Mind of a Freshman

Writing this column isn't my only responsibility at The Stute. In fact, chances are that the paper you're holding was hand delivered somewhere on campus by either myself or my distribution partner Mike Azzarra (who also writes for The Stute). Our task every Friday is to load up a hand cart with over two thousand newspapers and drag them across campus, dropping off a stack or two at designated buildings along the way. Usually our trek goes without errors, and for a work study job delivery isn't such a bad gig. On a sunny day making the trip around Stevens is even enjoyable, despite lugging hundreds of pounds of newspapers behind us. However, Mike and I share one common archenemy on our mission to bring the news to the campus: the wind. In a place such as Stevens, where on some days ropes are literally tied across campus to keep students from being carried off to wonderland, the wind is not the kind of foe you want to have. Last Friday started off like any other delivery. Mike and I rounded up the papers and made our way over to CPA, past Jonas and up alongside the library. We then descended down the hill past Hayden and Davis and towards Babbio Center. Along the way, Mike and I then part ways as he makes a delivery to Babbio and I drop off the stacks inside Kidde and outside of Morton. This is where my trouble began. Kidde's papers are delivered inside, and thus I found sanctuary from my nemesis. However, Morton's drop off point is in a rack outside along River Street.

I approached my target, oblivious to the perils that awaited me. You would think that after a semester of this job I would not be so ignorant as to forget that my invisible foe lies in wait. A slight breeze lingered in the air, surely nothing to worry about. As I removed my knife and cut the plastic holding the stack together, I suddenly realized how grave my mistake had been. A seemingly gale-force wind instantly blasted me, sending a few Stutes to their doom. I quickly slapped a hand down onto the pile, attempting to prevent more casualties as my gums flapped in the unforgiving wind. The first blow eventually subsided, and I pounced on my opportunity to strike. Right hand still securing the fresh papers, I quickly opened the door to the dispenser and removed last week's excess papers from inside.

At this point I was now responsible for nearly two whole stacks of unsecured papers. Why I chose to unbundle the new stack first was beyond me, however this was not the time for regret. I placed the old papers on the ground next to the dispenser, and again my opponent realized my vulnerability and attacked. This time five or six papers met their untimely end. I scrambled to lock down the Stutes while doing my best not to lose my own balance as my left foot secured the papers on the ground and my right hand held the new editions in place. It felt as if I was playing some sort of sick version of Twister and I was losing badly. With my left hand I reached across my body for my keychain, located at the most awkward possible place on the right side of my belt. Foolishly thinking that a mere few ounces of metal would be a match for the high speed winds that I faced, I placed my keys on top of the old stack. Again I gravely underestimated my foe. As if lashing out in anger at my belligerence I was once again blasted by the wind, which this time carried with it more papers than I could count. Newspapers fluttered through the air and across the street, much to the confusion of any passersby on their way to class.

During a merciful break in the wind I finally managed to get the papers that I had left into the dispenser, grab the stack of last week's leftovers, and make a mad dash into Burchard where I could safely store them temporarily. I peered out the window to a grizzly scene of newspaper apocalypse. Luckily, Mike had finished his delivery at Babbio and arrived just in time to help me sort out my mess. I can only imagine what an onlooker's perspective might have been like, watching us running down papers as they fluttered down the street and snatching them from the air in what I can only assume to be a relatively ungraceful display of agility (at least on my part). Finally, the ordeal ended as we rounded up the last of the escapees and finished the last few drop-offs. I mentioned last week how I hate the cold. Add the wind to that list. I probably even hate the wind more. Maybe it's just winter weather in general. Fortunately, Staten Island's groundhog Chuck didn't see his shadow last Tuesday. Color me excited for an early spring.