Cate Roser

There I was, working diligently on the seventh floor of the stacks. ‘Twas a Wednesday evening. I looked out the window and stared wistfully down at Toad’s Place. “Oh, the shenanigans I could be partaking in right now!,” I thought to myself. 

My daydreaming ended abruptly when I heard a sound. 

On this fateful night, the noise didn’t come from two illicit lovers desperate for privacy. Nor was it the wail of a defeated Directed Studies student. 

For a moment, I believed my ears were playing tricks on me. “It’s just the wind outside,” I told myself. But there was no wind on that day.

Suddenly, my computer shut off. Was this a sign from a higher power that I should stop writing my article for the News? Maybe. But I wouldn’t let it deter me.

I stood up and took a brief walk around the dark, dusty, deserted bookshelves to clear my head. I returned and restarted my computer. I got back to my article, minding my own business. But after only a few minutes, I heard a sound again. This time, I could make out a voice. 

“Andreeeeewwww… it’s me, Toad from Toad’s. Join us!” I saw Toad’s on the awning across the street, smiling smugly up at me –– he looked ready to boogie in his slick three-piece suit, microphone in hand. The inviting night air beckoned to me. Surely, the News could wait. 

“I’m on my way, Toad,” I mumbled. A fellow workaholic shot me a funny look. I didn’t care. This is the voice of Toad’s we’re talking about. If you hear it, you obey. I hustled down the stairs, abandoning my backpack in the stacks, and headed over to Toad’s Place. The night was magical, like no other night at Woads ever has been.

I’ve gone back to the seventh floor of the stacks on other Wednesday nights, telling myself I have to do work. But I secretly hope each time that I will hear that ribbit-y baritone voice calling out to me once again. I never have.