Carts

I'm convinced that our professor pays staff and studentworkers and maintenance men to rattle past our classroom door with squeaky decrepit carts on some unpredictable schedule, clattering over the mosaic floor tile with a vengeance and enough noise to wake the dead - or at least to keep us awake and focused.


He plays this game of "open the door for air, shut the door for quiet" for the whole three and a half hours of lecture and jokes about wishing he had an organ swell pedal to control the hallway noises.

I have to wonder where all those people are going with all those carts and what on earth is on them anyways. This is a small school on summer term. For the most part the campus is deserted (something that will change quickly when the St Louis Rams arrive for their training camp). I know there is a certain amount of repair and repaint that must happen between semesters, but the volume of cart traffic rivals the nearby expressway for activity.

One of the other students had called ahead to see if she could arrange the use of a cart to help bring stuff from her car to her room. Ironically, they told her there wasn't one available. . .