LTE: I Am The Tiny Door Into Eagles, And There Is No Escape
I should have been an emergency fire exit in Higgins, or a reflection room door on Newton campus. A sane man would have put me anywhere else.
Instead, I am the Super Tiny Door Into Eagles.
The tastiest licks in all of BC lie behind my hinges: soup with more solidity than the yellowest of Rat mac, menus more consistent than the loudest of Screamin’ Eagles. The noonday feast brings you towards me between classes, and your Eagle ID suggests that a simple swipe will release my treasures. Fool!
They must be earned.
My forces move into position as you walk past Stokes; the girl in front of you texts on her phone and walks kind of slow, but not slow enough for you to pass her without being rude. The idling 1997 Toyota Corolla inches forward and honks its horn as you go over the crosswalk like it’s about to run you over. The Pro-Life booth asks you when a fetus should be considered a human being, gesturing to sliding scale of weeks that only succeeds in pissing you off.
These are not the random occurrences that you believe them to be. No, these are my associates, and they are luring you into my web. You cannot fight against the tide of Bean Boots marching along the floor. I am inevitable.
I am the Super Tiny Door into Eagles.
You bumrush my steps in the vain hope that brute force will break through my gauntlet. I outfox you with a flick of my wrist; two people are talking and block half the stairs. You begin to go around them, but realize that both sides of the railing have people going down them and several people are ready to collide with you.
You see your friend Grace and scream, but your pleas go unanswered; I’ve just dropped a new Lil Uzi Vert album, and her AirPods are bumping it. Fear turns to terror as the blackhole of my propped open maw comes into view. You can’t help but let out a scream when you realize that my tiny little side door thing isn’t even open.
I am become death, destroyer of worlds.
Backpacks and elbows scrape my tiny frame as students dart past one another like animals. You see the weird unused piano on the other side and pray for deliverance. A quick lunge through my chasm is cut short when a tall man does the same, the two you wrestle through my door frame and into freedom. The smell of paninis greets you on the other side, and you naively think that the worst is over, that you’ve survived my onslaught and can now listen to podcasts and stare at a brick wall in peace.
There’s no such thing as a free lunch.
While you are deciding to get a pickle, or desperately looking for an empty seat along the beige walls of my lair, I am in the back of your mind, lurking. The caloric palace beyond my gate has now become your prison, and I extract my tithes from whoever tries to leave.
There is no escape.