Profiles of Regular Robarts Patrons

Humans of Robarts

Sports Man 

My name is Sports Man. I wake up at 7:30 am, work out, eat a bowl of cereal, and get dressed (basketball shorts, basketball shoes, t-shirt, baseball hat). I get my backpack and leave. It is empty except for my computer; a pen; a big, clear, plastic water tumbler; and a pair of Apple headphones. It collapses in on itself. Fabric touches fabric touches fabric. I stop at Shoppers, where I buy three packs of cinnamon chewing gum. Immediately, I start chewing. I open and close my mouth as I chew, breathing around the stuff. I get to Robarts by 9 am on my fifth piece of gum. Take the elevator to the ninth floor and sit at the first desk I see. I take out my computer and set it and my phone to charge, each device always already fully charged. I plug my headphones into the jack, open Safari and type in www.foxsports.com. I push my chair back, recline against it. I open my legs, each bracing against an inside corner of the desk. I cross my arms over my chest and raise my chin in appraisal of whichever live sports media has been selected for me. My day has begun. I am Sports Man. My author brushes past me, computer under arm, grey water bottle in hand, pacing the library. Their eyes fix on my computer screen, seeing, but not seeing the game, registering and judging my lifestyle. My eyes fix on them. I am Sports Man. Nothing in your eyes will keep me from my sports. I recline further. 

The Almond Eater 

I wake up late: noon. I sigh and get ready to start my day. I find the slippers to match my pyjama set. As the pan heats, awaiting the eggs I will cook in it, I prepare my bag for the day. In my bag, there is a textbook and a computer. I make myself tea, which I will carry in a thermos in the front of my small purple bag. And I will bring a snack. From the top of the refrigerator, I take down the much–dreaded glass jar. I also take my only container from the drying rack. It is the container I took to school yesterday and the day before and the day before that. It is a small rounded not-quite-cube with a blue lid. It is taller than it is wide. I use the plastic measuring spoon stored in the jar to fill it with almonds. I bought these almonds from Bulk Barn 6 months ago. I bought one of their reusable jars– a big one, probably a similar volume to my head– and filled it with almonds. It cost $40. I put the small container of almonds in my bag. I cook and eat my eggs, dress solemnly, and having put it off for as long as I can stomach, I leave. At 2 pm I arrive at Robarts. I go to Robarts every day, but only for a short period of time. I don’t like this place; I force myself to do it. Just like I force myself to lug around the almonds. The weight of the small portion I’ve packed for myself seems unbearable. I go upstairs to 9 Sussex and sit alone at a table. I unpack and arrange the contents of my bag around me. I open the container of almonds and place it an arms’ length in front of me. Closer to me, I place my textbook, open to the exercises I’m meant to be doing. I do not want to eat the almonds and I do not want to do the exercises. I shouldn’t’ve bought so many fucking almonds. I do one exercise while I nibble my almonds. I do so noisily, hyper-aware of the feeling of them in my mouth. One at a time. I imagine throwing handfuls of them back, snacking on them like I don’t resent that I have nothing else to snack on. I dismiss the thought and bite into an almond, taking a third of it into my mouth, holding the remainder between my pointer finger and thumb. I type with my other hand. 

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