it because of the old-school urinals. Filled with environmentally-unfriendly levels of water, they look more like toilets. So ungreen.
The Davis Center urinals would not be proud.
Back at the desk, I look out the window again. Now it’s completely dark out. My paper isn’t due for a while, and I suddenly get the overwhelming urge to leave the Bailey-Howe. “Go home,” I hear myself think, “this place sucks, plus the chairs are so uncomfortable.” People’s voices from outside on the steps travel up to where I’m seated. They’re loud, laughing, and undoubtedly smoking cigarettes. I want to be with them. I want to have fun.
Fine. I slam my computer shut, hastily gather my belongings, and trot down the stairs. The dark night greets me with cool spring air. I take a deep breath. Winter’s definitely over – the air is full of life and promise.
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