Another Typical Tuesday

It's another typical Tuesday.

I rush out of the second-floor Coleman building classroom, where I've just spent an enjoyable hour. As always, I'm going to be late for work. My morning class, Written Communication, never gets done early (not that I'd want it to, since it's my favorite class), and it's some distance from the second floor of the Coleman Center to the ground-level Welcome Center on the next block, where I work. I weave through classmates and strangers in the hallway and reach the elevator short of breath. On the way down in the elevator, I fix my jacket and other accoutrements for going outside. It's still the cold season of the year. Too soon for my fumbling fingers, the bell dings and the doors open. I zip my coat and put on my gloves as I walk quickly toward the door of the wheelchair ramp. Both elevator and ramp are necessary, for I roll a large black suitcase, full of books, behind me.

It's another typical Tuesday.

With a sinking heart, I realize that the weather is fair and relatively warm. As I cross the Coleman/Kumm courtyard, I brace myself for the crowd of smokers who will surely be out in this weather. I draw closer to the crosswalk and see them standing like sentinels guarding the sidewalk against the weak of lung. Sadly, such a weak one am I; an athsmatic, whose disease is aggravated by cigarette smoke. Still, I steel my resolve, pull a fold of my scarf over my nose and mouth, and surge forward. As I frantically race through the crowds of laughing, chatting, smoking students, the bitter, tobacco-filled air wafts around me and seeps through my fuzzy makeshift gas mask. I hold my breath until the last smoker is behind me. I breathe too soon. In my wild career through the cloud of smoke, it built up in front of me from the force of my going. It clings to me now, floating into my breath and setting me to coughing. I clap my hand to my mouth. It makes a much more efficient gas mask than my scarf. I inhale deeply and hold my breath again. Again, I breathe too soon. The smoke is stuck to me even as I turn the corner, coughing, hardly daring to breathe again. When I finally do breathe again, the nicotine smell is gone. The smoke has dissipated into the air. Still coughing and trying to clear my throat, I open the Welcome Center doors, with a glance at the "Tobacco-Free Campus" signs posted in the windows. I greet my coworkers with a smile, roll my suitcase to my little cubicle, and sit down at my desk. I'm still coughing.

It's another typical Tuesday.

After an hour of work, I rush to another class. This class is mostly discussion, and as such, is dreaded by all its students. This time, we discuss for about an hour and are given the other hour to research. I'm off to the library, marching through the skyway from the Business Education Center to the Academic Resource Center. I and my group spend more than an hour on the computers, trying to make some sense out of a slew of newspaper articles and an ambiguous topic. The others leave for lunch. I stay, searching and writing and searching some more. Finally, I can't take it any more. My brain hurts and my stomach growls. I walk back down the skyway to the entryway stairwell of the BEC, where a faint, stale smell of tobacco lingers. I don't know where that smell comes from. I've never seen anyone smoking near those doors. I sit down at the small table at the top of the stairs, determined to rest my mind by simply experiencing the tangy, chewy sweetness of a creamy-peanut-butter, blackberry-rhubarb-jam sandwich. As I eat, I greet the occasional classmate or professor who passes through the entryway stairwell. Soon I join them, going back into the BEC and down the elevator to the basement.

It's another typical Tuesday.

With other early-arriving classmates, I stand at the door of the locked classroom until a kindly janitor takes pity on us and lets us into the room with chairs. I wearily sink into the cushioned swivel chair and take out my necessary papers. Students trickle in. A few minutes after the class is supposed to start, the professor enters. None of us minded the delay. We have a test this afternoon. First, we ask any questions we need to ask about the homework and such. As usual, I'm jumping into every discussion, no matter how tired I am, trying to be the teacher's assistant. Should I keep my mouth shut? Is it possible? Oh, well, now the test starts. The room is immediately silent, except for the scratching of pencils and the clicking of calculator buttons. The occasional whispered question interrupts the quiet, but everything is still muffled in test stress. A few finish early and leave. Then I finish early and leave. With relief, I pack my suitcase and drag it back to the elevator. I love the class, but after a long day of school and work, I'm glad to be on my way home.

It's another typical Tuesday.

I fight the buffeting wind on my way to the bus stop. I left just in time to catch the next bus. There it comes around the corner! I pull out my student ID card and hold it up for the driver to see. I push the pulling handle of my suitcase down and drag it onto the bus by its other handle. I look around for a seat. A score of long-day-of-work faces stare at me. I hitch myself and my suitcase toward the back and--oh, rapture!--I find a seat. I relax, letting my face go somber, like the faces of my near neighbors. Other passengers talk, listen to music on headphones, or read. Most, like me, simply stare blankly out the window, the better to see their stop when it comes. Finally, we reach my neighborhood. Someone else pulls the cord, and I pull myself (that is, my accoutrements) together. Soon I'm tumbling down the short steps and out onto the sidewalk, making sure that I'm a good enough distance from the bus before stopping and pulling out the pull handle on my suitcase. Once, I was almost run over because I stopped too soon. I trudge wearily, but gladly, homeward. I drag that ubiquitous suitcase up the steps into the front porch and unlock the front door. With an immense sigh, I call out, "I'm home!" Whoever's home comes to greet me, and I shed my accoutrements gladly. I relax until I remember what homework I have. It usually takes me until late at night to finish everything. Then I drag myself through the ritual of getting ready for bed, set my alarm an hour later for Wednesday, and pull the ancient cord to turn off the light. I daydream until I really dream.

It's been another typical Tuesday.