Nose Bleed
On a Friday night last spring semester, the DJ at Cuddy’s did something rare: he played a good song. I bounced with the other twentysomethings to “Escapism” by RAYE as G and Ts sloshed over clear cups, and the sickly sweet smell of vape smoke smogged the air. I pulled out my phone to record my friend and me screaming the lyrics: “Doctor, doctor, anything, please. Doctor, doctor, have mercy on me.” But I did not like how I looked and deleted the video. Tapping on my friend’s shoulder to take another one, her head flew into my nose when she looked up. Pain like a hot star burst in the center of my face, and I ran to the bathroom when I touched my nose and pulled my hand back to see bright blood glowing under the strobe lights.
Inside the quiet of the bathroom, I leaned against the outside of a stall, alone with my nose bleeding — and not from putting anything up it. Blood kept bursting with my head tilted back, when two nursing majors from Marist College entered and saw my state. They fretted over me and inspected my drunken boo boo with earnestness true to their degrees, before one ran to get me ice. My nose eventually stopped bleeding, and although I sat in my morning theory class with a small purple bruise, their kindness and genuine concern touched me. I am sure they will make great nurses someday when they are not tending to a random girl inside a bar bathroom.
— Lilly Sabella
Tops Red Box
The last time I thought about Redbox had to be 10 years ago.
And then there I was just last Thursday, staring at this massive red structure, reusable grocery bag in hand and mouth agape. It was back; I thought they’d gotten rid of these things years ago. In the days of streaming wars and illegal YouTube reuploads, I had forgotten our ancient practices: walking up to the machine, slotting in your credit card, punching in your film for the night and getting the sleek red-and-white case handed to you, like a secret trade.
This box was nowhere near what it once was — the pinnacle of convenient movie rentals right in your local grocery store. It was grimy, dusty and scuffed in weird places. The latest movie was from 2021, which made sense given that the company had been on the decline for years.
So, I moved on, as the faint glow of the dated machine burned dim. It will likely remain that way until some underpaid employee will come with a dolly cart, ready to take it to its final resting place in the back of a supply closet. — Sara Vala
Perry’s
One night in the dining hall, a friend and I were having dinner, swapping complaints about classes and eating our pizza, when the music being played suddenly got much louder. We both noticed immediately, laughing as we looked at each other, suddenly startled. That is until we realized the music was not coming from the speakers, but from the booth across from us, where a group of guys huddled around each other, as one of them strummed a guitar.
Playing guitar in the middle of the dining hall was certainly a choice, we both agreed, but shrugged it off and went back to our conversation. That was until we looked over again to find not only were they playing the guitar, but in fact, passing it around the table.
We stayed after, simply lost in our conversation. But once the guitar had been passed around four times, we took it as our sign to leave. “Only in Perry’s,” we agreed as we departed for the night.
— Leslie Urena
Bubbles
Per usual I was running late for my 9:30 a.m. class. I had pulled into the Rt. 32 parking lot at 9:29 a.m. and debated whether the 10-minute walk to the third floor of the humanities building was worth it in the cold. After a moment of contemplation, I recalled my failing participation grade, hopped out of the car and set off for campus.
As I hustled to campus, passing slower paced individuals, I was an all-American racewalker. There was nothing in my vision or mind other than the ticking clock and my path to class. I bounded up the stairs on the left side of Bouton Hall.
“Does that man have a bubble machine?” someone asked their friend as I skirted past them.
“Yes, I saw them earlier. They’ve been here blowing bubbles all morning,” their friend replied. I stopped and turned around. In the SUB parking lot, a white, middle-aged man stood in front of a maroon truck with an industrial looking bubble machine held high. It released a stream of bubbles up into the air which dissipated over the lot and gleamed in the morning sun. The man stood there, watching them, as more bubbles poured from his machine. I took it in, then remembered I was running late and hurried off to class.
— Kyle Bredberg
Pink Ladies
On my way to class, I walked on the edge of campus and I saw two ladies dressed in matching pink. One of them is in her 60s or 70s, the other in her 50s. I caught a glimpse of their conversation. The younger woman said, “I don’t remember thinking anything was the last time I did anything.”
That one soundbite stuck with me. I thought, what a wonderful way to think of life. I imagine the older woman recounted the last time she did something thrilling, like the last time she went on a cross-continental cruise. Maybe it was something more banal, like last time she got her nails done. Regardless, I wondered which woman I would be as I got older.
I can’t presume one is happier than the other. But, for myself, I think having a last time of anything would be sad. So, as an ode to them, I’d like to be on my deathbed, thinking that that morning was the 12,784th time I had brushed my teeth. That the breakfast I had was the 10,531st. That there were no last times. That every little action was merely one more in the bank.
— Katie Ondris