17'

“I’ll call you a cab to get to UIC for orientation.”

After what may have been the most productive meeting of the last four years, I slid binders and folders into my tattered backpack, and quietly left the room. The soles of my shoes scraped against the worn cement of the quad as I approached the bookstore.

A wild array of red and blue themed merchandise screamed at me to purchase them, feigning a semblance of school spirit. Indifferently, I passed between glinting metal racks of shirts and hats, saying “no” by descending the cold stairs to the basement.

An even more morose display of products sat collecting dust among their faux wood shelf homes. Overpriced books being bought by underpaid undergraduates. The silence was broken by a lone worker, directing me to a corner where a museumm-esque barrier created a division between no one and nothing.

“Bachelors or Masters?”

“Height?”

“Science or Arts?”

To each of these questions, I felt as though I obtained only the subpar answers. To my surprise, Sociology was in the Arts section. “I am an artist,” I thought, as my card sliced through the reader. The small plastic tablet displayed yet another fine for having chosen higher education.

“$30.99”

-Add sales tax

“$32.00”

-Add convenience fee.

“$33.99”

-Add existence tax.

“$35.00"

Yes, I would like a bag for that. Dare I risk walking out in the open light carrying my cap and gown, for fear that some higher power affiliated with UIC should attempt to keep me in this brutalist architecture prison for longer than four years? Surely not. I’ve served my time, now I must figure out how to apply it.

“I’ll give you my Visa to get your cap and gown.”