Day in the life of a quarter

In 1732, Samuel Pepys was traveling by boat down the Thames when he spotted the remains of a half-eaten apple bobbing in the river. Inspired by this humbler version of Proust's madeleine, Pepys mused on the apple's origins:

"My mind drift'd towards more luminary thoughts as to wheretofore that apple — Eve's maleficent fruit — originated from... Maybe it launch'd into the deep from the Halls of Westminster, or perhaps even further still, Oxford!"

Wordy, yes, but his point is well taken: that apple had a backstory, the origins of which are impossible to know. This thought crossed my mind Tuesday night as I witnessed a vigorous game of Robo. The players were eager — as only sophomores around this time of year can be — and they played the game with gusto. Socials were friendly, "offs" were respected. I was enthralled, but as the night wore on, Pepys' apple — unlike that cute Pi Phi — kept coming back to me.

Now, it'll take a stronger man than I to knock Robo. It dates back to the Vikings, and it brings out the best in the Pikes. I only bring it up since we're getting to the start of germ season, and, well, do you really know where your Robo quarter has been?

Picture your typical day. It starts off when you go to your breakfast purveyor of choice. Take your pick: Priscilla at the U2, Mimi at Frist or Karim (of the Wa's blessed memory) at Wild Oats. When you buy your blueberry muffin and Snapple, you'll likely get back a dull old quarter.

Muffin and change in hand, you now head to your 11 a.m. class. But since you're early, you stop in Frist to check your email. Now, it is a truth universally acknowledged that the most germ-ridden spot on the Eastern Seaboard is the Frist computers. Half the time you can't type because the keyboards are so greasy, and the other half you debate whether Purell will be sufficient or whether you need a tetanus shot. I have a friend who bought a Blackberry in order to avoid the Frist computers, and I think she's onto something.

Distracted by email, you leave your quarter on the Frist computer counter, and blissfully head to class. Moments later, a greasy freshman comes by to check his email before class and picks up your discarded coin. Distracted on the walk, during which he recognizes — and high-fives — everyone he sees (unaware that by the time of his upperclass years, he will recognize no one on this same walk, and the only thing that will make him feel older will be not knowing anyone at late meal), the freshman doesn't arrive at McCosh 50 until 11:12. At this point the lecture is lost (it's POL 210), and so he heads to Starbucks.

At Starbucks, the freshman drops the quarter in embarrassment when five baristas announce to the world that he ordered a nonfat venti triple latte no caramel extra whip. The quarter falls to the ground, stepped on for hours. In fact, it goes unnoticed until you — cozied up in Starbucks for the afternoon — pick it up on your way to the Street. After all, you'll be playing robo and need to be prepared.

So you play, with your shiny piece of silver that has spent its day in the hands of a U2 employee, on a Frist computer, in the grasp of a grubby freshman and resting on a Starbucks floor. But that's just one day. Thanks to globalization, the world is flat. In fact, it's now like a giant robo table, with plenty of opportunities for global "offs." As any given quarter can get around further and faster than you can possibly imagine, that Beast suddenly doesn't look like the worst stuff on the table. Tyler Allard is a senior history major from Washington, D.C. He can be reached at tallard@princeton.edu.