The Union Heartbeat

This part of the Student Union used to be an open-air bridge. Cars with students, passerby's and locals travelled under it to make their way from Maple to Dickson, vice versa. Now, enclosed area has the appeal of a subway station and much of the same smell. Doors open and close, occasionally catching a foot, or a backpack, and rattling. 

Laughter from a loud conversation echoes through the brick and glass chamber. A hand rustling for breakfast inside a plastic sack muffles the sound of quick rubber-treaded footsteps. Across the span, beeps erupt from an ATM as a user prompts its keys for cash. click, Click, CLick, CLIck, CLICk, CLICK...the unmistakeable sound of hard high heels supporting a pair of sexy legs, sometimes not so sexy legs...CLICK, cLICK, clICK, scuff, cliCK, clicK, click...

The average age is 35, I'd say, as campus workers, students and professors all pass through. The feeling of the subway station makes me wish for larger crowds who come and go in waves as the trains beat through.

Swish, swish. Are wind suits still legal? They rub on the thighs of wearers and emit a sound similar to lashings in the rice fields. Clang! A hard punch on the panic bar of one of the doors. And every time, a hard punch and Clang! And everyone jolts. "I guess it's time to go to work." The man's voice deepens and softens during his phone conversation. "Yeah, got yer little to do list." 

He rubs his hand slowly over his bald head. He turns a quarter-circle about every 30 seconds, until he is looking out the window again - were he tends to linger a little bit longer. His belly is enormous, especially when he is on one-quarter and three-quarter position. A yellow highlighter protrudes from his front pocket - waiting either to fall out or to push itself into his belly the next time bends over. He picks up a heavy pile of books and attempts to walk outside. His conversation brings him back to his original turning point and he resumes his rotation, sans books. 

"503 or 509 or something like that." An older man with a white goatee and lovely wool trench coat passes by with his companion - perhaps his wife. She glances at me. Click, click, click...

Then from another corner of the room, "How's it going, Damon?" "What's up?"

Scuffing feet. A cough. A handful of pocket change falls to the floor far behind me. 

A girl passes with her ipod cord around her neck like a stethoscope. A seasoned janitor in a tight knit cap appears from one of the vestibules. He stands by an exit door and looks out, then back into the room. He looks out again, then quietly pushes the door open and lights a cigarette as he steps onto the patio.  

Thump thump thump thump - heavy heels hurriedly pass. "No actually," mumbles another one-sided conversation. "I think, yeah." Click, click, click. A squeak then whoosh of an air brake from a bus below...