The library is a pleasant place to study. Sometimes. And depending where you go. There are those hairy monstrosities serving as study booths. Their shag carpet skin is quite a detestable sight, and one dares not think too deeply about what these furs have seen in the million years of service they've paid to the University. I opt for a table-- all my own. Less privacy but more space and no worries about what may come crawling forth from that nasty yellow rug that covers each cubicle.
I can spread out on my table. I can see all my missions and analytically choose which ones to ignore the longest. There are six chairs all around my table, but I needn't worry about any late party crashers dropping in to help me study. I'm upstairs, tucked away in the 800s. Chinatown they call it. That's because of all the Korean academy students immigrated to these tables and booths. But I like the Koreans. They mind their own business and are quite happy with me minding mine. And they don't tell me how to do it.
This is kind of like an old western town. It's a mixing pot of different lives. You shouldn't be surprised by who you meet here, but you know you will be. Here you'll find those who have a different value system about their lives and work and simply don't want to worry about everyone else's value systems and certainly find no use in talking with another human. Maybe you'll find those who simply don't have anyone to spend time with and are pushed away from those who do. Or maybe you'll find someone like me-- someone who's hiding. On the run you might say. Just needing some time to think in a place where nobody's watching, where nobody's trying to figure out what you're thinking about.
But I'm not alone, and I know it. As I slide my chair back and stretch, I look around. Gliding in between tables and chairs and booths in search of the drinking fountain, I am all too aware of the peripheral glances and the would-be covert, over-the-top-edge-of-the-booth, appraising stares. And it affects me. I am dressed well tonight and feel that people see me as well put together-- cool, even. It's merely an appearance, not a status I can actually live out, but I milk it with a swagger and an aloof boredom in my eyes. I like feeling confident and powerful; it's a feeling I don't often get to enjoy, so I revel in it-- never mind the hypocrisy. Besides, everyone's playing the part of something they are not. At least, everyone who gets noticed. And even when I'm on the run and in hiding, I still like to have respecting glances cast my way, I still want to be noticed-- just so long as they don't try to talk to me.
It's 10 o'clock now and I catch a glimpse of that library girl who's really nice but looks weird. She's bouncing from table to table as she moves towards the back of the second floor, towards the 800s. She stops quietly at each table or booth and I know what she's going to say to my quiet little study table. “The library's closing. Start heading out.” Begrudgingly I stand and shove books into my bag. I know that the library doesn't close until 10:15, but I don't mention it to the library girl. Instead I'll just mutter about it to myself. I'm only shallowly miffed and that because I piddled too much of my time away and only worked productively for about an hour. Deeper inside I'm glad they're kicking me out of the library. Gives me an excuse to close the books and forget about ancient British literature and how the adolescent mind develops its cognitive learning chemicals. Or whatever that psycho dude was saying. I have thirty minutes to find something more worthwhile to do, like goof off in the hallway of my dorm with normal people.
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