Besides myself there are eight people in the little byway. We are sprawled each in our chairs, with our electronics and our coffee and our snacks. A dark haired man with a full beard has decided that this is as good a place as any to take a nap. He tracks dirt in on his leather boots, his jeans hanging loosely off of him as he settles comfortably into the chair. His backpack, patterned with the camouflage design of the Army, makes an uncomfortable cushion for his lower back while he wraps his leather jacket tight around him. His black hat has a wide brim and a red plume sticking up as if in salute. Dark glasses hide his eyes so I can't tell if he's sleeping or instead taking in his surroundings. Three heavy rings weigh down his right hand. They look important. He is the warrior.

Beside this man is a young fellow, perhaps my age. I noticed him early on when he came to sit because he is so young, yet he walks with a limp and a brown wooden cane. A black brace wraps around his knee, shrouded in his black leather pants, above which lie his black coat, a grey and black scarf, and a black hat. He has the appearance of wealth and good grades and a studious nature. A black leather laptop case covers his lap. He buries his chin in his scarf and focuses on his phone. He is waiting for a class and wants to appear busy. He's probably just reading recent texts from his mother. He stands and limps away. His black Western boots combined with an unsteady gait make for an interesting melody as he makes his way down the hall and out of sight. He is the scholar.

A man on the second floor balcony argues with someone on his cell phone. His voice echoes throughout the building as he first tries to sweet talk the woman on the phone before changing his tactic to convincing her that she is in the wrong and ought to comply with his request. He's polite—too polite. Ma'am, ma'am, ma'am. No one speaks like that unless vying for a favor, or trying to get out of a ticket. He switches to cursing as if that will help his case. Apparently it does because soon he is talking in that sugary, fake voice again. "Thank you so much, Lisa. Thank you so much. Buhbye." He is the player.

An older woman sits near me, trying to sleep as well. She wears tortoise shell sunglasses and seems to be looking right at me, but maybe she is really sleeping. She startles a bit every time her head starts to loll to the side. A black fleecy jacket keeps her warm as she sits against the floor-to-ceiling windows, and her jeans are not from this decade. His light brown hair, peppered with white, is cut short, and she wears no wedding ring even at her advanced age. Her canary yellow purse rests on the adjoining table along with black leather gloves. She holds her cell phone tightly in her hands even in her sleep, as if she doesn't want to miss the next phone call. It must be important. She is the matron.