The Stacks

Here I am, 11:00 pm on a Monday night, out of breath, heart pounding, palms sweating.
Did I just get chased down by a mugger on Sheridan?
Was I threatened at knifepoint outside my dorm?
Was I followed home by a tall gaunt man in a menacing trench coat?
No.
I had my first experience getting a book in the Cudahy Library Stacks.
The night started innocently enough: I had a paper to write for British Literature on "Utopia" by Sir Thomas More. Procrastinating as usual, I came to the Information Commons at around 6:30 pm with the hopes of finding a quiet corner to concentrate and pound out my five page paper before 3 am.
After slaving away for four hours, brainstorming ideas, finding evidence, and outlining my body paragraphs I overheard a fellow student scoffing at a paper she was reading: "Really Tyler Hughes? Only two sources? This is college," she spat. I looked down at my lonely copy of "Utopia" and the sparknotes pulled up on my screen, and bashfully searched through the online library catalogue for outside references.
With four cryptically numbered titles in my hand, I headed from my safe, warm, brightly lit corner of the IC to the windowless tomb that is Cudahy.
As I traveled from the IC to the library, I began to notice that there were more and more students but the noise level got quieter and quieter. It was like walking into an zombie like society where the farther your nose is into a book the more entranced you are. I finally reached the first part of the stacks.
The silence was thick and tangible. I slowed my pace as I entered what I thought was the reference books section. The ceiling lowered about three feet and the walkway was pinched to two feet between where the zombie-like studiers dutifully read and the cages the books were enclosed. Yes cages. I remember touring through these on orientation week, but I couldn't remember how to get past the black wire that surrounded stacks upon stacks of reference material. Looking confused, disoriented, and fully like a freshman I tiptoed up three flights of stairs, fully circling these literary jail cells before I finally gave up and went to the reference desk for help.
Sitting behind the desk aways was this old man, with a bushy white beard (but no mustache) looking creepily prophetic. "What are the reference numbers to your books?" he asked. "PR, B7, HX, and DA," I replied. "Oh yess..." he paused-I got this strange feeling that he was going to whip out a wand and pull the books from thin air- "The second floor for PR, and third floor for the rest. Take the elevators behind you to get there." I turned around and noticed (for the first time) two decrepit old elevators hidden behind a huge janitor's trash receptacle. "Those elevators?" I gulped. He nodded. I turned around and pushed the up button. A second later the narrow doors violently creaked open, and I stepped in, the doors quickly shutting behind me.
I rattled up to the second floor and stepped out into a silent, endlesss maze of books. "PR99, PR99..." I thought as I searched the small signs at the end of each row. As I walked further and further into the depths of the stacks to the seemingly nonexistant PR99, I came across more and more students at every turn. The deeper I went, the more crazed, stressed, and zombielike they seemed to become. I nearly expected them to look up at me and have no pupils or be chained to their desk or be mouthless, but none of them even looked up to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, I found PR99.0. One book. Not Mine. Frustrated and getting more paranoid by the minute, I hurried out of the rows and pressed the up button to get to the third floor. As I waited for my rickety ride, I glanced to my right, and saw a long row of private stalls, encased in thick glass. The sign on the doors said: Graduate Student Corrals. My heart skipped a beat. Is this where I will end up? Sure as a freshman I start out in the bright and cheery information commons, but slowly over the course of four years I'll deeper and deeper into this pit of information until finally I set up camp, living like an animal with just my laptop, adderal, and reference books to sustain me? I started to panic and rushed into the opening elevator door, pounding on the level 3 button. The door screeched shut, echoing ominously into the second floor stacks.
I reached the third floor and sprint/walked to all the numbers of my books. B7? Jewish social norms? NO! HX? Socialism? Okay closer... DA? "Divulging Utopia"! Finally success! I just had to cross the entirety of the floor to reach the stairs, but every step seemed harder and harder like the zombie studiers were reaching out to me and the stacks were pulling me in with an inhuman force, imploring me, seducing me to just take a seat, study some more, you'll never want to leave, you'll be safe in the depths of the stacks...Ah! My palm pushed open the cool metal of the stairwell doors, and as the door swung behind me, I could have sworn I heard a sob. I dizzily climbed down to the first floor and my tension began to ease as I moved into brighter and noisier rooms. I'm safe! I wanted to cry. The deadly lull of Cudahy didn't get me this time!
However, I have another paper to write next week...
Wish me luck.

(NOTE* The Cudahy Library basement recently caught on fire. This lends to my theory that it is the secret location of hell on earth.)

Repetez si-vous plait?

Anyone else feel like they're repeating themselves?
Throughout this first month of college (the official anniversary was the 19th) I feel like I have had the same conversation with the vast majority of people I've met. Most go something like this:
Karis: Hey nice to meet you.
(Random Other Student): Nice to meet you too! My name is (Lizzie/Colin/Frederick/etc).
Karis: My name is Karis.
ROS: What?
Karis: Karis
ROS: Kare-iss/Karissa?
Karis: No, Karis like Car (makes steering wheel motions) iss.
ROS: Ohh Kar-is. Got it.(Cocks head, pretends to be interested) How is that spelled?
Karis: K-A-R-I-S
ROS: Oh. Thats a very unique name. Is that from anywhere?
Karis: Its the greek word for grace.
ROS: (failing to notice my pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes) Are you greek?
Karis: No not at all.
ROS: Ohhh okay haha cool. So where are you from?
Karis: Minnesota.
ROS: OOOHHHHH MinnesOOOOOOOta YAAAAHHH you betcha!
Karis: Ha ha.
ROS: Y'know I don't even think I know where Minnesota is.

Yes. I'm serious. I have literally met 4 people (who were admitted to college) who don't know a state 300 miles away. Did they miss all of second grade? Just coast through with what their coloring grade got them?
Its a bit embarassing. Not going to lie.
But I'll be honest some state stereotypes are true. For one, I do speak with long O's and I am from Minnesota. Also, people from Wisconsin really do enjoy cheese. And people from California actually wear Hollister!
Speaking of clothing stores and conversations that lower my IQ...
I recently had an interview at a certain prominent teen clothing store that may or may not have been mentioned above. And it was slightly frustrating.
First of all, I already know I'm qualified for the job (and thats not bragging). The position I'm applying for requires me to fold clothes according to rigid corporate standards and greet every customer that walks through the door, saying: "Hey, what's up?"
Its not rocket science.
However, they take this role very seriously. After going through the usual interview questions (why would you be successful here? what do you think our main goal is? why do you want to work here?) me and the other five job-hungry 17-21 year olds were asked to pretend our interviewer was a customer and we should greet them with the tagline "Hey, what's up?". We went down the line.
The first girl (bless her soul) was a high school senior, never had a job before. Flustered at being the first put on the spot, she began laughing and burst out a loud and exaggerated "HEYYY WHATS UP?!?!?!?!" that echoed awkaredly down the cavernous mall hallway. The interviewer paused, smiled tightly and turned to the next person. The next one illicited a simple "Hey, what's up?" with a smile. Classic, simple, not bad. I did the same, but better (at least I thought). I just hope that my radiant smile didn't somehow give away the screams of my mind: THIS IS STUPID. I ONLY HAVE10,000,000,000,000,000 NEURONS AND SYNAPSES. DON'T WASTE THEM ON THIS. But I simply continued to grin and look friendly while silently shoving my intelligence into a dark locked corner of my mind. The next three got all fancy: "Hey whats up? My name is Tony/Ramona/Freddy and if you need any help finding what you're lookin for or got questions about clothes, life or whatever, don't hesitate to give me a yell okay? Oh and be sure to check everything out we have these new jeans in and they are really great so don't miss them, and make sure you check out our bodycare it smells real good. Oh and welcome to our store." By the time they finished that greeting the angsty-too-cool-for-you teen would have sent them a firy stink eye and moved onto the clearance section. And that was the end of our interview.
Its slightly frustrating to me that that is a seriously considered question, like really? My employment status is dependent on how well I can say three words and smile at the same time? Of course it is important in retail to make the customer feel immediately welcomed but can't it just be assumed that I'm capable of this simple task?
However, I really can't complain. I can lampoon and satirize this company as much as I want but they are the ones holding my future paycheck just out of my desperate reach. So hopefully my greeting was good enough to impress their Mighty Corporateness and the job requirement doesn't require knowing where Minnesota is. Oh wait. I would be fine, but I know some people who would be out of a job...

(NOTE* I got the job)