September 29, 2007
The Value of a Closed Window (The Skunk)
Occasionally, there are events you may be involved in, and you might try your hardest to prevent the outcome of another’s decisions, to escape the consequence of another’s actions, yet your attempts to circumvent are futile and you are swept away in the ensuing chaos. Thus was our experience on one very early Thursday. Allow me to set the scene. Becky had fallen ill on Tuesday, with a vile sickness of which the symptoms were primarily connected to vomiting. My own absolute repulsion to “praying to the porcelain goddess” rendered me a poor caretaker, but not immune to becoming ill myself. Although my body refrained from involuntary regurgitation, I had spent much of my Wednesday curled upon our floor, sleeping and listening, somewhat morosely, to a set of Beethoven’s piano sonatas. When finally I was compelled to make the contemptible climb into my unfortunately lofted bed and had dozed into that uneasy sleep of sickness, a noise woke me. The crash of a tossed trash can lid stormed our otherwise peaceful abode, unhappily overturning our hopes of sleep. I look over to Becky, both of us equally confused and alarmed by the night disturbance. Unintelligible voices begin to reach us. Full of aggravation with such clatter at 3:12 AM, Becky gets out of bed to question the inconsiderate strangers. “What are you doing?” she shouts, her voice full of that particular irritation one experiences when disturbed from restful slumber. The unnamed figures, two of which are certainly male, the third carrying a more female visage, do not respond to the interrogation. With a gasp, she turns a horrified face to me; “They’re hurting a little animal!” she says with palpable concern. Filled with new anger and repulsion, Becky turns back to the mischievous students, “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? LEAVE IT ALONE!” A casual voice responded, “There’s a skunk!” We look down upon the familiar scruffy face of a particularly irrepressible peer, who had felt no shame in crying out “Lick it!” when our chemistry professor announced that a battery was dead. “I see the skunk! I leave it alone- its gunna to spray you!” Becky proclaimed through our screen, her anger at their callous nature and irresponsibility becoming increasingly raw. Watching as though the scene was that of the silver screen – involved and yet unable to act- we witness this freshman ruffian again take hold of the trashcan lid and launch it at the pathetic furry bundle on the grass. Never more precise in her oracular abilities, Becky’s prediction is confirmed as the deplorable stench of skunk begins to waft through our open window. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Kristen. Kristen, do you smell that?” Becky looks at me fraught with equal parts concern and anger. “I TOLD YOU THAT WOULD HAPPEN,” she cries furiously, “FUCK OFF!” And with that final obscenity, she slams the window shut. But yet, the fumes that had escaped the night air, into our cramped living space would not let us forget the incident. We would not easily resume sleeping that night, our heads filled with the cruel event and our noses with the perfume of an abused skunk, whose patience had just run out. My last thought, vague and incensed evaporated with the simple sentiment, “I hope he got sprayed good.”
September 19, 2007
The Theromostat Incident
Bland and beige, our fortresses of sleeplessness and faux academia save us from cold nights (although the lack of air conditioning leaves us to be devoured by the heat of fading summer) and poor weather. However, it is the dangers of the building itself that bring us to frustration and hilarious exasperation. Only a weekend ago, my roommate and I were awakened at the lovely hour of 5:30 AM by an outrageous hissing. This was no small squeal of air, nor any quick whisper, but a voiceless screaming. Steeped in sleepy confusion and moderate panic, we locate the general vicinity of the obnoxious clamor just about my desk. Eager to end the hellish vamping of unknown origin, I frantically unplug every appliance that clutters my space, refrigerator, alarm clock, laptop, and CD player. But yet, the hissing persists! We near the wall above my desk, now in increased disarray, to discover the source of the dammed racket, only to find the violently singing harpy of 217 to be our thermostat. Filled with confusion, Becky and I evacuate to the hall way. After knocking upon the door of our RA to no avail, we settle upon calling campus security. Collapsing into the relative comfort of our common room’s faded couch, the number was dialed and the operator, in a somewhat patronizing manner, assured us maintenance personnel would arrive shortly to rescue us from our unique predicament. We sunk into sleepy irritation as we awaited our heroes of thermostat repair and listened, though down the hall, to the angry whizzing noise erupting from under our closed door. Minuets passed. I gaze out at a dawning day, strawberry clouds spreading far and wide, replacing the navy sentinels that line the night sky, and release an exasperated sigh. An hour, irreplaceable and irretrievable, ticks away to the distant, abominable whispering of our scorned thermostat. The retrieval of a pillow and my laptop offer comfort as I fall into exhaustion fueled comatose on our industrially carpeted floor. Finally, a rough voice calls, “maintenance!” as a large man in hazy blue, of presumable Italian decent, knocks upon the door of our vacated room. Excited and hopeful, we rush to open the door and allow our savior of some girth to alleviate the painful squealing. With a smile and an air of knowledge, he removes the livid grey box (dropping bits of drywall across my desk) and peers into the hole in our wall. I wait impatiently, keen to return to my damnably lofted bed and more pleasant dreams. But this was not the plan that fate had in mind. With a shake of his dark head and a deflated smile, he declares a need to get sufficient parts. Slightly disappointed, I watch him turn his back on our sad faces and journey to some unknown location to retrieve these “parts”. Quickly losing sight of a restful night and our hopes of sleep, we again fall into a dazed state about that same faded couch. He returns, and after some tense minuets the impish beast in our wall is silenced, much to our tired delight. With a short assurance that this was the worst case he’d ever seen, our Italian redeemer alighted and left us to quietly attempt recovery. Certainly, residents should be safe from such horrific experiences, but yet we are unprotected from such thermostat menaces.
First Impressions of Dorm Life and the Defects of Furniture
Life in these halls of collegeic residence is eccentric enough to become an entirely new culture. Every day I marvel at the fact that reality TV or National Geographic have not taken advantage of our strange customs and habits. Yes, the number of different species housed under one roof is indeed astounding. From the jocund roommate who hardly cleans, but means well, to the nervous and shy resident who barely crosses threshold into the daylight, we all breathe the same stale dormitory air. Loud creatures inhabit 13 x 16 boxes with the meek, all communally sharing various commodities necessary to modern life. I look to the abandoned chemistry text, being crushed by the dumb leg of my two position chair. Such genius was involved in designing this furniture for dorm life! The careful engineer of these fabulous chairs simply did not account for students such as I, who might in a social moment over estimate the range of said chair’s tilting abilities and land herself square on her back on the multicolored rug of her dorm room floor.
Even the history of communicable diseases shared within these walls is an entire book in itself. Oh, the variety of illness and its victims! While quietly tapping away on my notebook I may observe the rushed (and overscheduled) music/biology double major toting her oboe as the athletic engineering major pleads with his somewhat socially inept roommate to open the locked door so he may retrieve his keys. I hear the loud exclamatory “FUCK!” in response to a failed video game attempt, a particularly trying calculus problem, or perhaps a broken item of décor. The periodic disruption of our feigned attempts at studying is simply a way of life. Then there is the world of whiteboards, where dry erase letters are scrawled in the hand of a generation deprived of fine handwriting by printed type. From the casual “hey lets get lunch” to the irritating and random note left by a resident who believes himself to be quite funny; notes of significance and insignificance litter our lives. The community board hung in our little nook of a common room, presumably placed there for some sort of academic use, is plastered with scores of old card games and the cheesiest pick-up lines we could think of. “You must be the square root of 2, because I feel irrational around you” shares a space with a mock chemistry problem, humorously quipping, “if H2O is inside a fire hydrant, what’s on the outside?” Such is our space of inhabitance, decorated with letters and words, defined by clinical, white walls, and littered with our personal possessions.