The Vent in Haines 39

There’s a vent in Haines 39. A vent with a rusted, antiquated metal frame that ventilates certain rows and holds a century’s worth of knowledge underneath the auditorium. If you’ve had the misfortune of taking a class in Haines 39, you wouldn’t be unfamiliar to the audible groans of a student dropping their pencil down the vent. It’s even said that in every lecture, at least one student has the misfortune of losing their prized possession in those mysterious vents. 

Below those vents though is an unpredictably steep drop where your dreams lie and disappear into the abyss. It’s nearly impossible to retrieve your pencil once it passes through those narrow vents. Even taking a mere glance at the vents will show that only sediment, alongside abandoned trinkets, lies on those dusty floors. It’s the untouched remains of Haines 39.

Tucked away under Haines Hall were artifacts that were out of reach from any curious hands, and there they lay in their final resting place. In one particular vent lay a hidden treasure: an Apple pencil. The white, slick, magnetic pencil was an outlier amongst the other objects, glimmering like a pearly white in the dark sea. 

“Would you like to help me fish out something inside the vent in Haines?” asked my coworker during my usual shift in Powell Library, and in the spur-of-the-moment, I said yes. What inclined me to respond with quick curiosity wasn’t for the person who asked. Undeniably, his charm swayed me in a particular direction, but the absurdity of the question left me puzzled. 

What does “fishing” entail? Were we to throw a line into the sea of darkness and hope that something will bite our line? What was in those vents that he desperately wanted to get his hands on? Catching on to my puzzled expression, he added, “There’s an Apple Pencil in one of the vents. It’s a bit tricky to grab, but I think we can get it.” As he explained his plan, there was a glint in his eyes that said more about us than the objective he laid out for us. The appeal for a pencil that held so much valor to two broke, curious college students with nothing better to do that the excursion seemed nearly impossible to pass up. 

We agreed to meet on a warm Saturday afternoon when no one would enter Haines 39. We chose this particular Saturday because, despite there being an abundance of people admiring their future home for the next academic year, no one bothered to explore the historic hall. Schools of prospective students came and went like fishes around the hall, but the treasure was buried deep within the floors. After the occasional glance from curious onlookers filtering out the building, we knew our time was set. We entered the lecture hall with a cool confidence, determined to cast a line for our treasure. 

The pencil took no effort to find. Since we searched through all the vents in the days leading up to Saturday, we quickly settled our backpacks on the musty seats and began our mission. “All I have is Teflon tape and a mechanical pencil,” remarked my coworker as he wrapped the only metallic pencil he had in his bag with the tape. Skeptical of his approach, I advised him to tightly wind the pencil, ensuring that the metal end enters first. Through my eyes, there was no point in anticipating a mission like this one if our tools weren’t secure. Grabbing our phones, we projected a ray of light shining in on the pearly pencil waiting for us to claim as rightfully ours. 

There was a peculiarity to this brief time together. To the remaining onlookers that passed through the auditorium, watching us uncover this pencil may have led them to the conclusion that we were driven by some strange ambition. Perhaps they didn’t even notice what exactly we were up to, but there was no shame felt within our bodies to care. We took turns eagerly swinging the cheap contraption we devised, hoping the magnetic fields would pull the pencils together. Each motion felt like a gasp of air, a fluttering heartbeat waiting to burst with each pulse. As if it were a game of Battleship, we teased each other for miscalculating the squares in which we placed the pencil. Our banter created a magnifying force in that room, and an invisible force made us scoot closer together. 

The clicks felt exhilarating. Our eyes sparkled with joy as we inched closer and closer to our treasure. Knees touching, synchronized breaths, the only thing separating us was the metal frame. We each took turns swinging the contraption, conversing about our next moves: “Hold on, you’re not pointing it down!” I would retort, while he responded, “Alright then, you do it” to my snarky comments. I insisted that he do it, since frankly, my hands were too shaky to keep going. I couldn’t keep my hands still despite our proximity. I wonder if he noticed? Did he see my bashful glances through his squinted expressions, or did his brows mask his pure concentration or did he hear my bickering? 

Click. As if we almost missed it, the pencils stuck together. He began slowly easing them up, and the distressed tape swayed with his movement. Focused on bringing the pencils up, he softly gestured to me, saying, “Make sure you’re careful when grabbing the pencils. Grab the Apple pencil first.” I nodded, but I was worried. We spent what felt like half an hour trying to airlift the distressed pencil, and the thought of all that trust being placed upon me scared me. Earlier, I asked if he could do it, but quickly I realized his fingers were too big to even fit through the gaps. It was all up to me now. The pencils were so close. The magnetism, a blind force, could only hold those two pencils for a brief moment. With nerves racking in my mind, I carefully pinched the pencil like an Operation piece, hovering the metal walls. Then, we finally obtained the pencil. 

My anxiety finally calmed when I held the smooth, matte pencil in my hands. It felt heavy, as if I just held a precious gold bar. There’s an inexplicable amount of wealth that goes into such a mundane device, but in that moment, I felt filthy rich. I returned the pencil to him, feeling he’d make more use of selling it than myself, who would need to buy an overpriced iPad. Besides, it was his treasure, and it was the sole thing that brought us together in the first place. However, he insisted that I take it, reminding me that I had more purpose with it since I did want an iPad. His selfless act made me starstruck, unable to understand what had just occurred. Accepting the pencil, I thanked him and took a good look at him. As he knelt, I, for once, was able to look at him, eye to eye. Soft, deep-set eyes that can only take you deeper into the abyss than the pencil ever could. The gentle brush of curls that even when stiff, soften his ausencia. His aura in that moment wasn’t James Bond, Robin Hood, or any archetype in between the two. He was simply himself in that moment, sharing an intimate moment with me. He was a man admiring the object he had longed for for weeks, now resting in my hands. And I, a timid woman, was admiring a man who cherishes the oddest adventures on the carpeted floors of Haines. 

We found something in the vent of Haines 39. Within the sarcophagus that is Haines Hall, dreams settle and students’ personal possessions rest long after they graduate. We often forget about the numerous pencils, pen caps, and hair clips that slip through our hands and become generous donations to the grave, becoming part of the university’s history. But, what we don’t forget is small moments, the time our knees touched in Haines 39 and we shared a loving glance that made us forget what really brought us here in the first place—a pencil and a dream.