Page 5 of Talk to Me

Even though Collin called me a “nerd” for my studying habits, I preferred the term “studious.” At worst, I would refer to myself as “responsible.” During the first week of each semester, after my daily classes and lunch, I go back to my dorm room to prepare for the following months. I read through the syllabus of each class, plot out a calendar of important dates, such as when projects and tests are due, and then I organize a binder with important materials for the classes. Then I make a list of everything I need to purchase at the student bookstore.

Typically, I go on the first Thursday evening of the first week of the semester. During freshman year, I went on Friday after my last class of the week, but found out that is when the student bookstore is its busiest. Going on Thursday evening and picking up everything I know that I need, plus what I anticipate I will be needed for my Friday classes, saves me time and stress. It also ensures that the bookstore stock hasn’t been depleted.

By the time I had all my binders made and organized, and I had created a virtual calendar on my laptop—that I synced to my phone, of course—the sun was setting outside. The windows in our beige painted cinderblock walled dorm rooms were prison-like, but they were big enough to estimate the time of day. Before long, everyone would be heading to the dining hall or off campus to snag an evening meal.

Only a few hours had passed since I’d finished my last slice of pizza, so I wasn’t quite ready for dinner yet. I’d timed my meal that way so that I wouldn’t be starving while shopping at the bookstore. I made sure my shopping list was complete in the notes app on my phone and shut down my laptop. I cleaned up my desk area and stacked my binders neatly before grabbing my wallet and lanyard. My student I.D. and keys jangled as I slipped the lanyard over my neck and headed out.

The student bookstore is a five-minute walk from the dorms, and in the cool evening hours of early September, it’s a pleasant trip. Besides the nice weather, you never fail to run into at least a few friends. Getting handed a flyer about a party or event is unavoidable. Sometimes there are companies with booths in the quad, handing out free samples of food, t-shirts, pens, and other school supplies. Breezing through the quad as often as possible during the first week of the semester is always advisable.

By the time I’d reached the bookstore, I’d snagged enough free pens to fill my hip pocket, a new lanyard with a rainbow pattern, a giant plastic drinking cup, a handful of free folders, a pack of notebook paper, several magnets from different LGBTQIA organizations, an individual sized bag of chips, and a candy bar. As soon as I got into the bookstore, I was going to have to get a canvas bag to carry all of my loot.

Before stepping into the bookstore, I peeked into the building next to it. Midway Roasters was our campus coffee shop. When we’d all arrived for the first day of the semester, it hadn’t been reopened yet. A notice had been put on the door that some deep cleaning and renovating still needed to be finished, and we should expect it to open by the third week of classes. I was sad to see that I’d have to wait even longer for my daily coffee fixes, but there was nothing to be done. I ducked into the bookstore.

“Welcome in!” a chipper freshman girl announced as I breezed through the sliding glass door of the bookstore. “Let me know if you need help finding anything!”

I gave her a smile and a wave. She was a thin girl, average height, with a cascade of blue hair spilling over the left side of her head. Happy to be alive and excited for her first year in college and working in the bookstore, I gave her two weeks before she was dead inside.

I’d taken a job in the bookstore my first year at Midway. For some reason, it was a coveted job on campus for those needing tuition assistance. After my freshman year, I realized that I’d rather suffer through extra loans than deal with helping ungrateful college students shop. Having college students whine and bitch that the store was out of a book that they needed for a class the following day could crush one’s soul. As if them waiting to the last minute to get their required supplies was anyone’s fault but their own.

At the counter by the door, I grabbed two canvas tote bags. I hadn’t intended to buy two, but everything in my pockets and cradled in my arms needed to go somewhere. I dumped my pockets and arms into the first canvas bag, then slung it over my shoulder, holding the empty bag at my side in my other hand. Then I made my way to my first stop in the store—the math textbooks section.

Quickly grabbing the required book, I slipped it into the tote. I found my Economics of Information text and added it to the tote. Three other text books got added to the tote before I felt like I was dragging a boulder at my side. I finished my book shopping in the Literature section. Furtively, I glanced around, making sure that no one in the nearly empty bookstore was watching me. I pulled out my phone and brought up the Amazon app.

Comparing the books required in my American Literature class to those on the shelf, I quickly realized Kindle versions of the books would save me tons of money. Fortunately, I had two of the required books in Kindle format already. Only Waiting for Godot and Leaves of Grass would need to be purchased. I felt bad buying electronic versions of the book, but broke college students have to save a few bucks from time to time. If we’d had an indie bookstore nearby, I would have gladly supported them. However, the college bookstore was not going to gouge me for a third year in a row.

After adding the two books to my wish list, I made my way to the sale section of the bookstore. There was never anything but useless crap in the sale aisle, but it was always fun to look at the cheap supplies and trinkets the college tried to sell financially illiterate students.

Leaving the aisle with nothing more than I’d arrived with, I made my way up to the check-out counter. The same girl that had greeted me when I entered the bookstore an hour earlier was waiting excitedly to check me out. I did my best to be a pleasant customer since there was no need to hurry her to her soul-crushing discovery that college students were dicks. Unfortunately, she was not only excited to be alive, she was a talker. By the time she’d charged me hundreds of dollars for books I’d use for an incredibly brief period of my life, I knew more about her life than my own.

I said “goodbye” and “thank you” and made my way out of the bookstore at last. Night had fallen on campus and the bags in my hands felt like sandbags. Stopping by the dining hall to get a meal to go had been my plan. The weight of the bags had me reconsidering my options. I practically dragged the two bags across the sidewalk to the rows of stone planters that lined the other side of the concrete path. Plopping down on the edge of the knee-high planter to rest, I let the bags fall at my feet.

A cool breeze whispered through my short, dark hair as I sat there, wondering if I could bribe a fellow passing student to carry my bags back to my dorm for me. Seeing as the quad was mostly deserted during the end of the dinner hour, I seemed out of luck. Eventually, I would have to get up and make the five-minute trek back to my dorm, eighty pounds heavier. For the moment, I was happy to enjoy the cool late summer night air.

I’d performed this ritual for the third time in my college career. Three down; one to go. Barring any graduate studies, the following year would be the last time hauling books across campus. Looking down at my bags, I decided that a graduate degree—if it ever happened—would come after a much-needed break from my studies. If it wasn’t the constant studying, homework, prep work, and tests, the thought of visiting a student bookstore ever again made me decisive.

Whether it was the desire to hurry up and get the inevitable over with, or the rumbling in my stomach, I leaned down to grab the handles of my newly acquired totes. I decided it was best to take my bags back to the dorm before procuring my supper. Trying to balance a to-go box and carry the totes was a recipe for disaster. So, dinner would have to wait until my purchases were in my room. If I simply couldn’t force myself to venture out of the dorms again, there was always plenty of ramen and other various snacks in our room.

As I was standing from the planter, a mumbling sound out in the quad caught my attention. Seeing as it wasn’t too late in the evening yet, I expected to see other students walking through the quad on their way to the dorms from the dining hall. However, when I lifted the two totes and gazed out into the murky darkness of the sodium lamp lit quad, my eyes landed on a solitary figure.

Squatting in the middle of the quad by one of the Hackberry trees, the person was mumbling something inaudible. The distance between us made it impossible for me to figure out what exactly the person was saying. Since they were all alone, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what they were mumbling. Witnessing an insane person spiral into murderous delusions was not on my to-do list for the day. However, the longer I watched the person squatting by the tree, mumbling to themselves, I wondered if I didn’t need to contact campus security.

When I finally noticed the blue light emanating from the person’s hand, I realized they had their phone out. Relief rushed through me when I realized they were obviously talking to someone on their phone. Crisis averted! A campus lockdown due to my frantically calling campus security could be avoided. I watched the person squatting by the tree for a minute, hoping they wouldn’t glance over and wonder if I wasn’t crazy for spying on their private moment.

There’s nothing more devastating than having a potentially crazy person assume you’re crazy.

As I was about to give up on watching the person, lifting the bags from the ground, two other figures appeared from the darkness on the far side of the quad. Their path led them right past the person squatting by the tree. The person by the tree looked up as the pair stopped and cried out:

“Dick!’

My brow furrowed as the pair cackled hysterically and carried on walking away from the person by the tree. Seconds ticked by, and the pair disappeared at the other side of the quad. I’d about made my mind up to lug my bags over to the tree to check on the person they’d screamed at, but they suddenly rose and took off. They weren’t quite running, but not exactly strolling, either. Maybe a powerwalk?

As they headed towards the dorms, passing under one of the sodium lights, I made out the blue of their shirt. The wave of hair atop the obviously male student’s head was nearly blonde in the glow of the lamp yards above.

It was the guy from our Economics of Information class earlier in the day. At least, it resembled him greatly, Of course, with so many students at Midway, it was possible that there were other blue shirt wearing dudes with similar haircuts. Regardless, he disappeared as quickly as the pair of jerks who had yelled at him for no reason.

Shrugging to myself, since asking him if he was okay was no longer an option, I hoisted my bags up and headed to the dorms. Ten minutes later, I had stowed and organized my books on my desk, and folded and put away the totes. Moments later, I was leaving the room once again in search of sustenance.

Due to arriving somewhat late for dinner service in the dining hall, my options were limited. However, anything other than ramen was preferable. I settled on a passable hamburger and double order of fries, which the dining hall ladies politely boxed up for me. I grabbed a can of soda from the cooler and a few packets of ketchup, and headed back to the dorms. I munched on a few fries on my way back to the room, simply to quiet the rumbling in my tummy.