SHE DID IT AGAIN
About a month ago Tani wrote me all excited for a new opportunity for me to take advantage of. A quartet of authors, known collectively as "The Memoirists" had set up a contest to help a lucky writer get their memoirs published. Any one could submit a portion of their proposed memoir to the site and then the top five would be selected to submit another sample of their work. Those five would then be narrowed down into one lucky winner. I was actually intrigued by the idea, though I doubted my life at this point was exciting enough to warrent a memoir, so I fell back on my days as a college R.A. and took one of those stories and entered it.
I doubt I'll win, but maybe someone will read it and say "Hey, that was good. What else do you have?" And then I'll show them this and they'll say "Awesome! Oh, and you can click on the ads? Genius!" Maybe I'll tell them about my television idea about time traveling cowboys. Maybe. I don't want to rush things.
Here's the story I put up, hope you enjoy it.
Joe met me at the door. When a resident meets you at the door, it’s always going to be trouble.
“Matt, it’s Dave’s birthday. Can we have a stripper in the lounge?”
Well, that was a new one.
Our lounge, due to overcrowding in the housing system, was currently serving as living quarters for four additional guys. I guessed they wanted to have the stripper there, as it would allow them to jam in the most people without overcrowding. When seeing a stripper, no one wants to be packed in like sardines, especially horny sardines.
“No,” I said.
“Please?” he begged.
“No,” I said.
It wasn’t like I was unsympathetic to their plight. What heterosexual, freshman boy doesn’t want to see a stripper? I remember as a freshman walking four miles in the rain to see one. So I wasn’t going to begrudge them their God-given desire to see a naked woman and, after all, it was Dave’s birthday. But rules were rules. And I was pretty sure the university didn’t want strippers in housing. Even temporary housing. But Joe was not one to give up easily.
“Show me the rule.”
It was so ridiculous of a request I actually laughed out loud at him. Show him the rule? Prove the law? I’m the housefellow, I AM the Law. If I say it’s quiet hours, it’s quiet hours. If I say your guests need to leave, your guests need to leave. If I say Thursdays are Hawaiian day, you better be wearing a grass skirt when I see you. Show him the rule. Ha!
“Okay,” I said. “Come with me.”
During training, every housefellow is given a tome full of housing rules. They list, in detail, why anything fun you want to do is illegal. Here we go, I thought, this will settle things once and for- where is it? I could have sworn it was right here.
“Ummm…hold on,” I muttered, trying to buy time. Drinking, no. Painting, no. Throwing Stars, no. X-rated film screenings, no. But heaven help us all, there was nothing against having a woman come to your room and shake her moneymaker while you slipped singles into her thong.
“I… I guess there’s… well I’m sure it’s implied that… as long as you…Fine.” I sighed with defeat. “You can have a stripper. But the door has to stay closed, and you can’t make a profit. Most importantly, try to keep the whole thing quiet. Got it?”
“HEY DAVE!” yelled Joe, tearing down the hall. “HE SAID WE COULD HAVE ONE!”
“What did I just say!?!” I shouted after him.
Other than free food, nothing rallies boys together faster than the promise of nudity. Less than twenty minutes after I had given my reluctant agreement, 30 guys were crowding in my lounge under the pretense of “watching the hockey playoffs.” They had even made a sign “Hockey Playoffs In Here.” They may as well have written “Suspicious”. I stepped into the hall to find three girls from the fourth floor waiting for me.
”Why are all those guys in the lounge?” they asked.
I decided the best course was to play dumb. “What’s the sign say? Hockey playoffs? They’re probably watching the hockey playoffs.”
“They’re not watching hockey. We asked if we could come in and they said we couldn’t. And what ever it is, they’re charging money for it. We heard it was a stripper.”
“Well this is the first I’ve head of it,” I said, quickly excusing myself to the safety of my room. Then I saw my voice mail light. Now what?
Beep! “Hey Matt, it’s Sarah, is there a stripper on your floor? That’s what my residents are saying.” Well, that wasn’t too bad. Nothing a little fervent denial couldn’t clear up.
Beep! “Hey Matt, it’s Matt. There’s a crowd of people forming outside of your lounge window. Apparently there’s a stripper inside. Sounds like a fun time.” A crowd outside the building? I couldn’t get six guys to come to floor events and the “Hockey Playoffs” were on overflow seating? Maybe I needed a stripper of my own for the next diversity roundtable.
There was a knock on the door and Joe was suddenly back in my room.
“What now?” I asked.
“Stripper's gone.”
I checked my watch. “Already? She was here five minutes.”
“Yeah,” Joe agreed, sitting on my couch. “She wasn’t as hot as we thought she was going to be, and she didn’t appreciate it when we said so. So she grabbed her stuff and left. Well, good night.”
Five minutes. Somehow I knew the meeting I was destined to have the next day with my supervisor about this incident would not be that short. I went to bed planning my defense.
I doubt I'll win, but maybe someone will read it and say "Hey, that was good. What else do you have?" And then I'll show them this and they'll say "Awesome! Oh, and you can click on the ads? Genius!" Maybe I'll tell them about my television idea about time traveling cowboys. Maybe. I don't want to rush things.
Here's the story I put up, hope you enjoy it.
Joe met me at the door. When a resident meets you at the door, it’s always going to be trouble.
“Matt, it’s Dave’s birthday. Can we have a stripper in the lounge?”
Well, that was a new one.
Our lounge, due to overcrowding in the housing system, was currently serving as living quarters for four additional guys. I guessed they wanted to have the stripper there, as it would allow them to jam in the most people without overcrowding. When seeing a stripper, no one wants to be packed in like sardines, especially horny sardines.
“No,” I said.
“Please?” he begged.
“No,” I said.
It wasn’t like I was unsympathetic to their plight. What heterosexual, freshman boy doesn’t want to see a stripper? I remember as a freshman walking four miles in the rain to see one. So I wasn’t going to begrudge them their God-given desire to see a naked woman and, after all, it was Dave’s birthday. But rules were rules. And I was pretty sure the university didn’t want strippers in housing. Even temporary housing. But Joe was not one to give up easily.
“Show me the rule.”
It was so ridiculous of a request I actually laughed out loud at him. Show him the rule? Prove the law? I’m the housefellow, I AM the Law. If I say it’s quiet hours, it’s quiet hours. If I say your guests need to leave, your guests need to leave. If I say Thursdays are Hawaiian day, you better be wearing a grass skirt when I see you. Show him the rule. Ha!
“Okay,” I said. “Come with me.”
During training, every housefellow is given a tome full of housing rules. They list, in detail, why anything fun you want to do is illegal. Here we go, I thought, this will settle things once and for- where is it? I could have sworn it was right here.
“Ummm…hold on,” I muttered, trying to buy time. Drinking, no. Painting, no. Throwing Stars, no. X-rated film screenings, no. But heaven help us all, there was nothing against having a woman come to your room and shake her moneymaker while you slipped singles into her thong.
“I… I guess there’s… well I’m sure it’s implied that… as long as you…Fine.” I sighed with defeat. “You can have a stripper. But the door has to stay closed, and you can’t make a profit. Most importantly, try to keep the whole thing quiet. Got it?”
“HEY DAVE!” yelled Joe, tearing down the hall. “HE SAID WE COULD HAVE ONE!”
“What did I just say!?!” I shouted after him.
Other than free food, nothing rallies boys together faster than the promise of nudity. Less than twenty minutes after I had given my reluctant agreement, 30 guys were crowding in my lounge under the pretense of “watching the hockey playoffs.” They had even made a sign “Hockey Playoffs In Here.” They may as well have written “Suspicious”. I stepped into the hall to find three girls from the fourth floor waiting for me.
”Why are all those guys in the lounge?” they asked.
I decided the best course was to play dumb. “What’s the sign say? Hockey playoffs? They’re probably watching the hockey playoffs.”
“They’re not watching hockey. We asked if we could come in and they said we couldn’t. And what ever it is, they’re charging money for it. We heard it was a stripper.”
“Well this is the first I’ve head of it,” I said, quickly excusing myself to the safety of my room. Then I saw my voice mail light. Now what?
Beep! “Hey Matt, it’s Sarah, is there a stripper on your floor? That’s what my residents are saying.” Well, that wasn’t too bad. Nothing a little fervent denial couldn’t clear up.
Beep! “Hey Matt, it’s Matt. There’s a crowd of people forming outside of your lounge window. Apparently there’s a stripper inside. Sounds like a fun time.” A crowd outside the building? I couldn’t get six guys to come to floor events and the “Hockey Playoffs” were on overflow seating? Maybe I needed a stripper of my own for the next diversity roundtable.
There was a knock on the door and Joe was suddenly back in my room.
“What now?” I asked.
“Stripper's gone.”
I checked my watch. “Already? She was here five minutes.”
“Yeah,” Joe agreed, sitting on my couch. “She wasn’t as hot as we thought she was going to be, and she didn’t appreciate it when we said so. So she grabbed her stuff and left. Well, good night.”
Five minutes. Somehow I knew the meeting I was destined to have the next day with my supervisor about this incident would not be that short. I went to bed planning my defense.
posted by Matt Worzala at
4:50 PM
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