Course Overload #17: "Can You Hear Me Now?"

It’s crunch time, kids. You know, the time of the semester when all of your professors get together and custom tailor the due dates for all your massive papers to give you, and only you, the most consecutive aneurysms. It’s as if there’s a quota for exploding students’ heads that must be filled, or no one gets paid and Christmas will be ruined. And you don’t want to ruin everyone’s Christmas, do you?

Well do you?

It was somewhere during crunch time last week that I found myself in a jam: I needed to finish the 25,000 page epic that is John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, but I had no time to go home and barricade myself in my room for the next 67 hours to do so. With no millionaire relatives about to kick the bucket, it looked like I was going to have to take the hard way out and actually complete college. And that meant reading the book, crunch time or not.

Ah, the library. The second floor is my quiet place. Whenever I need to read a book or perhaps perform impromptu surgery on a wounded classmate, that’s where I go. As I opened the door to the second floor, I noticed the big pink sign that said it was reserved for quiet study, and no cell phones are allowed, etc. It was the same sign I’d been staring at since freshman year, so I didn’t think much about it.

I found a seat near the window overlooking Wonka Hall and pulled out the 13th volume of The Grapes of Wrath. Thankfully, I didn’t have carpal tunnel syndrome quite yet from all the typing and writing that the end of the semester brings, so I could actually lift the book myself without having to resort to paying the nearest child or elderly woman a nickel to lift it for me.

I figured it out – if I kept reading until 5 the next morning, I’d finish the novel. That would leave me just enough time to take a seven minute nap before I started my history paper. “That’s almost double the amount of sleep I got last night,” I thought to myself proudly.

But just then, the door opened and I listened as someone walked in, stomping the whole way. It was as if whoever just walked in was trying to be as noisy as possible for some reason, because they would win some kind of contest for being the loudest in the library or something.

By now I was already praying that he was in the wrong place; that perhaps he was looking for the Stomping Room but wound up in the library by accident. But I knew deep down inside that he was there intentionally. As I pleaded with God to have him sit somewhere far away, he sat down in the cubicle in front of me. The first thing he did wasn’t to open a book, or pull out at notebook. No, because that would have made sense. The first thing he did was pull out his cell phone.

“Hey,” he began. “I was thinking that tomorrow, we could ride around this town, and… I don’t care if the cops chase us around, we’ll just let them…”

I thought to myself, already unable to concentrate on my reading, “Maybe he’s dyslexic, and when he saw the sign that said, ‘no cell phones,’ he read it as ‘cell phones on.’” Yes, that was the only explanation. The sign that’s been on the door since I was a freshman is quite clear. What other part of “reserved for quiet study” could be interpreted as “talk loudly on your cell phone?”

Cell Phone Guy continued for what seemed like hours, the whole time my concentration sliding away like a polar bear on ice skates. “Right… I know it’s gone, but maybe something can be found to take its place… Listen, have you ever considered vodka on your cereal in the morning instead of milk?”

It made my inner child cry.

Finally, seconds before I was about to stand up and beat Cell Phone Guy senseless with volumes two through 27 of The Grapes of Wrath, and perhaps a copy of War and Peace for good measure, he stopped talking. Just like that. The veins in my head slowly ceasing to pulsate, I returned to my reading.

…For about 13 seconds. My concentration was again lost as a slow, methodical tapping noise came from Cell Phone Guy’s cubicle.

It made my inner child violently ill.

Rather than be arrested for a grizzly crime, I decided it was time to move. Grabbing all of my stuff, I migrated to a far corner of the library; the only one where Cell Phone Guy’s poisonous pen-tapping parade of pain could not reach me. Sitting down next to a girl wearing what appeared to be a weather balloon as a coat, I sighed with relief and cracked open my book once more.

Within seconds, as if she had some sort of radar, the girl picked up her cell phone and began dialing. I began threatening her under my breath, claiming I’d make her listen to 67 hours of country music if she made the call, but it was too late. I heard the ring across the room. It was ringing the theme from John Carpenter’s Halloween. I instantly knew who she had called.

“Where you at?” asked Cell Phone Girl.

“I’m in the library,” replied Cell Phone Guy loudly. “You know, the quiet study floor.”

“So am I!” exclaimed Cell Phone Girl. The stomping began once more and continued until it was right behind me. “How’s it going!” screamed Cell Phone Guy. I sat and watched in stupefied awe as they proceeded to have an earsplitting conversation on their cell phones while standing five feet away from each other.

It gave my inner child an aneurysm.

I stood up and began screaming. As a librarian reminded me that I was in a quiet study room and screaming was not allowed, I ran out the door, leaving my books behind. I just kept running, until I passed my friend Sarah on her way to dinner. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’ll destroy them!” I replied, with the look of a wild animal in my eyes. “The cops will come, and they’ll blast their sirens…”

“Sirens are so romantic,” interjected Sarah.

“…and they’ll ask, ‘Where are the bodies?’ and you’ll tell them, ‘There aren’t any bodies, because Matt destroyed them.’”

And then I’ll have a very long, quiet time to read my book.

Course Overload #7: "Textbook in My Trousers"

Libraries and I never quite got along. Back when I was a wee Matt in elementary school, my class and I were routinely taken to the library for 40 or so minutes of literary torture. The librarian, Ms. Kinderkill, apparently had something against me. Perhaps it was the fact that I never seemed to be interested in reading, or maybe I was just too loud for the library. Or maybe it was because she said she loved War and Peace so much she couldn’t put it down, so I glued a copy of it to her hands to make sure of it. She would always try to ruin my day whenever she had the chance. For example, she would always call on me to answer things I couldn’t possibly know. All the other kids got easy questions, like “How many sides does a triangle have?” and “Do you have legs?” I, however, was usually given a pair of tweezers and a sack of radioactive scorpions and asked to split the nearest hydrogen atom. I had no idea what was in the bag, so when I opened it, out came the scorpions. They stung me everywhere while all the other children laughed and laughed. As punishment for not being able answer the question, I was forced to clean all the chalkboards in the school. With my tongue.

So, you can guess that I wasn’t exactly seizuring with joy when I had to get a book out of the college’s library last Tuesday. When I entered the library, I was prepared for the worst. Sneaking past the large sensors near the entrance, I allowed myself a small chuckle. They want you to think the sensors are to prevent people from walking out with valuable, library-only reference books, but I know better. No doubt they were trying to read my brain waves in an attempt to sense my fear, and, perhaps later on, steal my brain. With a quick glance around the room, I realized no one had seen me yet. Everyone was either reading a book or staring at a computer screen. What luck! Deciding not to waste the opportunity, I made a break for the stairs to the second floor.

But as my hand grabbed the doorknob, something alarming caught my attention. There, behind the main desk, was a security monitor displaying images of various places throughout the library. Forgetting my mission, I simply stared at it, dumbfounded. Why did a library need a security monitor? Is there something so important in here that it must be monitored 24/7?

TERRORIST 1: The bombs have been placed, demands have been made, and the robo-hamsters have been positioned. We are only missing one essential component in our plan to take over the lower half of Canada – a copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

TERRORIST 2: Foiled again!

Eventually I regained my composure and made my way downstairs. While opening the door to the second floor, I noticed a sign reading, “No Cell Phones in the Library.” No cell phones indeed, library. That way we can’t call for help. Undoubtedly, the library emits some sort of electronic jamming signal that renders all cell phones within 100 feet inoperable.

It was getting serious. If I was going to make it out alive and in time to watch General Hospital, I was going to have to work fast. Fortunately, next to the door, I spotted a large box that was postmarked for Rutgers University. Overturning it, I dumped its contents on the floor and threw the box over my body. This way, I could sneak around and no one would know.

Looking out from under my box, I saw a librarian quietly putting camera parts in a box. Slowly, I moved up behind her, and tapped her on the calf. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, my voice somewhat muffled from under the box, “I’m looking for books on the mating habits of the Ruby-Throated Alaskan Snowmobile.”

“Please,” she replied in a badly faked British accent, “call me Textbook Muskrat. It’s my code name.”

“All right, Textbook Muskrat, I’m looking for books on the – ”

“You’ll find them on the shelf to the right,” she replied, “next to the Explosive Thermonuclear Arbor Day Unit. Careful, it’s an international incident waiting to happen.”

Well, that explained the security cameras.

Quickly, I grabbed my book and shoved it down my pants. I probably could have just put it in my jacket pocket, but my pants somehow seemed more appropriate for the situation. On my way out of the library, I overheard Textbook Muskrat dragging around a box of heavy camera equipment. “Could someone help me with all this metal gear?” she asked. I slipped out the door unnoticed.

Running up the stairs and out of the door to the first floor, I thought I had it made. I had my book and the library had missed its chance to hurt me. Just then, a vision of Ms. Kinderkill popped into my head; her old, cackling face still haunting me. I couldn’t hold back. The little devil in me had to call my old school and tell Ms. Kinderkill what I had done, just to spite her. But when I took out my cell phone I tripped the alarm. I was in for it now. I quickly ran past the sensors and out the front entrance. Shedding my box, I made a b-line for my car. I had made it. And all before General Hospital.

The next day, there was a story in the local newspaper about what had taken place in the library. For a while, I was scared that I was going to be caught. But lucky for me, I was wrong. The image from the security cameras was made into a police composite sketch printed in the paper next to the article.

All units be on the look out for a walking box.

Course Overload #3: "Shhh!"

“Need a quiet place to study?” the sign read. Why yes Mr. Sign, I do. How did you know?
According to the sign on the door, the second floor of the library was reserved for quiet study, and that’s what I needed. My modern American English class had been canceled for some reason and I had to kill some time before history. And what better way to kill time than studying, aside from hanging out with what I’ve heard other people call “friends.” But I’m not exactly sure what those are, or even how much one of them would cost, so it was down to the second floor for me.

Stepping through the door, I found a comfortable seat near the window, pulled out my history book, and cracked it open. No more than six seconds later, I was startled by a loud noise.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!”

I tried to ignore it, but after a few minutes, I had begun digging out my own eyeball with my thumb in frustration. I needed to know what was making those horrible sounds. A quick search of the library revealed nothing, so I went to the librarian’s desk to find out what was going on. Low and behold, I found the librarian stacking old textbooks into a giant cardboard box.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Shh! No talking in the library. This is a place for quiet study,” she yelled back, tossing in a few more books with a loud crash.

“Well, I came to ask if you could stop making so much noise. I’ve got to study for this history test, see, and…” Before I could finish, another librarian approached and carelessly tossed a stack of CDs into the mysterious box.

This piqued my curiosity. Storing books in a library is one thing, but CDs? I snuck a look inside the box while the librarians conversed, and to my surprise, it was filled with the things nightmares are scared of. Next to about a dozen selections from Opera’s book club were a pair of leg warmers, three Milli Vanilli CDs, every Ace of Base single ever, a copy of Freddie Got Fingered, some Pokémon cards, Plan 9 from Outer Space on DVD, and a stack of E.T. Atari cartridges.

“What’s this all about?” I asked, puzzled.

“If you must know, these are the things we’re sending away,” the librarian replied.

“Sending away?” I was more confused than ever.

“Yes, sending away. Whenever we don’t like something, we put it in a box and send it to Rutgers University in New Jersey. We never put a return address on it, so those suckers have no idea who’s sending them all this awful junk.”

I didn’t say anything for a long time. I watched the librarians disassemble an entire Macintosh computer and put it in the box piece by piece. “Why Rutgers?” I finally asked.

“Why not?” the librarian replied. “Now if you don’t stop bothering me, I’ll put you in here too. It’s not all that hard to poke some air holes in one of these boxes, you know.” The thought of being so close to so many horrible things made me scream inside. Without another word, I went back to my history book.

Within a few minutes, I had settled down and was starting to read again, when suddenly, the shrill cry of a siren cut through the air. It wasn’t a fire alarm, no. It was more like a car alarm.

“What’s that flippin’ noise!?” I exclaimed, only I didn’t say “flippin’.”

“Oh,” said the girl sitting next to me, “that’s the Learning Alarm.”

“The Learning Alarm?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied, “it goes off whenever someone starts learning something in here. It’s to alert everyone else to your great accomplishment. It’s a real honor.”

“I should have gone to Marist,” I mumbled, gathering my things and walking toward the exit. Just above the door, a small box-like object flashed like a strobe light, and emitted the earsplitting alarm tone. Taking great aim, I tossed my history book at the box, knocking it to the ground. Somehow, it continued flashing and wailing. It must have had a self-contained power supply.

Without even looking, I tossed both the alarm and my history book into the Rutgers box and ran out of the library crying. As I ran from the room, I could hear the librarian shouting at me. “Stop that incessant crying!” she yelled. “Don’t you know that the second floor is reserved for quiet study?”

I never did get much studying done for that test, but I’m not exactly worried about it. I’m a smart individual, and perhaps I absorbed enough information in class to pass. There’s that, and… let’s just say that the test is on its way to Rutgers now.