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.
Comments
Posted by: Andrew
Posted on: September 19, 2007 11:09 PM
Nice post. Can I put it into my own blog (with your permission of course)?