Typical. It’s 8:00 AM on a Monday and the Latin American Studies graduate lounge is deserted. The daily copy of the Los Angeles Times on the coffee table is crisply folded, awaiting its first reader. Most of the cubbies are still stuffed with colorful xeroxed flyers from the weekend. No slobs have messed up the place yet, spilling coffee or absentmindedly forgetting a library book. I probably won’t see another human being until the sun rises into late morning. Latin cultures don’t run on American time, a tyranny of clocks and precision and accountability, so why should Latin Americanists?

My work habits belong in the hard sciences. Those graduate lounges — BioChem, Physics, MatSci, you name it — are already packed with eager beavers and beaverettes, most of them Asian. They’ve left everything behind to study here, made sacrifices worthy of docudrama. Me, I’m just an Iowa farmboy used to waking and working at the buttcrack of dawn. Chores before school before more chores, lather rinse and repeat. I’ve never out-brillianted anybody in my life, but out-working? I know all about that.

I shrug out of my backpack and kick back on the ratty orange couch and fire up my laptop, a Dell blowtorch on my crotch. UCLA is a campus with 100% wi-fi coverage, so I could microwave my package anywhere, but I prefer this graduate lounge. It’s convenient to my triangulation between parking lot #4, Young Research Library, and a directed reading with Professor Francisco “Frankie” Chavez.

My inbox is overflowing — with spam, natch. I swear to god, UCLA’s IT department has no spam filters on our email servers whatsoever. But they manage to ban file-sharing, the fuckers.

I speed-delete until I come to a subject line with “FW:FW:RE:FW:RE:FW…” spilling off the screen. What nobody knows about the craggy and intimidating Professor Emeritus Hercules Gutierrez — he’s a closet frammer. If I had a dollar for every friendly spam he sends my way — jokes, silly pictures, outrageous internet rumors — I’d have all the funding I need. Instead I grit my teeth and compose a brief reply. He’s my dissertation advisor, after all.

I also subscribe to a ton of email newsletters, which doesn’t help the inbox bloat. Most of them are white noise from Latin America, the latest blatherings from this state department of education, that research institute, blah blah blah. Only the newsletters from the Cuban Ministry of Information have any entertainment value. This one is more typical:

Senor Roberts,

El Centro de Recursos de la Fundacion de SIDA Baja California Norte posee una…

Not that fighting AIDS in Baja California Norte — Tijuana, essentially — isn’t super duper important and all, but what can they do for me? Gone with a click of the DELETE key.

Finally I’m down to the red meat. Emails from other grads, professors, and of course my ever-annoying students:

Nick, what is the difference between an A student and a F student? I don’t believe that genius are born in large numbers and there are only 24 hours in a day for both type of students so how can a person score 90% while another just as motivated, score 60%? Another thing that I want to know is does an A student really know the stuff or it is the technique of taking the test? Is a test/exam a real measure of your knowledge? BTW I got a F on the midterm and always want to be an A student but exams make me nervous and I make very stupid mistakes that I don’t make in my papers. Thanks, Danielle

Jesus wept. And deleted.

Here’s a call for strong backs to help Javier load his moving van:

Howdy all! I know you probably received something about helping Javier already, but I wanted to make sure no one was left out or forgot. We need lots of volunteers! The moving van comes at 10 o’clock and…

Goddamn Javier. The flamer has it all — brains, beauty, and an aloof likeability. People will stage surprise parties for him, load his moving van, follow his willowy silhouette off a cliff. That’s the kind of popularity I’ve always wanted, but people don’t respond to me that way. They seem to sense the Nick train only seats one.

And then an email I almost delete, because the subject line is simply titled “hi”:

Hi from Kansas City. Sorry I can’t keep in touch very well. I don’t have enough money to buy another calling card and Saman changed the password on our computer. My computer, as I think of it. He has a laptop for his spreadsheets and porno stuff. Don’t ask me how I know that.

Actually my biggest regret about losing my computer? No more downloading music and sharing songs with you. Now I mostly watch TV with my mother-in-law. We get a bunch of satellite channels from the Persian Gulf. She likes Egyptian soap operas and old Iranian movies from the Shah’s time.

I’m grateful you took me to Canyon Sin Nombre. That dayhike is the coolest thing I’ve ever done in my life, except maybe for going to Tijuana. Anyway, it’s my happy place when I need one, which is a lot lately.

Sorry if this seems disjointed. I’m at a mosque that has a study room with computers, on a table right in the middle of everything. People keep walking behind me. They seem to slow down, then speed up again. I worry they’re looking over my shoulder at my life falling apart.

Saman is the way you described your brother Brian. He’s all tied up in his family. He could get a job anywhere with his degree, but

I don’t want to think about him anymore.

The other day at the flea market, I bought this old Polaroid camera for a dollar. My mother-in-law took it as proof that I’m stupid and wasteful with money. But I felt bad for the woman selling it. Something about the way she looked at me… You ever do that? Consumer philanthropy?

The imam just tapped me on the shoulder. There’s a time limit for using these computers. I didn’t realize I’ve been sitting here so long. I guess I’m kinda spacing out…

Saman hit me the other day. It was poignant in this way I’m not sure I can describe. Like, he feels something really strong for me. The last 5 years don’t seem so wasted anymore.

Write back, okay? I’ll be so depressed if I manage to check my email again and

The imam is back to kick me off. Bye!

I read and reread and re-reread Nooshin’s email. The spousal abuse doesn’t shock me, although it probably should. Instead I fixate on that half-decade of marriage. Counting back from her birthday, that means she married while still a teenager. 19 years old, maybe only 18, depending on how the dates line up. Straight outta high school. I always figured her for a newlywed in a starter marriage, not a veteran wife.