It’s a sunny morning, and light hits the dew of the PCC grass on a crisp Monday. You kick a keystone left behind by some wayward fratboy late one Saturday night, and it tumbles out of sight as you crest the hill and come into view of the mecca of male performance, the grail of granola gays, the nexus of never doing work, the opus of overpriced drinks, the hub of horny studiers, Summit outpost or as the student body call it, Nummit.
You ford the picnic table, the aroma of ksig seniors having their morning pitchers and putting out cigarettes on pledges fills the air, all the while you avoid accidentally staring people down inside as you try and see past the glare on the window. You pass the threshold, but not before an awkward exchange trying to hold the door open and let other nummit goers pass. You step in. A hush surfaces in the room as people turn and stare at you upon your entrance. Only the sound of someone taking a coffee shit can be heard. The yapping quickly arises once again as “Yellow” by Radiohead fades into “I Bet on Losing Dogs” by Mitski. You beat on, ceaselessly, towards the long line that has formed due to the recent class change. Stepping over book bags and long scarves, trying to squeeze past groups of people refusing to sit down but continuing to talk to others who are sitting down. As the line dwindles and more drip coffee and matcha are pedalled out, a choice arises. Do you order from the Ksig Barista or the Rusk Barista?
Read paragraph 1 for Ksig Barista
Read paragraph 2 for Rusk Barista
1. You reach the register. As a hand with at least 12 waxed cord bracelets (friendship bracelets) raises and asks you to wait. You stand slowly swaying and tapping your CatCard as he talks to 5 other baristas, who are also doing nothing. You look up at the seasonal drinks and notice that they bear a similar resemblance to the normal drinks, but with what would seem to be random things from a pantry put in them. You start to order when you notice your barista has already put in a pitcher of cider, lavender syrup, and a toasted bagel. You try to object, but the distracted barista responds with an autogenerated response. “Sorry, we’re out of cider. Will PBR do?” you say Okay, but it’s not okay. You don’t like PBR. You stand and wait for your food, and wait, and wait. 20 minutes pass as you stand, occasionally getting in the way of someone trying to sit at the bar, and wait for your bagel. Slowly, smoke begins to rise from the toaster, causing the fire alarm to go off. After the fire marshal checks it out and the fire truck leaves, the barista finally hands you your burnt bagel. Defeated, you turn around and stand like a deer in the headlights, looking over the possibilities of where to sit. Do you sit at a booth that has just opened or at a long table?
Read paragraph 3 for the booth
Read paragraph 4 for the long table
2. You reach the register. It’s your ex-situationship. Your eyes lock as your heart tenses. The fear enters your mind as words fail to exit your mouth. She’s left you on read for 7 F-hosts. “I love your outfit,” you blurt out. “What would you like?” she replies, almost speaking over you, asking for your drink order. The menu fades in and out of focus. Do you order a matcha or a London Fog?
Read paragraph 5 for matcha
Read paragraph 6 for London Fog
3. You swing one foot in front of the other with determination to turn your day around and seize your glory. The booth is in sight. All of a sudden, your foot hits the riser, and like a mighty tree being felled, you come crashing to the ground, your backpack sending you down with extra force. Through the pain and embarrassment, you hear a voice, and someone comes to help. Sadly, this is false. The body connected to the voice you heard steps over you and promptly sits down and calls their friends over. You leave nummit defeated and bruised.
4. You approach the long tables, and most of the seats have abandoned laptops, books, and bags left by people who know how long ago saving their seats for who knows how long. These are the consequences of the honor code. The only seat left is a squeaky, tilted stool. You begin to lock in. You have one hour left before your essay is due. A couple next to you won’t stop touching each other’s hair and laughing too loudly. The music switches to Deftones, and the volume is cranked up. People you vaguely know start interrupting you to make small talk. You get nothing done, and you turn in your essay two hours late.
5. You order a matcha. You swiftly take the drink and retreat to a high table. As you finally take a look at your matcha, you can’t help but question the color. Your mind plays tricks on you as you try and remember what color good matcha looks like. You hold in your hand a cup of swampy water and come to the conclusion that your swamp matcha is not “an emerald green to a deep forest green” that AI overview recommends. As you stare at your matcha, a runner-up of the performative male competition approaches you and compliments your matcha. His matcha is a Flowe wall color green. As you try and make conversation, you realize he hasn’t read any of the books or seen any of the movies he’s been talking about to you. He has only heard about them or seen clips of them on YouTube. He proceeds to talk to you about the extinction of Javan Rhinos as you slide into an apathetic stare.
6. You order a London Fog. You immediately lose the respect of the barista, and people give you glares as you are handed a cup of milk.