At about 4:30 a.m. on a recent Saturday morning, the fire alarm went off in my building. It was hardly a surprise, though, for as any seasoned UR veteran knows, the only socially acceptable time to burn a waffle is the middle of the night – or rather the beginning of the morning.
Most of the times that these early morning fire drills occur, I end up sitting on the ledge outside my building and mumbling to myself in my own made up language consisting partially of English, but mostly of clicking noises from the throat, resembling a tribal African dialect. This time was no different, but in light of my scant attire, consisting of a designer FCUK sleeveless t-shirt and a man thong, I decided to wait out this particular fire drill in the basement.
After I took the stairs to the basement, I instinctively walked toward the laundry room – big mistake. An angry mob had assembled in the laundry room – the mob was comprised of people who were enraged that their clothes were taken out of the dryers before they were completely dry. The angry mob was taking clothes out of every dryer and throwing them in a fire they had set in the middle of the room.
At least I had figured out the source of the fire alarm.
Upon taking a single step into the laundry room, some guy grabbed me from behind and threw me against the wall. He violently yelled “are you the reason I have to sleep in damp sheets?” He then proceeded to stuff the damp sheets down my throat while yelling “eat the sheets bitch!” Thinking quickly, I grabbed a spray bottle of stain remover miraculously lying next to me and sprayed my attacker in the eyes. That bought me enough time to spring away from the mob, toward the tunnel connecting Anderson and Wilder Towers.
Making my way through the basement tunnel, I felt like I was walking through a scene of a zombie movie. Multitudes of partially garbed students were strewn out on the floor, incapacitated by their own drunkenness. In their stupor, these ungodly creatures were moaning and drooling all over themselves. Finally, I reached a safety zone – the CIF lab – a computer lab located in the basement of Anderson Tower.
As I entered the CIF lab, I saw something which shocked me to my very core. Every computer was occupied and being used for educational purposes. Need I remind you that this was at 4:30 a.m., early Saturday morning! Thankfully, I noticed a friend – an Asian girl who had been in my CAS class freshman year. The girl greeted me warmly but advised me that there was a 30-45 minute wait to use a computer. I tried to slip her $20, but I guess she misunderstood because she gave me back a 10 and two fives.
Suddenly, a surge of excitement overcame me, for out of the corner of my eye I noticed that someone was playing Tetris – an assured sign of normality in the otherwise outlandish reality which I had found myself inexorably entrenched.
As I approached this person, however, I noticed an assignment sheet next to the computer reading, “Design Your Own Computer Game, due May 2.” My heart sank, and not because this person was in fact doing work, but because he was doing it two months before it was due.
I sank down into a couch and began to contemplate life. I asked myself some difficult Continued from Page 11
questions. What is the purpose of my existence? Does my seemingly monotonous lifestyle entail that I am wasting my time on Earth? Were the voices of Astro from “The Jetsons” and “Scooby Doo” one and the same?
“Yes,” the person sitting across from me answered, “both Astro and Scooby Doo are voiced by Don Messick.”
“And what about my first two questions,” I retorted. But my wise counterpart simply rose with a smile, gave me a wink and walked away.
In the distance, I began to hear a cacophonous amalgamation of enraged human voices, which was getting louder. They assembled outside the CIF lab and began aggressively banging on the door. The studious crowd within the CIF lab was unfazed. They hardly batted an eyelid at the ongoing commotion. The door swung open abruptly, and in seeped the angry mob from the laundry room. They began to loot the CIF lab of everything – staplers, computer paper, chairs, etc. Through it all, the studious crowd continued working, blocking out the frenzied atmosphere surrounding them.
During the commotion, a booming voice called out “I demand to speak to the person in charge of the lab. We want all computer monitors and motherboards turned over to us immediately. If you fail to comply with our demands, we will use force to see that our demands are met.” At the conclusion of these riveting words, the angry mob all pulled out staple guns so as to enforce their presence. Suddenly, my Asian friend turned her chair around and arose to face the leader of the angry mob. She unzipped her jacket, revealing a skin tight outfit entirely in black. As she put on a facemask, it became clear to me that my friend was a ninja. On her command, the studious group all whirled around in their chairs, arose and simultaneously pulled out light sabers. The two groups charged at each other.
I opened my eyes and found myself lying by myself in the middle of the Wilder basement. Two giggling sorority girls ran by me heading toward the laundry room. The elevator opened in front of me and a group of baseball players exited, all dressed in their baseball attire.
I thought to myself, “what time is it?” I heard a voice call out from afar, “it’s 1 p.m.” As I turned my head in the direction of the voice, I noticed that it was the same person who had read my mind in my dream. “Who are you,” I called out to him. He answered only with a smile and wink. Grabbing my cell phone from my pocket, I saw that it was 1:01 p.m., thus confirming the wise man’s statement. But, as I lifted my head, I saw him, no more.
Schwartz can be reached at