Choke [Part Three]
It's noisy today.
Two of my roommates are back. One of them brought three other friends. One of them is named Chris. They went to Tuscon to go rock-climbing. No, not like little pansy cliffs. One-thousand-foot-high faces of vertical cliffs. For serious. They all got sick while they were out. Like vomiting and diarrhea. Chris got sick while he was about six hundred feet up -- on the side of the cliff. He crapped his pants in mid-air and puked all over the cliff side. No, really.
They're driving to Indianapolis today.
I biked to Norlin, like I always do. I know it snowed yesterday, and I know that the temp is at zero or below, but I don't like riding the bus. Especially the 204. I can hear the frozen snow crunch -- brittle and dry. It's not as icy as yesterday. Just snow-packed. And cold too. It's the kind of cold you can feel in your toes and the tips of your fingers, even when you're wearing wool socks and gloves. But I enjoy it. I like the quiet that follows the snow. Blankets of white muffle echoes. It gives you a sense of peace and solitude.
I lock my bike up outside of Norlin. It's so cold the steel cable on my bike lock is frozen in its current shape inside its vinyl coating. It makes for a difficult time wrapping the cable around my bike frame and through the spokes on my front tire.
There's a long line in the east gate lobby. I'm not sure what for. I hear its for orientation registration or whatever. All I know is that it's going to be noisy. Tours through Norlin are being conducted -- it must be about the history of the building or something. A bunch of little old people are huddled around a taller, soft-spoken guy in a green polo and white undershirt. His eyebrows are permanently raised on his forehead, so it looks like he's always seriously considering whatever you're saying. He seems to know a lot about the library. Like how there's a draining system under the east gate plaza that diverts draining water to another piping system to prevent sewage overflow when the snow melts. He seems super nice or something. Like he likes what he's doing. Leading all these little old people around, showing them all these quirky things about this historic building. People keep asking me where registration is, and I think it's kinda funny since there are literally twenty laminated, florescent green signs with huge bold arrows pointing to the line of students waiting for registration. Whatever. I'm happy to help. I guess that last guy didn't speak English much anyways.
I see round-bellied professor come in a few minutes after I'm settled for the first shift. He's wearing all black today -- black beanie, black pea coat, black slacks, black shoes, black briefcase. I tell him good morning. He smiles back at me, showing me the gap in his two front teeth. He rides the elevator up to the second floor.
Meditative security guy was here before me. He never sits at the little rickety wooden podium. He sits on a plastic black chair over to the side, reading a book. Meditative security guy always speaks so softly that you have to ask him to repeat himself, more than once, mostly. When he's using our five-channel radios, you can barely hear him over the static. It must be a yoga thing or whatever. Speaking softly, I mean.
I don't like when it's noisy. I can't focus. I have to use a computer to pass the time rather than a book. I can never read when it's noisy. My mind wanders too much. To the people. To what they're saying. I'm always listening to them. Whatever stories they're telling. I don't know why people intrigue me so much.
Airports are my favorite places. For people-watching, of course. Airports in themselves are not my favorite. They usually have a weird smell. I hate the smell of planes too. I've never been sure why. But for people-watching, I love airports. Because there are so many different people from so many different places. All in one place.
Airports are noisy. But I like the noise. I like the sounds people make when they're all crammed into one place, rushing from one place to the next. Some people are happy. Happy to see other people. Some people are angry or stressed out. Some people are quiet too, but airports are always noisy.
I like to sit in a chair facing away from the terminals and watch all of the people go by as they walk -- or run -- to their departure gate. I feel like I learn something when I go to an airport. Like what some people are like.
I've always thought that I could categorize the distinguishing features of every human. Like what they look like. You know how some people remind you of other people? For some reason I feel like I could fit people into a box. Like what they look like. Fit that into a box or something. But it's harder to do that with what people are like. Like what people do when no one's watching. What they think inside of their head when other people are talking.
The alarms keep going off. Beepbeepbeepbeep. Gosh. The circulation people at the circulation desk are not doing their job today. They keep forgetting to demagnetize the books. Geez. Beepbeepbeepbeep.
It's noisy today.
My mind wanders a lot. I know. Whatever. It's what I do.
Alicia rambles on about some book she's reading. It's like a six- or seven-hundred page book she's reading about some guy who did something. She's talking about it like it's a super good read. I think she's being sarcastic. Like she has to read the book for something like a class or whatever. Oh, that's how she talks normally. I mean when she gets excited about something. I could have sworn that she was being sarcastic the entire time. Weird.
I'm at the east gate again. I haven't been to the west gate yet today. A homeless black lady comes over to ask me about the hours for the public. She's been here before, I know. She was issued a warning once, I remember. I wasn't there or anything, she just likes to tell me about it all the time. Crap, I reminded her. She goes on and on about how there wasn't a sign up for public hours and how she was written up for being there after hours. I try to feign empathy. Whatever. My boss says she's a pain anyways. Today might be the day he gets her banned.
I go the the west gate. Alicia's there. I think she's kinda weird.
Three guys are tearing out all of the nasty orange carpet in the west gate lobby. It's noisy. The floor's all yellow underneath the carpet. The glue or whatever. The furniture is all pushed up against one wall and rolls of the nasty orange are piled up near the solid wood tables. I just hear the sound of thin orange carpet being pulled from the concrete. And the guys talking. Speaking Spanish or whatever. One of the guys asks me where a pop machine is. I say there's one about ten minutes away, if you walk there.
Another security girl comes to ask me if I need to be relieved. The girl with the "S" name. I just got here, I say. So I don't really care. Okay, she says, and goes to the office.
I remember that there are soda machines downstairs in the staff lounge. I tell the guy. He says okay. I see Sarge walk by wearing a navy beanie and a windbreaker.
When it's noisy I can't focus. But after I'm used to the noise, quietness breaks focus.
It's quiet now. For like a minute. A few people walk by, talking pretty audibly. It's quiet again. I hear the voices of a few more visitors. It's quiet again.
I think it's interesting how easily the human body can adapt. To noise. Or anything, actually. I remember when I went to the chiropractor one time. I have horrible back issues, like twenty-four-seven. And that last snowboarding accident pretty much wrecked me. The most painful thing, from what I can remember, that I have experienced. But when I went to the chiropractor, like a year too late, he said that my back had adjusted itself. What. Like my muscles contracted on one side and loosened on the other in order to try to straighten my back. That's why one of my shoulder muscles is bigger than the other. I thought that that was pretty amazing.
Greg and my other boss come over and discuss the nasty orange carpeting. Greg says something about how 1990 was already twenty years ago. Yeah, we were born in a time where we actually remember the USSR. Or when the wall fell down. Like Berlin. And ten-cent beer. Something about a football field or something. Karl Marx. Waxing the hallway floor. Moving furniture around and stuff. Waiting until summer to do it. If the linoleum is part of the original library building structure. Asbestos and bad ideas. They say "oh" and "I see" a few times. And "back in my day". And how my boss misses his old office. Greg has his hands in his back pockets and is kicking at the linoleum with his shoes. Waiting-to-get-into-law-school Greg. Using rising intonation in his voice like he does. My other boss is kicking at a rug on the floor. He uses his hands now and then to talk. They're talking about that new desk that was built but kept setting off the alarms because it was metal. About whether we're going to keep it or not. That twenty-seven-hundred-dollar desk. He's over by the water fountain, leaning against the wall. Now they're talking about a television show they like. Greg says he has more stuff to do. They part ways and head back to whatever it is they were doing.
It's quiet again.
An older, white-haired lady with a bright red jacket stands by the entrance. She looks like she's waiting for someone. Greg walks by holding three or four long metal bars. He says he's always afraid he's going to spear someone.
The hum of people resumes. People are walking one way. Other people are walking the other way. All past my desk. People-hum. Hum hum. You can hear the squeaking sound of wet and snowy tennis shoes as they walk past. Greg walks by with two more metal bars. The tan ones for shelving.
An older man walks in wearing a bright red jacket. He looks like he's waiting for someone. He asks me if I know the stacks very well. I send him in the right direction. Only he starts up the wrong flight of stairs. Down the hall, I say.
I'm back in the office. S205. The girl with the "S" name is here. Her name is Natasha, I guess. A guy comes to the door to get an application or whatever. I give him one and give him directions on how to fill it out.
The old wall heater in the office is making noise. It's this annoying echoing click that occurs randomly in oddly spaced intervals. I can hear the hum of the computers and the distant hum of the people in the halls. Hum hum.
"Eighty-five-hundred base this is eighty-five-hundred west", I hear the five-channel radio say.
"This is base, go ahead."
"Nevermind."
It's noisy today.
I've noticed that my heart can be the same way. Noisy, I mean. Full of static from other occurrences in our lives. People-hums and computer-hums. Hum hum. I can never get myself to focus sometimes. I say I'm busy because I am. But I've made myself this way. I work 47 hours this week because I'm worried about paying bills or something. Like I haven't been able to pay them before. Because I have. And I'm broke.
My bank account sits at zero at the beginning and end of every month. Sometimes there's a quarter or two in there. I spend every dollar that I am able to earn on the hundreds of dollars of bills I have per month. I used to have money. I used to have more noise.
I don't have money now. I'm flat broke. Constantly. But I love it. Why I let the stupid green slips of paper get in my way, I'm not sure. It's all noise, really.
I like being poor.
I don't like to have much money. I just have what I need. Not too much -- so much that I may become comfortable and forget about Who really provides for me -- and not too little -- so little that I may steal and dishonor my Provider. Because really, not of it was mine to begin with.
I've almost been homeless. But I have a Home.
I hate that I let the static of the world disrupt my dialogue with God. I let noises in because I think that I won't be able to make it on my own. Because I can't. I was never built to make it on my own. I was built to take these challenges we face with a Partner. Never alone.
Why I worry about it so often, I wish I knew.
I'm a control freak. That's what it is. I'm spoiled. I forget what noise can do. Noise disrupts you.
I never like it when it's noisy.
Turns out that black lady ended up getting banned. Two cops showed up to talk to her. I guess the black lady got pretty angry and loud or whatever, making accusations and stuff. My other boss took me and Natasha around to make sure some signs were up. They weren't. So we head back to the office. Greg is carrying a large painting with squares and shapes and colors on it towards us. You want a painting he asks. My boss says yeah, sure. It would be nice in our office. We go take a look at the painting, which is now leaning against the wall. My boss looks at it for a second and then turns it on its side.
Oh.
It looks like a man mounting a woman. Like sex.
Greg said he had never looked at it that way before. Like from that angle. Before it was just charcoal and oil media on a large rectangular canvas. Orange and green and white and yellowish. No, that would be better suited for someone else's office. Sort of.
It's time for me to go. Another new girl is turning in her application. Bye, I say. Bye.
It's quiet. Me and my bike and the snow. I can hear birds chirping in the trees to my left. I know it's winter. I've never really heard birds chirp in winter. I always thought that was a Spring thing. It's so quiet. Even being next to the highway. You can't really hear the traffic. If there is any.
Me and my bike and the snow.
I'm going sort of slow because some of the snow is melting on the black asphalt. I hate it when I get covered in greasy road slush.
Impressive. Very impressive, I hear a guy say to me as I'm biking past them. He's walking with his wife or somebody and he's holding a walking stick or something over his shoulders with his hands draped over either side. Like a cross. They're wearing hiking boots or walking-in-the-snow-type shoes and wearing plenty of cold-weather gear. I bike home.
I think it's interesting how something can seem completely harmless when you ignore what it really is. Like what it means or whatever. You pretend it isn't there. Like it's not bad. Like you don't really understand what's really going on. Like noise.
It's quiet.
Two of my roommates are back. One of them brought three other friends. One of them is named Chris. They went to Tuscon to go rock-climbing. No, not like little pansy cliffs. One-thousand-foot-high faces of vertical cliffs. For serious. They all got sick while they were out. Like vomiting and diarrhea. Chris got sick while he was about six hundred feet up -- on the side of the cliff. He crapped his pants in mid-air and puked all over the cliff side. No, really.
They're driving to Indianapolis today.
I biked to Norlin, like I always do. I know it snowed yesterday, and I know that the temp is at zero or below, but I don't like riding the bus. Especially the 204. I can hear the frozen snow crunch -- brittle and dry. It's not as icy as yesterday. Just snow-packed. And cold too. It's the kind of cold you can feel in your toes and the tips of your fingers, even when you're wearing wool socks and gloves. But I enjoy it. I like the quiet that follows the snow. Blankets of white muffle echoes. It gives you a sense of peace and solitude.
I lock my bike up outside of Norlin. It's so cold the steel cable on my bike lock is frozen in its current shape inside its vinyl coating. It makes for a difficult time wrapping the cable around my bike frame and through the spokes on my front tire.
There's a long line in the east gate lobby. I'm not sure what for. I hear its for orientation registration or whatever. All I know is that it's going to be noisy. Tours through Norlin are being conducted -- it must be about the history of the building or something. A bunch of little old people are huddled around a taller, soft-spoken guy in a green polo and white undershirt. His eyebrows are permanently raised on his forehead, so it looks like he's always seriously considering whatever you're saying. He seems to know a lot about the library. Like how there's a draining system under the east gate plaza that diverts draining water to another piping system to prevent sewage overflow when the snow melts. He seems super nice or something. Like he likes what he's doing. Leading all these little old people around, showing them all these quirky things about this historic building. People keep asking me where registration is, and I think it's kinda funny since there are literally twenty laminated, florescent green signs with huge bold arrows pointing to the line of students waiting for registration. Whatever. I'm happy to help. I guess that last guy didn't speak English much anyways.
I see round-bellied professor come in a few minutes after I'm settled for the first shift. He's wearing all black today -- black beanie, black pea coat, black slacks, black shoes, black briefcase. I tell him good morning. He smiles back at me, showing me the gap in his two front teeth. He rides the elevator up to the second floor.
Meditative security guy was here before me. He never sits at the little rickety wooden podium. He sits on a plastic black chair over to the side, reading a book. Meditative security guy always speaks so softly that you have to ask him to repeat himself, more than once, mostly. When he's using our five-channel radios, you can barely hear him over the static. It must be a yoga thing or whatever. Speaking softly, I mean.
I don't like when it's noisy. I can't focus. I have to use a computer to pass the time rather than a book. I can never read when it's noisy. My mind wanders too much. To the people. To what they're saying. I'm always listening to them. Whatever stories they're telling. I don't know why people intrigue me so much.
Airports are noisy. But I like the noise. I like the sounds people make when they're all crammed into one place, rushing from one place to the next. Some people are happy. Happy to see other people. Some people are angry or stressed out. Some people are quiet too, but airports are always noisy.
I like to sit in a chair facing away from the terminals and watch all of the people go by as they walk -- or run -- to their departure gate. I feel like I learn something when I go to an airport. Like what some people are like.
I've always thought that I could categorize the distinguishing features of every human. Like what they look like. You know how some people remind you of other people? For some reason I feel like I could fit people into a box. Like what they look like. Fit that into a box or something. But it's harder to do that with what people are like. Like what people do when no one's watching. What they think inside of their head when other people are talking.
The alarms keep going off. Beepbeepbeepbeep. Gosh. The circulation people at the circulation desk are not doing their job today. They keep forgetting to demagnetize the books. Geez. Beepbeepbeepbeep.
It's noisy today.
My mind wanders a lot. I know. Whatever. It's what I do.
Alicia rambles on about some book she's reading. It's like a six- or seven-hundred page book she's reading about some guy who did something. She's talking about it like it's a super good read. I think she's being sarcastic. Like she has to read the book for something like a class or whatever. Oh, that's how she talks normally. I mean when she gets excited about something. I could have sworn that she was being sarcastic the entire time. Weird.
I'm at the east gate again. I haven't been to the west gate yet today. A homeless black lady comes over to ask me about the hours for the public. She's been here before, I know. She was issued a warning once, I remember. I wasn't there or anything, she just likes to tell me about it all the time. Crap, I reminded her. She goes on and on about how there wasn't a sign up for public hours and how she was written up for being there after hours. I try to feign empathy. Whatever. My boss says she's a pain anyways. Today might be the day he gets her banned.
I go the the west gate. Alicia's there. I think she's kinda weird.
Three guys are tearing out all of the nasty orange carpet in the west gate lobby. It's noisy. The floor's all yellow underneath the carpet. The glue or whatever. The furniture is all pushed up against one wall and rolls of the nasty orange are piled up near the solid wood tables. I just hear the sound of thin orange carpet being pulled from the concrete. And the guys talking. Speaking Spanish or whatever. One of the guys asks me where a pop machine is. I say there's one about ten minutes away, if you walk there.
Another security girl comes to ask me if I need to be relieved. The girl with the "S" name. I just got here, I say. So I don't really care. Okay, she says, and goes to the office.
I remember that there are soda machines downstairs in the staff lounge. I tell the guy. He says okay. I see Sarge walk by wearing a navy beanie and a windbreaker.
When it's noisy I can't focus. But after I'm used to the noise, quietness breaks focus.
It's quiet now. For like a minute. A few people walk by, talking pretty audibly. It's quiet again. I hear the voices of a few more visitors. It's quiet again.
I think it's interesting how easily the human body can adapt. To noise. Or anything, actually. I remember when I went to the chiropractor one time. I have horrible back issues, like twenty-four-seven. And that last snowboarding accident pretty much wrecked me. The most painful thing, from what I can remember, that I have experienced. But when I went to the chiropractor, like a year too late, he said that my back had adjusted itself. What. Like my muscles contracted on one side and loosened on the other in order to try to straighten my back. That's why one of my shoulder muscles is bigger than the other. I thought that that was pretty amazing.
Greg and my other boss come over and discuss the nasty orange carpeting. Greg says something about how 1990 was already twenty years ago. Yeah, we were born in a time where we actually remember the USSR. Or when the wall fell down. Like Berlin. And ten-cent beer. Something about a football field or something. Karl Marx. Waxing the hallway floor. Moving furniture around and stuff. Waiting until summer to do it. If the linoleum is part of the original library building structure. Asbestos and bad ideas. They say "oh" and "I see" a few times. And "back in my day". And how my boss misses his old office. Greg has his hands in his back pockets and is kicking at the linoleum with his shoes. Waiting-to-get-into-law-school Greg. Using rising intonation in his voice like he does. My other boss is kicking at a rug on the floor. He uses his hands now and then to talk. They're talking about that new desk that was built but kept setting off the alarms because it was metal. About whether we're going to keep it or not. That twenty-seven-hundred-dollar desk. He's over by the water fountain, leaning against the wall. Now they're talking about a television show they like. Greg says he has more stuff to do. They part ways and head back to whatever it is they were doing.
It's quiet again.
An older, white-haired lady with a bright red jacket stands by the entrance. She looks like she's waiting for someone. Greg walks by holding three or four long metal bars. He says he's always afraid he's going to spear someone.
The hum of people resumes. People are walking one way. Other people are walking the other way. All past my desk. People-hum. Hum hum. You can hear the squeaking sound of wet and snowy tennis shoes as they walk past. Greg walks by with two more metal bars. The tan ones for shelving.
An older man walks in wearing a bright red jacket. He looks like he's waiting for someone. He asks me if I know the stacks very well. I send him in the right direction. Only he starts up the wrong flight of stairs. Down the hall, I say.
I'm back in the office. S205. The girl with the "S" name is here. Her name is Natasha, I guess. A guy comes to the door to get an application or whatever. I give him one and give him directions on how to fill it out.
The old wall heater in the office is making noise. It's this annoying echoing click that occurs randomly in oddly spaced intervals. I can hear the hum of the computers and the distant hum of the people in the halls. Hum hum.
"Eighty-five-hundred base this is eighty-five-hundred west", I hear the five-channel radio say.
"This is base, go ahead."
"Nevermind."
It's noisy today.
I've noticed that my heart can be the same way. Noisy, I mean. Full of static from other occurrences in our lives. People-hums and computer-hums. Hum hum. I can never get myself to focus sometimes. I say I'm busy because I am. But I've made myself this way. I work 47 hours this week because I'm worried about paying bills or something. Like I haven't been able to pay them before. Because I have. And I'm broke. My bank account sits at zero at the beginning and end of every month. Sometimes there's a quarter or two in there. I spend every dollar that I am able to earn on the hundreds of dollars of bills I have per month. I used to have money. I used to have more noise.
I don't have money now. I'm flat broke. Constantly. But I love it. Why I let the stupid green slips of paper get in my way, I'm not sure. It's all noise, really.
I like being poor.
I don't like to have much money. I just have what I need. Not too much -- so much that I may become comfortable and forget about Who really provides for me -- and not too little -- so little that I may steal and dishonor my Provider. Because really, not of it was mine to begin with.
I've almost been homeless. But I have a Home.
I hate that I let the static of the world disrupt my dialogue with God. I let noises in because I think that I won't be able to make it on my own. Because I can't. I was never built to make it on my own. I was built to take these challenges we face with a Partner. Never alone.
Why I worry about it so often, I wish I knew.
I'm a control freak. That's what it is. I'm spoiled. I forget what noise can do. Noise disrupts you.
I never like it when it's noisy.
Turns out that black lady ended up getting banned. Two cops showed up to talk to her. I guess the black lady got pretty angry and loud or whatever, making accusations and stuff. My other boss took me and Natasha around to make sure some signs were up. They weren't. So we head back to the office. Greg is carrying a large painting with squares and shapes and colors on it towards us. You want a painting he asks. My boss says yeah, sure. It would be nice in our office. We go take a look at the painting, which is now leaning against the wall. My boss looks at it for a second and then turns it on its side.
Oh.
It looks like a man mounting a woman. Like sex.
Greg said he had never looked at it that way before. Like from that angle. Before it was just charcoal and oil media on a large rectangular canvas. Orange and green and white and yellowish. No, that would be better suited for someone else's office. Sort of.
It's time for me to go. Another new girl is turning in her application. Bye, I say. Bye.
It's quiet. Me and my bike and the snow. I can hear birds chirping in the trees to my left. I know it's winter. I've never really heard birds chirp in winter. I always thought that was a Spring thing. It's so quiet. Even being next to the highway. You can't really hear the traffic. If there is any.
Me and my bike and the snow.
I'm going sort of slow because some of the snow is melting on the black asphalt. I hate it when I get covered in greasy road slush.
Impressive. Very impressive, I hear a guy say to me as I'm biking past them. He's walking with his wife or somebody and he's holding a walking stick or something over his shoulders with his hands draped over either side. Like a cross. They're wearing hiking boots or walking-in-the-snow-type shoes and wearing plenty of cold-weather gear. I bike home.
I think it's interesting how something can seem completely harmless when you ignore what it really is. Like what it means or whatever. You pretend it isn't there. Like it's not bad. Like you don't really understand what's really going on. Like noise.
It's quiet.
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