As I am releasing the contents of my breakfast out of my rear end (a six dollar bowl of cereal and banana, because hot breakfast is only served to those enlightened enough to get to the cafeteria before 7 a.m.), I find myself at a loss. I am in one of the many stalls of the Saylor-Ackermann (SA) boys’ room, and some dude is blasting Dave Mathews Band on budget mini speakers, brushing his teeth and loudly singing along. Because his mouth is filled with washed up fluoride, it created quite a cacophony of boorish grunts and missed notes—think rabid dog trying to sing Eddie Vedder. I see the guy in the stall next to me, pants down, tapping his feet to the beat, and for a moment of brevity, I start to believe both parties had planned this to ruin the only moment of my new life that I hold sacred and private: pooping.
If a man or woman’s house is their castle, then their bathroom is certainly the throne room. For the past 10 years, my midday throne room ritual was a bowel movement, a couple cigarettes, and a crack at the Dispatch’s daily Word Jumble. Thousands of dollars in therapy was wasted when all I needed were a smoke, a puzzle, and a nice long crap. But now my ritual is broken, and I am stuck in a bizarre world that has only single ply toilet paper. I listen to the two dudes jam out to the jock rock, put my face in my hands, and remind myself of how great it will be to have that shiny new degree.
This is not atypical of the college experience. Dorm living is adjusting your surroundings, even if the circumstances are less than ideal. So, I washed up, left the bathroom, and sauntered over to the SA coffee shop to get a salad. Contractors were busy bustling away remodeling the student lounge, which I am sure is going to look beautiful once it is finally finished and I am long gone. The din of loud hammers and roaring buzz saws made a bit tough to order, but I straightened up and said that I wanted a salad.
The barista frowned, looked at me with disdain, and snappily replied that all they had was Italian dressing, as if I were some sort of savvy Ranch connoisseur ready to freak out and make a scene. I said that Italian was fine, swiped my student ID, and went to look for plastic ware.
“Oh, and we don’t have any forks,” the barista said curtly, even though I had already paid $5.49 for a box of lukewarm lettuce.
Determined not to be rude (bad-mannered freshmen are probably the reason why this poor woman is so jaded), I smiled, grabbed a few wooden coffee stirrers to use as chopsticks, sat down, and read the Chimes. It is going to be a long year.
