Don't worry about it, bro

It was late Friday night as I stood hazily looking at my door handle. 1:49. There was a large metallic bulb covering the handle, directly in the way of the keyhole. I was locked out of my room. Taped to the metallic bulb was a note that read:

Dial 5990 to be allowed back in your room.

At a house show at my friend Wolf’s place, I had not only played music to the delight of other SU students and the probable ire of the Seattle Police Department, but I had also made a botched pass at my ex, and needless to say, consumed a fair amount of cheap beer. At this house, it was my friend Eliza who approached me to tell me that my roommate was “belligerent”. I inferred the rest, but had no idea about how Public Safety might have been involved or would become involved.

I was, at 1:49, and many hours after that, not in any condition to speak seriously with any member of Seattle U’s Public Safety team. Far from it. Talk about the sweatiest, most nervous conversation of my life…
I walked back down the street to my friend Wolf’s house and had to sleep on the couch, my leather jacket bearing uncomfortably down on my back all through the night.

The next morning I eventually made my way back to my room to find the same metallic bulb on the door handle, at which point I finally decided to call Public Safety.

I was surprised—I only had to call them twice, and wait around half an hour for them to come.
When the officers arrived, they introduced themselves and asked me if I knew where my roommate was and/or what had happened the night before. I didn’t really know either.

The shorter one informed me that my roommate had gotten very intoxicated, been asked to go to the hospital, but had run away. Then they had put the lock (or “clamshell” to Public Safety) on the door handle. They took the clamshell off.

What I didn’t understand then was why they would lock my roommate out of his room in the name of safety. Wouldn’t that be kind of unsafe? What if he didn’t have anywhere else to sleep? Would he just sleep in the quad?

“We’re going to have to perform a search on the room.” The short officer said. He seemed to do all the talking. The tall one put on rubber gloves, looking something like a nurse about to assist in an operation, and stood in the doorway.

“Are there any needles, or anything sharp that’s going to poke us that we should know about?” he asked.

“Well, my roommate is diabetic, but I don’t think…”

I asked if they needed to search both sides of the room, or just his.

“We’ll determine that after we search his side,” the short one said, “is there anything you’d like to reveal, that you know about?”

“I don’t know anything about what he might have.” I said.

“What about for you?”

“No.”

The taller one began his slow methodic search of my roommates drawers, the inside of his Trivial Pursuit board game box, and his empty baggage that sat atop his wardrobe. They ended up finding two of his pieces (pipes), and an empty vial that once contained Advil (yet somehow they determined had been used to hold his marijuana). They put the things in a plastic bag.

“We’ll be in contact with your roommate about what we found.”

“Okay.” I said. I scratched behind my ears from where I sat on my bed, thinking about whether I had somehow betrayed my roommate’s trust. I didn’t really do anything.

My phone began to vibrate. It was him…

After Thanksgiving, students returned for the final week of classes before final exams, papers, senior syntheses and practicals began. It’s like running the mile during a track and field meet, bursting down the final 100 meters and with 10 meters to the finish line being told you have to continue to the 110 meter hurdles. Since there are more students than ever living on campus, study space has become tight. The Reading Room in Lemieux Library is always eerily silent and the library hums, buzzes and clicks with the typing of papers, notes and facebook messages. Cramming, studying, worrying and panicking are some of the worst aspects of college. I haven’t heard anyone regail their friends with stories of how the worried all night about the exam. Students should enjoy the lighter side of a pretty good life at a private school like Seattle U.

Recently a man at my church, among dozens of other friends, family and other associates apparently much wiser than I, informed me life doesn’t get any easier after graduation. Either he believes his 40 to 45 hour work week is too stressful or he also participates in a few things I am not privy to. But if he’s right, then I don’t know if I ever want to graduate. Maybe Van Wilder’s life is one students should begin to model theirs after. He did end up with Scarlett Johannsen. I bet he wouldn’t tell me it doesn’t get any easier after graduation. Here’s to finals.