Armstrong 4

Kimberley Armstrong
Dr. Doughty
COMP 200
27 February 2008

The Milne Airport

It’s a dreary, wet, cold eight o’clock in the a.m., and your nose is sputtering like a faucet. You’re so damp you feel sweaty, and your favorite shoes, now with a hole in each sole, have decided to suck all available water up into your socks. You like the quiet section that your dorm offers, but curse and seethe at your decision every time you’re late for class and have to run up the infamous Golding Hill. You pray that the rain will wait to freeze for a least fifteen minutes so you can make it to your class without slipping, falling, and soaking up a giant puddle into the ass of your jeans—mornings like this make me glad that the Milne library is my morning spa.

Sitting in class, miserable and wet, I still have hope, because I’ve made getting comfortable into a science. Like clockwork, every time I leave, I rush from class over to Jazzman’s Café where I purchase some Vanilla flavored coffee (with two Equals, and a tiny bit of skim milk). After that’s set, I slip into the library, greet the warm, musty air, and hop quickly over the plastic-looking sensor as I mentally search through my bag, hoping that I didn’t accidentally steal a book last time, and pray that I don’t hear the stern mechanical voice telling me to head to the circulation desk—probably to be arrested and tased. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m waiting.

I follow the line of carpet, which is an industrial strength “can’t see stains!” kind of carpet of many colors—though the overall effect is a grayish navy blue. On either side of me are rows of ugly shelves containing old textbooks, manuals, and encyclopedias that I’ve never seen anyone use, in depressingly dark, dirty colors. I feel bad for them as I pass and consider looking at a few just to make them feel better...and then I remember that books are not people, or even animals and I move on. I pass the Nova Stations and have to laugh to myself for the thousandth time, thinking that the people using those computers look like they are trying to concentrate through (fake) wood. That reminds me of Harry Potter and I briefly consider what SUCO would be like if it was a school for wizards.

After I’ve cleared that area I make a beeline for one of the computers that sit on ridiculously high and wobbly desks that are covered in the suspiciously detailed fake wood. I hope that no one sits next to me because it’s always my luck to sit next to the one person who truly loves pencil erasers and is correcting something with, it seems to me, a million mistakes. Or if that isn’t the case, I’ll just be stuck with a person who types in a shockingly aggressive manner and likes to shake the hell out of the already unstable desk. I’m alone for now, so I sign in to my account on the computer and then cluster my stuff around and on the monitor, like a dog peeing on a tree to claim the territory. I then start the next part of my procedure.

As the computer finishes signing in for me I speed walk over to the bathroom where I remove my damp hoodie, blow out my leaky faucet, dry off my face and hair, and steal some toilet paper—just in case the leak starts up again. Now all that’s left of my routine is climbing up the tall and rather daunting seat to my computer, sipping my lukewarm coffee, considering kicking off my shoes, and relaxing in the comfortable desertedness of the library.

Though the library is a haven for concentration at this time of the day, I usually end up opening the word document that I need to be working on but quickly give in to random whims and end up on Google asking how many calories coffee has in a twelve ounce cup…which then leads to other random thoughts—can coffee still stunt my growth? Does hair really change every seven years? Oh hot damn! I should run an arrow sheet for Criminal Justice because maybe I’d make a good detective… I truly am a creature of habit, and I will forever be procrastinating with my knowledgeable friend Google while I should be working on papers for Advanced Composition and studying the functions of a good arguement for Critical Thinking.
As long as I am working on something, or my mental line of whims keep on coming, I can sit there for hours. But slowly, different noises start to become apparent to me, and after a while I am being serenaded by an entire chorus of monotonous voices. The constant chatter of fingers on keyboards, the clicking of computer mice, an occasional hiss from the heater, the crackling of a swivel chair on linoleum, the beeping of books being checked out, and the dull and consistent roar from the printers become a soothing lullaby that makes me drowsy. Soon though, I am pulled away from the choir and it dawns on me that the library is beginning to take on more and more qualities of an airport.

By noon it has truly become the bustling metropolis of the JFK airport in Queens. There are students and faculty buzzing around while trying to grab the only available computer, or get their essay from the printer first. Members from group projects find this to be an opportune time to come and loudly discuss how to make a power point presentation on the life of Shakespeare. I hear random snippets of discussions; “Where can I find microfilm for editions of the Times from the 1960’s?” “She was so drunk last night, ha ha! She doesn’t even remember!” “But if I’m a history major I probably would only be able to get a job teaching, and kids suck.” The busyness of people moving back and forth and in and out, talking all the while, are hazardous to my concentration, so this is usually when my flight departs, but I’ll be back tomorrow.