Tales from the Vault

This is the third installment. Like its predecessors, it’s about college, drinking and doing embarrassing things that my parents would never want to hear about, let alone read about on the internet along with hundreds of others. While I do plan to write extensively about the post-college years (aka my hellish experience at Beutsche Dank), this is another Dartmouth story that needs to be told first. This time, I almost got expelled.

The Band Incident
Fall term was nearing its midpoint. I was living on the first floor of the New Hamp dorm with two buddies from the sailing team. As was my wont, I was complaining how Dartmouth girls were, to put it euphemistically, disgusting. I had my theories why: Inside the Office of Undergraduate Admissions was a cabal of ugly women who practiced affirmative action towards their high school ilk; hot girls were inherently dumb and couldn’t get into a good school; freshmen girls were actually attractive but their strict late night diet of breadsticks and ranch, Froyo with Oreo, and a case of Keystone Light quickly transformed them into hideous beasts.

Of course, there were pretty girls at school; we just never met them because our time outside the classroom was divided between the lake and a rank basement that was anathema to self-respecting women. There were even a few freshmen cuties on the team, but we regarded them as family, and – as the saying goes – hooking up with your sister gets old quickly.

The Brah, who was still dating his attractive high school sweetheart, entertained my assertions but he didn’t fuss about the situation because he had standards, and these kept him faithful. Shogun, who had recently come down with a nasty case of mono that rendered him delirious, would intermittently chime in with hard-hitting questions like, “Is the television on right now?” and “Am I asleep on this couch, or not?” (He withdrew from classes a few weeks later, spouting gibberish and complaining of swollen glands.)

My roomies were great companions who would listen to me gripe about my pathetic college sex life: I was a sophomore and thus far my experiences with women consisted of getting molested by an older girl on the team. Her calloused hands were like those of a body builder; the chafing was excruciating and the scabbing made me perennially bitter. As I would find out, my sour attitude and childish bickering were not conducive to good karma.

(Ouch, for me and for you.*)

Above us lived my good friend Liz, a freshman on the team. Whenever I would over-imbibe and not hook-up, which was often, I’d head to her room to chat, laugh, and pass out. Her two roommates, an outspoken evangelical and a deviant nymphomaniac, detested these late-night intrusions. Apparently, my clothes and sneakers reeked of mung (a lethal amalgamation of stale beer, urine, vomit and stale beer) and I had a tendency to urinate in “strange” places, like their dressers and laundry bins. The religious one in particular disliked me; she’d shush me whenever I’d disrupt her precious sleep. Drunk, I’d often respond, “Quiet in the pews!” or “Praise God!”

One night I got spectacularly hammered and passed out in Liz’s bed. Around 5 a.m. I awoke to relieve myself and stumbled to the hallway bathroom, banging into doors and tearing fliers off the message boards. I don’t recall any of this, but I do remember waking up the next morning barricaded by chairs in the corner of Liz’s room. I was soaked, disoriented and in a world of pain. Liz was standing above me and looked alarmed. “Do you even remember what happened last night?” she asked. “No,” I responded, “but I am wet.” (In hindsight, I'm pretty sure her kinky roommate, who was into water sports and other taboo practices, had something to do with it.)

Liz filled me in on the details that my impaired mind had failed to record: After I finished in the bathroom, I made a wrong turn and entered a room that was inhabited by a girl we did not know. Being a gentleman, I removed my sneakers before getting into bed. I assumed the “big spoon” position and went to sleep, breathing gently into the back of the unsuspecting girl’s head. This did not please her. Confused, she asked, “Who are you?” and then, in a more agitated voice, “What the hell!” Finally, she screamed at the top of her lungs. The piercing decibel level signaled it was time to hightail it out of there. Just as I began my ungainly sprint down the hall, Liz, who had come outside looking for me, intercepted my barreling body, swung me into her room and threw me in the corner. She surrounded me with chairs as a sort of temporary incarceration. No less than a few minutes later the whole dorm was crawling with cops – not Safety and Security guards – but real live cops, with guns, night sticks and badges. Thankfully Liz kept me safe from the pigs. I had dodged a bullet.

Or so I thought. After skipping classes and sleeping the morning away, I went to practice on Mascoma. On the way back to campus, the team, including me, was thoroughly entertained by Liz’s hilarious recounting of my boneheaded adventure. Once we returned, however, I learned it wasn’t over. Plastered on the door of every single campus building was a bright neon flier that read:

Last night in the New Hamp dorm, a young white male – aged 18 to 25 – broke into a female’s dorm room and accosted her in bed. There was a struggle and after the victim screamed, the perpetrator quickly left the room. His body type can be described as slightly scrawny and his brown hair as thick and tough. He was dressed in a navy and white baseball t-shirt and khaki shorts. He was also wearing a pair of grey New Balance sneakers, size 8 and a half, which he left in the victim’s room. If you have any information, please contact the Hanover Police.

The team was in tears; I found it less funny. The first thought that popped into my mind: How did the girl get such an accurate visual of me in the dark? The second: I’m getting kicked out of college. I pulled my hat low on my face and hurried to my room, where I planned to spend the rest of the term like a fugitive. I could not risk bumping into the “the victim” (I didn’t even know what she looked like) nor could I risk being identified by a classmate – or professor – as the slightly scrawny perpetrator with tough brown hair. Even worse, I could no longer wear my favorite baseball t-shirt, which I looked really good in.

Fortunately, Liz intervened again. She went to the victim’s room, introduced herself as a neighbor and said she was a friend of the guy who had climbed into her bed. “He sleepwalks,” she said, “and he’s done it before with me. He made a mistake and is ashamed about what happened. I assure you, he’s completely harmless.” Liz then walked into my room and said, “I just saved your butt. Go up there and put an end to this.” For some reason, she looked like she was trying to fight some sort of wry smile.

I trudged upstairs and knocked on the door. “Come in,” a voice answered. I opened the door, and was suddenly greeted by the most grotesque combination of eyes, nose and mouth I had ever seen. Her face resembled that of the alien from the Predator films (though, to be fair, her teeth were slightly worse). And there was so much bloated flesh everywhere, hanging like uncooked dough and connecting face to neck without any discernible jaw line. She also wore these big black glasses with inch-thick lenses, which made her eyes as big as tennis balls and presumably gave her night vision. Wait, I slept in bed with that? Unable to stomach the horrible visage, I surveyed the room. The walls were adorned with all sorts of band paraphernalia: sheet music, pennants, composite pictures, uniforms, etc. Apparently, she was a member of Dartmouth’s zany marching band.

(Contrary to what you first thought, this is actually a picture of the Predator Alien, and not the Band Girl. How can you tell? The teeth aren't that bad, and no glasses.)

“May I help you?” she asked as her blinking, magnified eyes crossed one another, each staring directly at a flaring nostril. I looked down at my (New Balance-less) feet, contorting my body and twiddling my thumbs like a kid who’s forced to confess to his next-door neighbor for hitting the baseball through her window, and apologized for my non-alcohol-induced transgressions. (Yes, I lied and said the sleepwalking was a genetic condition.) Somehow, amazingly, she accepted my plea for forgiveness and promised to call off the investigation. I thanked her profusely and left.

***

I finished up with classes that fall, took the winter off and returned the following spring. I joined a fraternity (guess which one!) and as a pledge spent many a night in Liz’s room. I had learned from the Band Incident that it was a safe haven that would protect me from danger, like the late night hazing I faced. And while I didn't learn my lesson about alcohol abuse and continued to get recklessly drunk, I never again wandered into the Band Girl’s room. In fact, we never saw one another again, which was probably best for both of us.

Whenever I tell that story people ask, “Why name it after an extraneous detail like her band membership?” Honestly, I don’t know – you'd have to ask Shogun. He came up with it when he had mono.

Hat Tip: Liz, for helping me with the details, and saving my sorry ass.

* Thanks, The GB