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With the advent of yet another semester and the remains of a winter break long departed, a tidal influx of cherub-cheeked co-eds return to campus. Clad in mail-ordered Abercrombie sweaters, sporting wallets heaving with Best Buy gift certificates and still digesting the last of Grandma’s fruitcake, such scholars of higher education are once again at their “home away from home.” Trudging inward from the slush of parking lots into dorms and under-heated apartments, we clamor to enlighten our roommates of all our New Year’s Eve exploits, or more likely, the lack thereof. Then, after hours of unpacking (several economy size boxes of Swiss Miss, clothes we “forgot” to wash, the all-important CD collection), comes the dreaded mission of every college student’s campus arrival: buying books.
Although we need these tools to supplement our learning, that does not distract from the fact that obtaining textbooks is a hellish endeavor. Maybe it has something to do with dispensing my hard-earned cash (thanks Mom) into a system that has swallowed up my tuition fees like a fat man eating french fries. Alright, so we need to actually pay for these books, enough said. But is there a law that states that we have to consider selling vital organs in order to afford them? Are these literary geniuses charging by each type-printed word? Maybe it’s not that at all, but rather the process of getting textbooks itself.
It can be assured that the day before you are to stumble outside for your 8 a.m. class, the University Bookstore will have such an invasion of customers that any UMaine outsider will be perplexed as to where the staff is handing out free six-packs of beer with every purchase. Once the appropriate texts are located, and you’ve suffered a mild seizure upon seeing the accompanying prices, you must combat the overwhelming urge to “grab n’ run.” One might even reason that 90 bucks for a child psychology book is a hefty sum considering that it’s written by a population of people who are yet unable to read.
Then it’s time to weave in and out of the masses. (“Sorry, the line doesn’t start here. See that guy in the pink shirt with a dazed look on his face? No, not him. The one picking lint out of his pocket and singing to himself. Yeah, all the way back there.”)
At least with the improved layout of the new Bookstore, there seems to be more registers, therefore making sales quicker and more efficient. There are also a plethora of sales assistants who have adopted the catch phrase “Let’s move you right along,” causing me to relate the ordeal with cattle herding. It’s quite fitting, I suppose.
Waiting for your turn with a barrage of 30-pound paperbacks isn’t like standing in line for the Hellelevator at Universal Studios, where in all proximity of events, you get to leave with one of those two dollar snapshots of yourself screaming your head off. It is quite possible that the Bookstore staff knows you’re going to scream your head off, but I’ve yet to see them encourage photo opportunities.
After surviving the excitement of “Cash or credit?” and adding to the burden of your expenses by buying one of those smoothie things at the Union, you wonder if there’s group counseling offered at Cutler for the trauma you’ve just endured. Maybe a 12-step program for TIA (Textbook-Induced Alcoholism) would be appropriate.
Perhaps the one consolation is that at the end of spring classes our books will be refunded, and we’ll feel reimbursed for such a tumultuous experience. Thirty cents if you’re lucky.
Michelle Reynolds is a sophomore journalism major.
