The Medicine Man

I love that first week of uni. That young, excited energy buzzing around the dorms. I’m ready for them with a full selection of goodies. Although the students refer to me as a vending machine,  I consider myself a healer of sorts. I would go as far as saying, I’m a medicine man.

I’ve been of service to those with broken hearts, failed grades, grief of all sorts, betrayal, homesickness, and loneliness. You name it.

So far, I’ve been here in the study lounge for two semesters. I’m breathing a sigh of relief while the little angels are home for the Christmas holidays. Let me fill you in, since I have arrived:

My first week in the front lines was hell week, but the students called it, freshman orientation. I’ve never seen so many inebriated kids in my life. Yep, I was stuck with a bunch of freshmen who were playing house. Mummy and daddy were nowhere in sight, so all hell broke loose.

The first week these little post pubescents, lose their sense of social boundaries. They quaff huge amounts of alcohol, falling in the arms of whomever, and pass out in front of me. Or they vomit, splattering a cocktail of bile and chunks of food over my glass panes. The stench! No more sushi please!

The wild ones seem to settle down a bit, once they get their books and assignments. Their routines kick in and I can at least feel less on guard. Or so I thought. I admit that there are groups of students I stereotype.

The first group I would label the depressives who are in a low mood from the aftereffects of partying. They mumble, ‘I’m so hungover’ and they lean against me, breathing heavily against my glass pane, smelling like the night before. They buy their cold expressos with the high carbo snacks, to soothe the tummy and head. They mean well, studying for a few hours after dinner, but Thursday becomes the start of the weekend. All good intentions get blown away, once again.

The next group are the ‘active lovers’.  Some nights the lovers want to ‘do it’ in front of me after they have been at the pub all night. They smooch, leaning against me in every which way. The worst is when I get slammed with a bare ass. Why me? I don’t mind the girls, but the men usually have hairy butts. All that weight slamming against me, makes my M& Ms rattle!

The other lovers are the ‘sober book worms’. They hold hands, gazing at my insides. The girls tend to space out and can’t seem to decide, but I know that they are chocolate addicts when the guys aren’t around. Women get giggly in front of these guys. I do not have a clue why. Most of these blokes have acne and randomly shaved parts of their heads. Yet, the girls drool over them.

Then comes the ladies with the ‘brokenhearts’. Don’t get me wrong, men get their hearts broken, too. Yet, the blokes are the rational ones who cope with loss, going  to the pubs, watch rugby, then replace a woman fast. Women, on the other hand, are more likely to  stop eating or self medicate on junk food to ameliorate the sadness. They get a chocolate bar or bags of crisps and sob at those tables over there, drinking diet coke, repeating the same story over and over to a patient friend. The friend initially looks empathic, gazing at times towards me as a means to escape, but after the fifth or so time of listening to that story, it becomes as stale as some of my cheese and crackers in the back of me.

I must say women are the most complex. For instance, there is another group of women are the hard core ‘self medicators’. It really breaks my heart to see the women with a compulsive need to buy heaps of my goodies and scurry back to their rooms. I won’t see them again till the next day when their eyes are blood shot and cheeks are puffy as a popovers. They walk by me with angry bulging eyes whispering to me, ‘I’m never going to buy anything from you again!’ I can literally hear their screaming, racing thoughts and (almost) feel their pain. I can feel my metal bars bending. I once wondered how they gulp down all those calories like a starving dog and do not gain weight like the rugby men and swim gals until one day…

This is when I found out the truth about those ladies whose faces looked as bloated as a puffer fish. I had to go out for my glass repair one weekend and the tampon machine joined me. She described these girls in detail and told me that they purge all the food  up. Flush flush flush….One lady shouted to her friend in the toilet blocks, ‘ I’ll never squeeze into this ball gown by Friday!’  Oh gosh, I’m so glad I’m in the study hall. It’s too sad. The ambience of such quiet desperation is too painful to contemplate.’

On the lighter side, I love the cannabis smokers. This is where I make my money. They usually walk past me when they haven’t smoked. However, I can always smell them a mile away. It’s that smokey grassy smell in the air unlike cigarettes, clings to my glass like pollen. One late Friday afternoon two ladies were in fits of laughter trying to put coins into the machine when we had switched to plastic cards ages ago. They were so focused on the kiwi bird on the one-dollar coin. I didn’t see the humour, but I’m not smoking. As they continue to roar with laughter, the other one pulls out a paper note. A real belly laugh, pointing to the Queen’s hairstyle on the note. Now that’s the weed talking there. One of the girls almost pissed her undies or so her body language hinted towards that when she squeezed her crotch. Her mascara and lippy were so smudged in every direction – a mix of black ink and red lipstick like a Pollac painting.

Yet, some of the recreational pot heads usually have a compulsive need to slam me in the sides when someone says something silly. I would say this is where you can tell between the recreational smokers and the medicinal ones.  I can’t complain…like I said, I make quite a bit of money when they get the munchies.

    But, give me pot heads any day! You don’t want a customer coming off of ‘P’. One guy on P wanted a Snickers bar in the wee hours of the morning. The chocolate bar became stuck between my plastic bars. He went ballistic. He wouldn’t listen when I tried to advise him to jiggle my sides gently to release the chocolate to the dispensary area. He wasn’t in the right mind. He eventually cracked my front and got his bar. Blood everywhere.

Exam time is my favourite. Most of the students are sober and I don’t get abused. I make good money on their boredom and frustration. However, we get a few who say they study better with a few tokes from the pipe. This is good, buying a few bags of chips or nuts. Yet, this is the quiet time, quaffing the energy drinks to stay awake and being focused.

To be honest, these students are still navigating their way through adulthood as creatures of habit. I can now guess which candy bar, savoury snack, or drink each student will buy at that point of morning, day or night during term time. This is my relationship with them –attachment to food and drink. They need me. I like that.

Now it’s quiet which is ‘me time’  except for the odd visits from the cleaners to keep me busy some days. Boy, I’m counting the days till the boys and girls arrive back all excited for a new beginning. The tears would have dried up, the love handles melted, and memories of holiday flings or unrequited love, is a blurry memory. I’m just waiting for them to itch for a munch. Me? I’ll feel wanted again. After all, I’m the medicine man J