Though a Friday afternoon, the noise level was still very much high at the San Jose State Student Union cafeteria.
Dried and smeared brown sauce and an unused paper-enrobed Panda Express chopstick littered the mustard yellow-colored countertop next to me.
Blenders from Jamba Juice whizzed at high speeds, and the radio from the same place blared just to keep employees entertained as they cleaned dirty blenders and refilled empty juice containers in between rushes of thirsty customers.
The music's words were just a blur competing against the bass and melody of the tune and myriad of pandemonium of the yellow and blue, Spartan-pride painted room.
For the most part, the lines of all vendors were empty, but there was a father and a 5-year-old blonde girl with pink leggings in the line for a Peach Pleasure and Orange Dream Machine smoothie.
Water pressure harshly pierced inside plastic VitaMix blenders, scraping leftover blended debris of fruit, ice cream, and sugary juices behind the cash register.
"Oops, sorry" a quiet, high-pitched voice articulated to me after a brush of her backpack tapped my shoulder.
High-timbre beeps in every second intervals in the corner at Subway interrupted my thoughts once again as the alarm warned the sandwich creators the toasting was complete.
More conversations from study groups and hungry textbook-readers flooded into the cafe.
The deep tonality of dragging plastic against the linoleum floor signaled a cafe worker was nearby sweeping spilled food and trash into a black dust pan.
"The Ziploc one... the little tiny one..." murmured a passerby with two others who sauntered away.
Beep... beep... beep...
"I thought it was this one," said a female student pointing at a page replete with black and white images.
"No, because I thought it was..." the sentence paused, unfinished, as her group reviewed the assignment once more.
Words: 301
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