Pounding at Robarts

by MW Cook

Sitting in the crowded but nearly silent Silent Study Room at Robarts. Nothing on the air but light, scents of coffee, and the sounds of scholasticism: papers rustling, pens scratching, keyboards going tippy-type.

Then there’s this guy. He’s a pounder. I fear for his keyboard as he thuds against the silence. His Spacebars sound double-fisted and when he smashes Enter I see concentric circles in my coffee, as if the T-Rex lumbers toward me on halting feet. The message of it all, if I decipher the anxious pounding correctly, is something like “IM WORKING IM WORKING IM WORKING.” All caps, of course, and free of punctuation.