The African & the Indian

So there are these two fellas here on campus...If you couldn't tell by the title, one is an African man and the other is Indian (as in India).  Anyways, you know those people that you just like.  You don't know them by name, and the possibility that you will know their name is quite slim, but you like them.  You don't know their character, sense of humor or even what they look like in a different shirt...but you are pretty sure that they are rather solid fellas.  Not particularly clever or good-looking...Not even the type of person that I would hang with per se, but the kind that I am glad exist...The Indian works at the Hava Java.  We do the head nod and smile type dealio.  I think he might be the slightly nervous type, but we have reached a comfortable level.  He knows my order by heart.  Well, technically, it isn't my order, but that is relatively irrelevant.  He even remembers to steam some skim milk for me...though I order an Americana.  ( If you are not a coffee person, you can look up why this is significant.)  Occasionally, he asks me if I like a pastry...sometimes, I am supposed to get one.  It is a small relationship, but we see each other once or twice a day so it is consistent. It is a moment to enjoy in a day.

The African and I simply bump into each other a lot.  He is a janitor/maintenance worker..what have you.  He actually helped me start recycling in the office, just the other day.  Ok...now, this man is certainly African.  There is no doubt; to the point, he looks uncomfortable in western clothing.  I can see him on a red dirt road in Africa with a shredded printed shirt and shorts that have run ragged; it seems a lot more fitting.  I like that about him.  His skin is so dark, and his eyes are jet black. The cropped hair is tightly curled to his scalp, barely there.  Tall and lean...there is a strength in him that you know had to be wrought by hard work.  He has a smile that could be called transfixing...beautiful, white teeth gleaming against the black of the skin. It transforms his face.  His cheekbones rise causing his eyes to crinkle, and his head slightly tilts. The burn mark on his cheek reminisce of a dimple...though technically not in the right position.  (Who really cares about technicalities?) He looks so happy...joyful on occasion. He is extremely polite and always inquires as to how I am.  His rich accent with the warm, deep voice draws up old memories...I can almost feel the heat and smell of sea and sand...mingled with the sweat and human odor that consists of the Africa I know.  I answer his question and return the question.  That is all.  Another 30 second encounter, but the sight of him merits a grin. 

I like people; they make me happy.  Just plain and simple.  That seems rather strange to read even to my eyes, but that doesn't detract from the fact that I find it true. I hear the complaints that they are stupid, ignorant, etc...I won't deny that this is true nor do I deny that I get frustrated and have certain individuals that I don't fully appreciate.  But for the most part, I can't help but like them.  Some of them just for existing like my African and Indian.

Currently Listening The Fragile Army By The Polyphonic Spree see related

The Workplace

I am cold.  I cling to my mug of coffee, which had been running a tepid temperature until I nuked it for like a minute. It is quickly cooling, but the warmth is enough to be appreciated. I just finished logging a stack that had to be about 2 inches tall; it is pretty mindless work.  Yet some of the requests can be interesting at least as much as paperwork could be deemed interesting. 

The grandfather clock is ticking on the wall across from me; the brass pendulum swaying with soothing rhythm.  I wind that clock, pretty much every other day.  There is a key on top, which inserts into two holes on the roman-numeral marked clock face.  It reminds of me of the wind up toys...Not the cheap McDonald's plastic kind but the type that you see in old toy stores, made of metal.  You turn and turn until the key won't turn anymore. Take out the key and shut the glass pane.  There is a sticky note on my computer to remind me to wind the clock left by my predecessor.  I don't think I would forget though; I like the clock too much.  It is the only thing that is hanging on the walls in this room. 

The monotony of tan walls in my vision is not broken unless by doorways to closets or other rooms.  The wall behind me though looks like it is made out of cork boards.  Not the cheap kind used for the bulletin boards aroung the school, but the wine-bottle kinds, mottled brown.  Sounds more unpleasant than it is.  I find it rather appealing; it makes a mural in its own way.  You can see where the bookshelf used to sit.  They moved it to the left about a foot.  So there is a 6ft by 1ft rectangle of extremely dark cork right next to the bookshelf.  The bookself just behind me is relatively bare.  It has two ornate vases, one small on top and big one on bottom.  There is a shelf of books with brass and wood bookends.  The books are ancient, definitely older than me.  The most visible binding reads Vacationland USA.  Very pertinant.  It might be redeemed by the next two books which are the same copies of Handbook of College and University Administrations, important enough to have the same thing twice.  The other books have washed out bindings...proving how old they are.  And I am a might too lazy to go over and peruse what they might actually say.  One shelf contains huge book opened up on a book holder...You know that kind that hold the Bible on the alter at churches.  Who knows what this book is...And what the heck it is turned to. Just a second..I am going to check.  The Miriam-Webster dictionary turned to the H page.  haboob is the last word on that page...a violent dust storm in Africa or India.  It reminds me of my coworkers cell phone ring.  It is the little jingle then two dudes square off for a shoot-out in a Western...It is going off right now.  I am always amused by it.

The room has a rich feel to it, despite the whole bare walls...Some of it might be attributed to the fact that it is huge.  There are two desks...dark wood...really large.  One serves no purpose whatsoever (Welcome to ORU Beaucracy)...the other one is mine.  My desk looks way more important than it is.  There are two chairs with leather slung on the back and seats of them, facing my desk.  I don't think that they have ever gotten used since I have been here.  I have a antique looking gadget...kind of similar to a globe, but not really.  It reminds me of the Time Machine...I don't really know why.  The usually contraptions of an office desk are littered on top and in my desk, including the electric stapler that detest with all my being.  There is an overstuffed brass studded leather couch with ornate pillows slung into its corners.  It doesn't exactly scream inviting; I imagine right now, it would feel cold and slippery...But it could be quite comfy after a while.  There is a small table with a ridiculously large lamp resting upon it.  Most the colors are a deep rich brown...like melted chocolate or the richness of the brown eyes except the carpet.  The carpet is maroon...Yep, maroon...That line that is drawn between red and purple is all over the floor.  I like maroon...a lot.  It is funny to see it on the floor though.  The carpet is plush.  The funny thing is you can totally tell the traffic in the room from the carpet. It is lighter if pushed one way and darker with the other, so it is a maze of dark and light lines and pools right now. 

Ok, Ok...So that was a very long entry on absolutely nothing, but I feel better about life...

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I think I'll go to Boston.