I can't wait for life to happen

I’m up.

It’s what my internal dialogue always tells me, not what I tell myself. Almost like someone else is telling me what’s happening, my external narrator. Okay so you’re awake, now what. The light is streaming in softly from the vinyl blinds covering my windows. My cell phone is tucked under my pillow, I unplugged it from the charger and check it for the time, it’s a quarter past nine. I try to crawl into the part of my brain that functions to figure out what day of the week it is. After staring at my closet doors for about a minute I finally decide that it’s Thursday. Shakespeare’s sonnets at twelve thirty, followed by eighteenth century gothic literature at three, the latter of the two I’m actually looking forward to. Before even taking this class I already read most of the books on the syllabus; Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a smattering of H.G Wells novels, and some news clippings about Jack the Ripper from the London Daily Post circa 1888. After finally willing myself to sit up and think about my day I turn to my nightstand and pick up my black leather day planner. Flick off the elastic keeper and turn to the current week.

I haven’t written anything.

I select a pen from the cupholder on my nightstand and start writing in my classes, trying to remember what assignments I have due, what I need to read for next week. After writing most of what I can remember I put the ribbon into the current page and place the day planner on the end of my bed so as to not forget it again when I leave.

After I park my car the maze of a parkade I find myself more than an hour early before my first class, so I head to the library. I use the back stairs, down four flights and as many degrees cooler. To many: a useless space. Just clusters of desks hidden within pockets in the stacks of books. If you didn’t know where to go you’d just think it was just some libraries basement. Maybe you’d only come down here to get that perfect quote for your essay on deconstructionism. Dozens of shelves sit touching each other like tombs, sadly decrepit and unappealing to venture further than needed, until you come along and crank one open, and forget all about that old hardcover with the collection of essay’s that you just know will push your paper over into A territory, you see an assortment of tables, almost like little wooden cubicles, separated perfectly so you’re never sitting next to a stranger, some are separated by more stacks, set perpendicular to the ones you just walked out of. Somehow the lights are softer, and although the walls are made of the same stone as the rest of the building they seem to be a darker shade, they’re somehow rougher in texture, every so often plaques are placed on the walls. My favourite is the Walt Witman quote that reads, "these are the days that must happen to you". I can't wait for life to happen to me.

How I found this haven was perfectly by chance, when I first began attending I had been printing a paper in the baccalaureate library when I saw this tiny stairway, peeking out from a corner, without thinking about it being off bounds, or a backroom for staff, I slipped in. The older buildings are run a bit like lawless mazes, theirs even rumours that some of the buildings are connected by underground tunnels.

I’ve always tried to find one.

Not yet.

The main staircase will bring you down three flights of stairs, but there’s actually a fourth floor if you go by the back stairway. This floor is simply referred to as “the basement”, as it’s much larger than the other floors in the building, it extends under the pipes, past the walkway out front, and under other buildings. After years I know exactly where I like to sit. Walk past two dozen rows of stacks, take a right, walk down the thick maroon rugs that hug the dirty hardwood floors, after that there’s no discernable paths. Just rows and rows of movable stacks, it really looks like a dead end, but you open the stack between Agamemnon and Dionysius, keep walking, past one cluster of desks, take a left and go a few meters, and face a dead end, the stacks are situated perpendicular to each other to create almost an illusion that they simply disappear into one other. Grab the stack to the far left and keep pushing, it opens up to a perfectly square hideaway.

There it is, four tables. They’re different from the other ones, they don’t have the wooden walls written with graffiti about how much the Literature department is a boys club, or about which math teacher spits when they talk. Each desk faces a different bookshelf, by now you shouldn’t have any cell phone reception, and your laptop gets barely single bar of Wi-Fi. It’s where you should take that decrepit research book, and really sink into it.

I can only write down here.

I sit down with a hardcover that has the bust of old William Shakespeare printed to look like a wood etching, and slowly read sonnets, while humming the iambic pentameter in my head to keep pace. Time passes almost too quickly and before I know it, I need to rush to my first class. I participate, I get noticed, I promise to languish onto the last two famous sonnets and come I with the same fresh take everybody has.

Still holding onto the same cold cardboard coffee cup with just a sip left I walk back through the cobblestone path to my little secret writing corner. Maple and oak pave my way, shade my thoughts, lead my way. Back down the stairs, through the stacks, I go back to my desk.

As I sit down I notice a little black book. Had I left my day planner here when I rushed to class? No, I remember writing in it the details for my next essay, an outline due by Monday. I looked around to check that I’m still alone in the small twelve by twelve book fort. I had only been gone for an hour and a half, who would have come and gone in that time?

I decided between opening the book to find some information, a name or a phone number that I could return this to, and just leaving it beside me and wait for someone to come back for it. I let the mystery book sit in the corner of my desk for about an hour, I was slowly working on my draft but couldn’t control my gaze from turning to the leather book, I felt taunted. Why wasn’t someone coming back for it, it’s been long enough, you have to notice your notebook is gone by now. After another ten minutes of unfocused writing, I decided to open it. Knowing I could at least get some clues as to whom it belongs to.

It was completely empty. A black leather notebook with lined pages ready to hear all of your late night thoughts, admissions of love and guilt. Out of disbelief I kept checking the book, looking over empty pages waiting for a clue to appear and give me answers.

Nothing.

In my last ditch effort of searching I opened the back pocket that usually has stickers and a return policy, hoping in my wildest imagination to find a note explaining the circumstances, maybe someone fancied me and left this as a gift. However instead I suddenly felt a strange thickness in the pocket, the ridge of a stack of something so large it was impossible I hadn’t noticed it earlier. I sat there in disbelief for a long moment. I slowly and carefully checked over my shoulder again, shaking, I was worried that someone could burst in and see what I was holding.

Reassuring myself that I was alone, I slowly started counting the money. They were all hundred dollar bills, how had I not noticed this when I picked the book up, holding the stack now in my trembling hands it had to have been at least an inch thick. After each thousandth dollar I set the little stack a side and kept going. After I was done I sat there and looked at it all. Twenty stacks, twenty thousand dollars. As I thought about how surreal this very moment is, I started to calm and my breath was growing deeper.

Without even knowing that my body was doing, what I was doing, the cash went back into the pocket, the elastic snapped over the cover of the leather book, into my purse. I collected my books and walked so quickly out of this dungeon that felt instantly suffocating to be in that I was bumping into shelves, books were falling onto the floor, I must have been making a racket but I could only see what was immediately in front of myself.

I found myself back in my car. I was out of breath, I must have sprinted here from the library, but I can’t exactly remember. I was convinced someone would be chasing after me, I had stolen someone’s inheritance, tuition money, lottery winnings, this was clearly such a huge loss for someone. So why did I take it, why did I want to run with it, to take it out of the book again to just hold it. Sweat was running down the inside of my arms, down my back, I could feel an icy cold sensation in my head, that felt like clarity, an understanding that I now knew, this was mine. This could change my life, I could travel anywhere, I could be anything I want to be.

After checking over my shoulder another time, I decided to move my car to the roof of the parkade, out in the sunshine, so I could see my surrounding better. I could not be interrupted. I sat for a moment in sheer bliss, and ruminated on the possibilities of what I could do with the money. I slipped my hand back into my purse to pull out the book, it was thin again like the first time I had picked it up, but I knew what was waiting for me. I flipped straight to the back pocket but this time, it was empty. Completely empty. I check the rest of the book over again, every page, I ripped the pocket off the book completely. Frantically I started digging through my purse, no cash, no luck, nothing. In my fit of rage I tipped it over and threw my things across my car. I was pawing around to see if it had fallen, searching and head pounding agony went on for minutes, but felt like eternity.