Cheba Hut Sandwiches

Diary Entry: October 24, 2024

Today offered a minor diversion. We were visiting the professor in his office to discuss the ongoing empirical project, a study centered on the seemingly vital subject of climate change. As a topic, climate change holds no traction for me; I maintain it is a political hoax. If the human population were truly facing a monumental, existential threat, would consensus not be universal? The persistence of the controversy implies other stakes are on the line. Still, as an exercise in sharpening my command of empirical methods, the project has its merits.

I arrived in the morning and waited outside the professor’s office, swaddled in my warm coat, a hat, and the mask — my standard defense against ambient bacteria. Eventually, the other students arrived, and we were permitted entry. We posed our questions; the professor answered in his usual, minimalistic fashion. I offered little, unwilling to reveal the raw, grating quality the viruses had inflicted on my voice. I just sat, a conspicuous, silent presence.

We soon left, and I took the lead down the corridor. I registered the murmur of fellow students trailing behind me. At one point, I caught a phonetic shape that resembled my name, perhaps a summons. I ignored it. I kept going.

At noon, an unexpected email materialized from another professor, calling me to her office. This summons was jarring, set against the backdrop of my own unanswered emails and queries to that particular professor. I had a developing theory about its purpose, though I lacked complete certainty.

After a brief respite at home, I returned to the university and ascended to the second floor to wait outside her office. Following a couple of minutes, I knocked, only to find the door already ajar, a thin seam of light escaping the frame. A voice from within bade me wait. I heard shuffling — the rustle of papers, or perhaps clothing.

Soon, I was invited inside. She dragged a chair and positioned it directly by the entrance, then indicated another immediately beside it. We sat. I felt her gaze lock onto my face, analytical, probing my eyes.

She began with procedural pleasantries — how I was, how things were progressing. She inquired if I was satisfied with the class project, the one helmed by the professor I had met that morning. I was disoriented, struggling to decipher the true vector of the conversation, but I believe I navigated it adequately.

Adequately, except for one thing. I was unable to maintain a consistently straight-on gaze. This is an unfortunate remnant of my car accident a couple of years ago; since that moment, keeping my head looking straight up is a distinct trial. It sends a sharp resonance through my eyes and head. I could only hope she didn't misconstrue this physical limitation as a furtive attempt to survey other parts of her anatomy.

Finally, the peculiar audience concluded. “Alright, I am glad you are all set up and doing well,” she offered, or some equivalent banality. I left.

On my way home, I procured Cheba Hut sandwiches and a Pepsi, taking them with me for the evening's dose.