Exams have finally come to a halt and I begin realizing all of the things I have learnt this semester. As I walked down the hallway with 9 textbooks in my backpack and 3 in my arms I began to realize I had not read most of these books. Never the less I was on a mission to reclaim! Around the corner from the library is a man who purchases these items from passers-by and what have you. General riff raff accumulate in one of the oldest buildings of the school to exchange their books of knowledge for a large stack of five and ten dollar bills.
The vast majority of these eager young minds have good intentions for this currency. Some plan to start small enterprises of their own. Others, dream of purchasing a new shirt, the CD of their favorite band, or perhaps donating to a charity. Sadly, the large majority, like myself fail to follow through with these dreams and fall victim to the “plastic” man’s trap. I call him a plastic man because it seems that every time I see him he wears the same clothes, has the same greasy hair, and turns to look at me without moving his neck. The kind of full back turn that immediately makes me curious if he’s a human. He’s pale yet has rose cheeks, he’s overweight and his neck stretches over his collar, his sweaty skin gives him a sort of plastic reflection.
His trap is simple, sell the students the textbooks and then offer to purchase them at the end of the semester. Pay 30% of what they purchased the book for and resell the used books for an up mark. Basically 80% of the money you give out is spent on purchasing next year’s textbooks and new students purchase the used. This provides a fairly steady stream of income for the plastic man, but sometimes he gets greedy. You see its never the teachers decision to update the edition of a book. It’s the plastic man’s boss. A change in edition means the system is shocked. All old textbooks are no longer accepted and students are forced to buy new.
As I wait in line with my stack of pristine textbooks the plastic man looks at me, his brows dripping with greed. “Got some more do ya?” he chuckles. I walk forward and hand him my books, he scans them through his machine saying old edition, old edition, $5, $35 and so on. I take the old editions upstairs to the Student Union office. This is the type of place you never want to be seen, especially as a Business Major. Hippies running around with stamps on their face, hairy hooligans and band geeks fill the surrounding area and my skin beings to itch. The student union is the point of no return. Once you associate with them you can kiss your dignity good bye. The publishers of the school’s newspaper, the medical insurance office, and visual arts room surround the union office. Which makes me realize everything on this floor contribute to the fees I hate paying every semester on top of my tuition.
I scramble down the stairs with my book ticket in hand. Have I become pretentious? – Perhaps, a little.
But the plastic man continues to haunt the hallways long after book buy-back is finished. The twiggy girl will plant a tree in the spring and curse the public for driving a car, paying taxes to the big C, and creating war. I guess what I’m getting at is the world keeps spinning, and sometimes you buy a donut.
