Rachel Folmar
9 a.m.: My day begins as I am rudely torn from my home — a shower hook perilously attached to the door — and violently loaded with assorted heavy objects. Do you really need a one-liter Hydro Flask for your 9:30 class? Guess we’ll find out.
9:35 a.m.: I flap with reckless abandon in the wind as my owner bravely speed-walks against gale-force gusts to LC. Once indoors, I am abruptly thunked onto the unpolished wooden floor. Due to this poor treatment, I suspect I am not the first — and may not be the last — New Yorker tote this person has owned. Sigh.
10:15 a.m.: Suddenly, I am being violently rummaged through as the professor drones on about the Odyssey. Several books are produced from inside of me, along with a binder labeled “Directed Studies” in calligraphy. Raising their hand, my owner clears their throat with an air that I can only describe as snooty. If I had eyes, I would be rolling them.
12:30 p.m.: I am being proudly paraded through Cross Campus. My owner appears to know half of Yale College based on the number of people to whom they’ve just offered the platitude “We should grab a meal!” Contrary to these empty offerings, we proceed to journey through the cavernous hall of Commons; cold rotisserie chicken is promptly boxed and thrown inside me for precarious storage. Yum. We venture back to our room.
1 p.m.: My owner appears to be preoccupied reading a review of the latest A24 film when I first feel the leak. Just as I suspected: that wretched Hydroflask has indeed betrayed me. I wonder how long it will take before my owner realizes their precious manuscripts are beginning to drown in here.
1:20 p.m.: An answer has been obtained. Their eyes latch onto the small puddle seeping from my underside and they go into a frenzy of swearing. I am now being turned upside down and vigorously shaken. They seem to care an awful lot more about the stupid early works of Kant than about my precious fabric. God, I hate my job.
2 p.m.: I am back on the streets and a menace to all of Hillhouse Avenue as my owner jostles through small clumps of Yalies to make it to our next class. The ice cubes in the refilled Hydro Flask clank miserably, chiming a tune of warning to those in our path.
3:30 p.m.: I have been freed from the confines of the lecture hall and rejoice in the strangely frigid late March air. But not for too long, because we appear to be headed back inside. I observe the red-walled interior of this noisy establishment and think to myself that this may be what the kids call an “indie” coffee shop. I feel at home here, slumped against my owner’s feet. Suddenly, I am picked up and placed on a seat of my own. Bewildered, I consider what has prompted this kind of treatment after a day of being abandoned on grimy floors, wantonly trampled by the feet of college students. As someone sits down across from us and engages in a conversation about modern literature with my owner, I realize my role here: I am a trophy bag. I sit proudly, bearing my New Yorker logo for the literate world to see, a universal symbol of mild pretension.
5:30 p.m.: We are out and about once again, and my owner walks us into a pseudo-gothic building jarringly adjoined to a giant slab of concrete. We sit down at a computer desk, and various semantic commands are barked at my owner. I wonder who our boss is. Various newspapers on the wall bear the markings “Yale Daily News”. I shudder — metaphorically.
6:30 p.m.: At long last, it is time for dinner. My owner has made the bold choice of braving the Berkeley dining hall. As I brush against a series of vaguely sweaty athletes in line, I am less than thrilled. At least this time, the pizza my owner sloppily slides onto a plate is not boxed and put inside me. Silver linings.
8 p.m.: Finally, the day draws to a close as we return to our dorm room. After my owner kicks off their dirty white sneakers, I am hung back upon my hook, still filled with books and other debris. I pray that my flimsy beige straps live to see another day.