Dustin Dunaway

It’s 11:59 a.m. on a Monday. I’m currently behind a bookshelf on the upper level of the Haas Family Arts Library. For the record, I’m not hiding behind a bookshelf. Just at a set of tables in the back. Interesting how you enter Haas on its upper level, and go below for more. That’s so punk.

It’s quiet. Fairly empty. Though Haas doesn’t typically get much more full than this. There’s a vague whooshing sound from above, like an open breeze. It hasn’t stopped for 20 minutes. I don’t know where it’s coming from.

There are people spread throughout the floor, with ample space between each person. Haas is about getting work done. Discipline. Independence. I spot someone wearing a “sex kills” shirt. No one walks in pairs here.

In front of me there’s someone wearing a jean jacket with the sleeves cut off. Several people are wearing plaid/beige blazer coat things, even though it’s 75 degrees. I have yet to spot a pair of AirPods. Does that mean anything?

The ground is a vibrant orange. We get it, it’s October. Nice one, Haas.

I appreciate the exposed raw cement columns. Very punk. Very calming. Very stone age.

From where I sit (and I think this is the only place?) I can see a bit of the outside world. Harsh, bright outside world. I see a tree on the corner of College Street swaying. I imagine the aforementioned weird breeze sound is responsible.

Person in aforementioned plaid coat just cleared their throat. Quiet down, ma’am.

A man gets up to leave. Nobody looks. They are too busy.

Some man in a Yale Crew tank is typing very loudly. Who let his blonde hunk head in anyway? Haas people don’t have time to exercise. Thinking is the exercise. I don’t need to show off my muscles. Just the sexy, sexy top half of my ankles peeking out of a brand-new pair of Blundstones.

The Crew man went to the bathroom. Finally.

12:38 p.m.: Someone new just walked by, all-black outfit, Book Trader drink in hand. Haas doesn’t normally allow beverages in. Either she hid it under her jacket, or she has an in with the receptionists. What I would give to be in Book Trader, Haas’ endearing little cousin, right now. What I would give for an iced spiced chai with soy milk. Still, Haas requires me to give nothing. Not even a search through my book bag before exiting. I am thankful for you, Haas. And your plentiful charging outlets.

12:51 p.m.: This other person with a shaved head has a neck scarf. Maybe I should get a neck scarf.

As I walk to the bathroom, I notice every single person has a silver Mac. Maybe I should get a silver Mac. And those headphones that cover your whole ear. Screw AirPods. Only narcs have AirPods.

1:45 p.m.: Back from a lunch break. Told my friend I was writing about Haas. She asked what Haas was. I told her it was this small quiet study space by the architecture school. I told her she should go there sometime. Not now though. Really need to be alone. Gotta grind out this article.

I’m getting a lot of work done. Kinda digging the fabric couches.

I am the breeze. My mind is riding the white noise waves. My mind has never been this content …

… Everyone always says they find themselves during college, but I’m still waiting. Is Haas what I’ve been missing?

Caramia Putman | caramia.putman@yale.edu