You open the door and step out. You pause at the breeze that ruffles your open collar and you feel the heat of the sun’s rays on your hair, your face, and your chest, even through the thin black shirt and the gray, comfortable t-shirt. You step around the back of the car, staggering to the front right door, behind which lies your backpack, the vehicle of your effects. Almost as if having just awoken, you move in slow motion, or so you perceive. You wait after opening the door, and contemplate whether it’s worth bringing your red spiraled notebook or whether it would be worth exchanging it for your chemistry textbook, but you decide on the first option, pull your bag up and onto your shoulders, shut the door, feel the breeze on your shoulders once more, and reach into your pocket to press the button on your key closest to the metal rod of the key. The car beeps, but you have already begun to walk. You exchange a glance with an individual walking towards you from the concrete stairs, and each of you acknowledges the slight awkwardness of eye contact, as you pass each other. He is wearing a collared shirt like the one you decided not to wear, except not as cool looking, but you have a chemistry lab and don’t want to risk getting a chemical stain, or a chemical burn, on your nice new shirt. As you trudge carefully up the stairs, you leer at the chain-link fencing that curves up over the sides of the stairs, and almost see the invisible rays of heat glaring through them. You know not to touch the metal fence because the sign on your right says that there is a live wire and that doing so would be risking electrocution. So you don’t. Besides, why would you, it’s a metal fence. The smell of smoke and the distant, indistinct smell of food, or at least something sweet cooking, mixed with the slightly dense heat and the unbarred sunshine reminds you of Greece, and you feel the urge to share this with someone who would know how you feel, but as you open your phone, you change your mind and decide that this is the sort of thing that must be felt to be understood fully and that should be felt in the solitude of the mind to be appreciated, so you go about observing, and doing only this. You hear the tolling of the bells from the church across Tremont Street. Is it a Catholic Church or a Protestant one, or even an Orthodox one? You wonder because you would think that most churches in the area would be Catholic, but you haven’t actually seen the church, and for all you know, it could be any building. The bells’ tolling is comfortable, comforting even. They ring in a deep bass and tenor tune before letting out one solemn, serious toll that assures you that the previous tolls were not real tolls at all and that this is what they really meant by tolling. It sounds like the kind of tolling you hear in movies when something serious happens, like when someone dies and there’s a funeral, but it still comforts you to hear them, and reminds you of ancient Christian rituals you don’t even know. You glance at your phone and press the middle button because it occurs to you that the number of solemn tolls is the time of day, since you have heard different numbers of deep tolls before. It is one o’clock post meridiem. You were right. You look at the ivy to your right, some a deep green, and others a lighter green that turns to a dull scarlet at places. It is autumn, you think to yourself, and to the rest of the world. The ivy crawls along a barred concrete wall whose height varies at different places. It’s not exactly a concrete jungle here. Perhaps a concrete meadow. But this is only what encircles the microcosm that is Northeastern University. Or maybe just closes it off on one side. Doesn’t even close it off, because there are doors, stairs, and the Ruggles Train Station, the orange line. You still like it though. They finally fixed Ruggles by the way. Thank God. That road was a mess. Now it’s an asphalt topped junior thoroughfare. Okay, maybe just a street, but it’s important as part of my daily life.
Created: Sep 25, 2010Document Media