It's Thursday, a breezy, sunny day in South Florida that directly contrasts with the previous 100% chance of rain on Wednesday. 11:30 AM is not the busiest time for the Law Cafe, and as a result, my fellow observer and I are the only two customers in the cafe. A bit of a chill hangs in the air as I order my cafe con leche with, unfortunately, a marble loaf, seeing as they are fresh out of Cuban toast. As I sit down, I cannot help but contrast the bustling motion of the outside with the intense quietness of the cafe. Behind me I hear coffee brewing, the intermittent sounds of the AC blowing - and then suddenly - the harsh tap, tap, tap of bright red heels breaks the silence of the cafe, as a female law student breezes in with a blurring blaze of a matching red silk shirt and orders her lunch. I hear the snatches of Spanish spoken between the student and the workers; bits and pieces between the loud, hissing sound of the espresso machine.
Looking out once more into the breezeway, Pink Floyd breaks into my head, Gilmour's voice singing "two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year." With a second glimpse, I see it: the law students swimming around in the breezeway, my viewing them through the glass divider, all suspended in a liquidated haze. I question for a moment who is in the fish bowl, me or them, but my thoughts are once again suspended as a brash young man, dressed in business attire, wearing a powerful red shirt, walks straight up to counter with a resounding order for a Red Bull - no sugar please. With the first sip, I can see the drink running through his body, as he quickly pays his tab and walks out with the same blurring motion that he had entered in.
In sharp contrast, the next customers are miles away from the business student now high on the elixir of Red Bull. An old man walks in, his leathery hands clutching at a plastic bag filled with a can apiece of chick peas and chicken noodle soup. The student behind him, who may not be physically the same age as the older man, portrays the same aura of a large weight upon his shoulder, slowly exhaling and wiping his brow as he enters the Law Cafe. He sits beside us, now equipped with a cup of coffee, staring into the contents as if Carly Simon's clouds were to soon appear. Each spend about 10 minutes in the cafe, clear their table and step out back into the breezeway to continue with the drudgery of their day.
I hear a tap upon the glass and look up from my notes, only to connect eyes with a law student peering into the cafe. As we are the only customers in here, I am a bit startled; looking at my fellow observer with what was probably a comical apprehensive look. The student takes no notice of us, and as he continues on with his peeping Tom exercise, I myself go back to observing those in the breezeway.
In the rectangular space - bordered with the Law Cafe and the Law Library on its east and west side, a parking lot to the north, and the south facing the rest of the University - I see only a few unisex couple sitting together, the rest larger groups of same-sex studiers; book sellers touting they have "Everything You Need to Pass the Bar"; tables filled with predominantly white and Latino students; the banished corner of smokers, blowing their anxiety and frustration out with nicotine; a Navy recruiter wearing a sharp white suit with matching heels saunters by; a large "Summer in Spain" banner hanging above all the intense niches of conversation each student seems immersed in; all culminating in a constant motion reminiscent of a bee hive. Even from inside the Law Cafe, I sense this air that the law students seem to exude, an aura that is impenetrable, austere, neurotic - and those that don't exude such an air, seem lost to the overwhelming motion, the lost souls that must be source for Pink Floyd appearing in my head.
As I wind down my observations, lunch hour has fast approached, and the Law Cafe is now bustling with activity. Surrounding us is a cacophony of Spanish and English; a student dressed to the T contrasts with the athletic wear another exhibits, while the one behind expresses his thoughts with a BE BOLD written, actually quite boldly, on the front of his t-shirt; the workers are now much more hurried, filling orders, making food. Gathering up my material, saving my last notes, two bodybuilders walk in with a cocky gait all their own. Their passionate debate - on the merits of a shake they are drinking - is interrupted by the first business student I had observed. As quickly as he walks in, he walks out, his voice trailing behind him, "You know what I want". The only evidence he had walked in is the dollar left behind in one of the bodybuilder’s hands. Neither seems to mind the interruption, and continue on feverishly with their conversation, finishing their order and walking out. I walk out behind them, one voice louder than the other carrying back to me, "That shit makes me hungry." Yes, well, substituting tangible food for a liquid diet just might make you hungry. I guess no one ever said admittance to a law school was the guarantee of genius.
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