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Noon in the Pit. 8 p.m. at the Smith Center.
2 a.m. on Franklin Street. Here are
Thursday, February 22
12:20 p.m.
Due to the wintry wlather outside, the Pit at high noon seems deserted - vacated for
warmer venues, including Union Station.
Long lines of people with UNC ONE Cards and cash in hand husde toward the
cashier. Harried students juggle muffins, yogurts and snack food while scanning the room
for a place to sit.
Junior Jeanette Crets has a comfortable location on a couch facing the television, snug
ly positioned near her friends. Crets, a management and society major from Winston-
Salem, is enjoying her one-hour break between classes.
Crets has grabbed a snack and some laughs with friends to unwind from two morn
ing exams. “I’m anti-doing work right now,” Crets said. “I have class in 10 minutes.”
12:32 p.m.
Seven-year-old
Christopher Nelsen has his
eye on some pie.
Leaning on the pizza
counter at Mainstreet Lenoir,
the silent child seems mes
merized by his options,
despite barely being tall
enough to rest his arms on the counter.
Nelsen’s father, Roger, works with the General Alumni Association
and has brought his home-schooled son to work today as a treat for
doing well on a state competency test earlier this week.
“It was a tough call between die wraps and the pizza,” Roger Nelsen
said, amused by his son’s preoccupation with lunch. Christopher is help
ing his dad recycle old files in the office today when he’s not reading.
1:30 p.m.
Since 6 a.m., utility groundskeepers
Reggi Bland and David Stephens have
been prowling campus in their green
John Deere Gator, ready to fight ice
with salt. jj|
They are one of eight
dynamic duos on cam
pus, sent out with Gators
by the Grounds Services
Department because the
usual trucks and plows
were not needed to clear
up this wintry mix.
“It’s not really bad,”
Bland said. “It’s starting
to melt now.”
Stephens added that it
was a preventative measuteyjgitis pips
dieted that the temprijUfie will be”
below freezing tomorrow.
“We’re trying to hit
case,” he said before BlandHHßed up
the Gator and headed for Murphey
Hall.
2:27 p.m. <O. 0
Nearly halfway through class, division of inttgesygg
Oil Woollen Gym is evident.
For the majority of the front rows in the sfiSsocs class,*
students attentively scribble down notes rangingjiijgi
probability to density functions.
But the real action (or lack thereof) is from the fin<dg
row. Two students, nearly oblivious to their fellow
mates, sleep peacefully in the final row, with pens in
hand but brain in shutdown mode.
No one— fellow students or instructor - attempts to
wake the dozing students from their comatose states.
4:04 p.m.
Tidbits of an expanding technol
ogy trickle through the door into
Starbucks.
Another cell phone whisks its
owner out of the wind and rain and
into the coffee shop. “I’ll be there in
just a few minutes,” says the cell
phone’s owner, and she leaves with
the speed of a cable connection.
A metallic laptop sits silendy,
reflecting the overcast skies. “I was
looking at the weather online,”
drifts a voice from across the room.
The door to the caffeine con-
glomerate breezes open again, promising more purchases. A
voice rises above the din, saying,"... gigantic companies.”
Speak of the devil.
“Well, you can reach me on my cell phone.”
Perhaps the devil has one, too.
5:54 p.m.
Travis Robinson andjason Priest have already been sitting out
side Goodfellows on Franklin Street asking passers-by for spare
change for about four hours as darkness starts to set in around
them.
“We’ll be out here until we go back to camp,” Robinson says.
“Camp” is what they call their tent and sleeping bags located in
some bushes off Merritt Mill Road. They anticipate spending
another three hours on Franklin Street before calling it a night.
The two men say cold days are especially rough because not as
many people are outside to donate. “We’re not doing so good
today,” Robinson says.
ie wraps and the pizza,” Roger Nelsen ho gi _ _ , grams.”
pation with lunch. Christopher is help- ife dnv #P hl ')JB[ to a* stujjggtmhygetion, hungri- Food and merchandise call tt
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6:02 p.m
It’s rush hour at the Student Recreation Center - wait almost
every hour is rush hour at the SRC these days. The noise level
is somewhat reminiscent of a marketplace but with more clangs
and a pulsing beat of club music coming from the aerobics class
es. . . :
Upstairs, the Cardio Kickßox class
is in an intense squat interval. The
members - clad in a melange of span
dex, T-shirts, sports bras, yoga pants
and muscle shirts - focus intently on
the combinations, breathing and
sweating heavily in the humid room.
Despite the instructor’s encourage
ment, one woman winces as she feels
the bum and simply stops in the mid
dle of all the bending and squeezing to
fan herself with her hands.
6:54 p.m.
Hobnobbing on the U-bus.
The U-bus, full of chattering students returning home from din
ner or class, becomes more than just a bus ride as strangers strike
up conversations with each other and make plans for the night.
One man asks a woman for her phone number before getting
off at his stop. The two had hit it off during the ride to South
Campus, making conversation about the bar scene in Chapel Hill
and the Canadian drinking age.
As the bus passes the Smith Center, which already has a
pregame crowd gathered before it, students at the back exchange
their UNC basketball experiences of seats in the nosebleed sec-
The baldrivgfcbliviim to al|le stujfspt interaction, hungri-
F|jiund® on dflm to igfnext #op.
JEbHu%
Therer|ii B W-3’s to watch the game. The
its marinated buffalo wings, is filled with a vari
ety of people ranging from students to enthused alumni and families.
The dim lighting reflects off the tall glasses of foaming beer resting
on many tables, making each glass glow various shades of brown. The
bar area at the back, guarded by a huge bouncer who looks like Mr.
TANARUS, is enveloped in cigarette smoke. The laughter of a boisterous group
rises above the chatter.
A student carrying a full tray struggles to avoid being the subject of
all the laughter. He puts on a balancing act as he teeters his way across
the restaurant, carrying a tray of steaming buffalo wings and drinks
in one hand and a glass of pale ale in the other.
7:33 p.m.
Kathleen sits alone in the comer of
Lenoir, scanning a pile of linguistics
books between bites of salad.
“I don’t have linguistic nights,”
Kathleen says. “I have a linguistic life.”
After dinner, she’ll head over to usher
for the play “Marisol.” The reason?
Raising funds for the Linguistics Club.
Afterward? Yep, back to the grind of
studying syntax: She has a paper to write.
Across the way from Kathleen, a
group of juniors are just as dedicated, although not to the same pursuit.
“I’m just trying to score some weed for tonight,” a student identified as “Reginald” says.
“I just want to listen to some music and smoke some pot”
Maybe one day “Reginald” will be listening to Derrick, the white-clad dishwasher and
aspiring rapper whose musical alias is “McEichin.” Derrick uses his time in the steamy
bowels of Lenoir Dining Hall to practice his rhymes, with the aid of “Bug,” a fellow wash
er who lays down the beats.
“We use it to keep spirits high in here,” Derrick says. “Nobody sees us in here, but they
hear us sometimes.”
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8:03 p.m.
The first sounds characteristic of UNC basketball greet the
hoards of people marching down Bowles Drive to the Smith
Center.
“Who needs tickets? Lower level. Right here.”
The call from one solicitor to the oncoming masses breaks
the monotonous diffusion into the arena.
Inside, fans are again assailed with offers. “Get yovA pro
grams.”
Food and merchandise call to the game’s patrons. Only
“The Star-Spangled Banner” brings momentary silence to the
excitable crowd.
Soon, the action of the game rejuvenates the momentary
lapse in energy. The lights dim over the fans, and the crowd
erupts as UNC center Brendan Haywood tips
the ball to a teammate.
,g8:25 p.m.
pPThe faint chatter of students working on a group pro
jectseeps into the hallway on the second floor of Hanes
igHpenter. Ten striding students are gathered around a
single computer laughing.
jLaalden-haired dog with a white stripe down his
rounds the comer into the hallway with
his ears perked, listening for the voices. No owner is in
sighfijMuthe dog slowly walks down the hall and enters
the roomwith the students.
Thjy-bff’s entrance creates no audible reaction from
|he sßpjp. After a minute, not finding the attention he
Ps seeking, the dog leaves and continues wandering
UpbgMrefe
S oJg f p.m.
girl clad in Thursday’s best black pants leans against a
liar, shifting her weight and trying to talk into her cell
'Pjflfe
■'lsliPeople line up at the adjacent ATM for halftime snack cash.
|£assers-by strain to hear the people they’re talking to over the
credit card sign-up girl hawking her wares.
' l "*R , ee Carolina hat, free Carolina hat if you sign up right here,”
feshe cries.
Students in ski jackets carry cups to solicit donations for the
UNC Dance Marathon.
Two older gentlemen relax and chat. One carries binoculars and
embodies everyone’s grandpa.
The MBNA girl raises her voice a notch to be heard over the
pep band’s bass drums, which signal halftime’s end. Her accom
plice twirls the free hat around his fist, hoping to attack one more
sucker.
The smokers suck one last drag from their cigarettes and come, <
inside. Fans stroll to their seats.
9:27 p.m.
The lobby ofTlinton James Residence Hall is full of hungry
students. One after another, delivery men are let in the back
entrance. The students are scrambling to find which of the five
men is holding their dinner.
One brunette has been told to write her PID number on the bill
and sign it She looks confused at the total on the bill. “This isn’t
mine; I ordered from Ham’s,” she says. “Did anyone order from
Hector’s?”
She finds the correct delivery man holding the styrofoam
container with her food inside. Another minute passes, and the
lobby is empty, but the elevators are full of people and the
aroma of pizza and cheesesteak sandwiches.
10:20 p.m.
A Hinton James elevator ferries 13 fans, lucky to be the first in fine for
transport, after the basketball game against Florida State. '
In these pinched claustrophobia-inducing quarters, silence is unfotgrtang.
Someone releases a foggy sneeze into the compacted mass of people, and the
last smiles of collective triumph slip from their faces.
On the downward shift, two freshman girls enter talking and graciously
turn to enlighten a stranger.
“Yesterday we had this meeting about the purpose of life,” one girl says about
a Campus Cmsade meeting the two attended the day before.
“But we could have been studying for a chemistry exam, so we were just
wondering what the purpose of going was,” her friend chimes in.
And the stranger answers, “So what do you think the purpose of life is?”
“I don’t know,” the girl answers, exiting, her hands frozen in a gesture of
uncertainty.
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