My daily routine is simple, efficient, and- well, routine. I am an early riser and follow the same path every morning for a short, brisk walk to the university gym. An hour of exercise follows, then a scathingly hot shower and the purchase of a bagel and some fruit from the small commissary in the student union. Six hours of interminable classes, hour after hour of psychoses and diagnoses, another short walk home, six more hours bending over one book or another, or straining to decipher a garbled lecture off of my mini-recorder. Then I throw some random items together for dinner and begin preparing for bed. My weekend schedule doesn't alter much. Simply replace the words "class" and "homework" with twelve hours of mind bogglingly simple-minded work at the University Drive Taco Bell and there you have it.
There are two things that keep this wearing schedule bearable for me- one is an evening bath, music a la obsession of the week on the CD player, a single glass of merlot in one hand and a pulpy fiction novel in the other.
The other I have to slide into my routine as time and circumstance allow. The College Market, a mom-n-pop-cum-coffee-shop, stands en route from home to the university. Once a day, going to or coming from classes or work, I manage to stop and step inside the doors long enough to pull a breath of decadent steam into my lungs to savor for the rest of the day. I allow herself a single cup of the dark brew once a week, but the blends I prefer tend toward the extravagant, and a student living on part time Taco Bell wages has a hard time supporting any extravagant habit. I don't have a coffee maker at home, either, because I prefer to come down to the Market and bury my whole body in the experience- the smells, the worn couches populated by students and professors, reading or debating, some poet off in a corner working on the rhythm of a line with the concentration of a Philharmonic conductor, walls floor to ceiling with books, others stacked on tables, still others lying abandoned in the sunshine on the windowsill.
So, most days, in concession to the expense, I merely satisfy myself with the smell. Some days, the sweet scents of vanilla or hazelnut or toffee cling to my skin for hours. Other days, I can turn my head in class and the dense fragrance of dark Arabica clouds from my hair. Most days, it is enough.
And so, late in the afternoon on a Friday in mid-April, wholly unsatisfied with the progress I was making studying at home on my diminutive couch with the cat head-butting my elbow for attention and a pile of dishes screaming at me from the kitchen sink, I decided it was time to treat myself to a cup of expensive brew. I slid my books, notebook and recorder into a worn shoulder bag, flung the works over one large shoulder and commenced the short walk to the College Market.
Outside, warm air brushed my brown hair back from my face. Whispers of breeze tangled in the hem of my tank top, making me crave summer, and a long hike in the dark green hills. I peered wistfully over the rooftops as I walked past. Scout Mountain still wore a crown of white, the upper reaches not yet free of the strangling snow. There was still time, then, before my favorite trails would even be passable, let alone before I could walk them without ending up knee deep in mud. Right now, however, I felt that ending up knee deep or deeper in mud would be preferable to slogging through the pile of make work my professors were demanding as the semester neared its end. I sighed and kept walking, dragging my eyes and mind down from the mountain to more mundane things.
A block ahead I could see the brick patio and brightly painted window of the College Market. Small groups congregated on the patio, huddling to light their cigarettes and staying clustered, as if afraid their smokes would go out without the buffer of other bodies. I walked past the acrid clouds of smoke- almost, but not quite craving a cigarette- and through the glass doors into the coffee-warmed brightness of the shop. I hadn't realized how dim it was getting outside.
A table was open near the large front window of the shop and I dropped my bag in one of the chairs. My wallet was buried somewhere in the mess of my bag. After some searching, I found it in the deepest, darkest reaches, tangled with a copy of my half-finished paper on antisocial behavior. I sighed and shoved the paper back in the bag. I had almost forgotten it existed.
