6:30 AM. My alarm goes off. I open my eyes, jump out of bed, fold everything military style, and give my bed the quarter test. I rush to take a shower, get dressed, take my vitamins, take my already prepared books off my desk, and head out into the dewy quad. 6:38 AM. Damn, I’m three minutes late. I am running, head down, hoping that Commons is serving French Dipped Waffles, and that my Upper Year history paper goes smoothly. I get to a building that looks like Commons, and try to open the door. The door is locked. I bang on the window; maybe Juan from Ryley will open it for me. I am running around the building trying to open a window, and get some food, when Wendy walks over. “Excuse me young man, can I help you?” “Wendy, Wendy,” I embrace her in a bear hug, “how are your cats, Wendy? How is everything,” and suddenly, out of the blue, Wendy takes a taser from her pocket, and drops me to the ground with 150,000 volts. I wake up at Isham health center, which is now a dormitory for some reason, strapped to a stretcher, my head shaved on the right side with electrodes attached. “Where the hell am I. Dr. Keller, what the hell” I yell, and a nurse comes over. She slaps me across the face, and yells, “kid, you go to Trinity. Andover’s over kid, Andover’s over. You are being pressed with physical assault and attempting to break and enter on campus property. Snap out of it kid.” I start violently heaving, and the electrodes on my head send volts through me. This was my first day at college. I am still recovering from the taser burn on my left inner thigh, and kids call me the, “shaved head loser from Bendover.” Even though I go to Trinity with eight other Andover 2006ers, and the one and only Cat Conlan, I still think that I am at Andover. I still have flashbacks: I tend to walk through Hartford looking for Bertucci’s. “Excuse me sir, do you know where the Andover Shop is? I need to get to Bertucci’s.” I say. The guy gives me this crazy look, starts getting all up in my face, and I push him away. I say, “come on Blaine, don’t be such a jerk. Just give me directions, I’m lost.” The guy says, “my name isn’t Blaine, it’s Daddy. Now bend over and touch your toes. I’m gonna show you where the wild goose goes.” Then Blaine offers to take me for a joyride on the back of his motorcycle, and we end up at his house. Due to a pending lawsuit involving reconstructive surgery and a website entitled “Daddy’s Motorcycle Rides.com,” I cannot comment on the following event of actions. Let’s just say I never reached Bertucci’s, but I still had the Chicken Gratinata. I have the urge to do work all the time. I have read every book required for the entire trimester, and find myself buying books not assigned. When somebody complains about ten pages of reading, a tear flows from my mascara clad eyelid, and I pull off my blonde wig, stand on the table, and start yelling like Gunga. I throw my high heels at the person, and a fight starts. One time I saw Lucretia Witte ’06 walking towards me, with an elderly historian walking behind her. “Lucretia,” I yell, followed by a, “Oh my God John, how are you.” She jumps up and starts kissing me like, whoa, when suddenly I forget my setting, and yell, “Dr. Quattlebaum!” Quattle the infallible is walking directly in front of me, and I start asking him to tell me how Jackson took a bullet, and then dropped the other guy in a duel. Yet, the old man just looks at me blankly, looks at the ground, starts crying, and runs for the bushes. He takes off his shoes and throws them at me. Lucretia takes the shoes and runs away. Then I realize that I am at Trinity. I coax the man out of the bushes. I was walking by this one kid in tight jeans, a black Lacoste shirt, and tight Puma shoes, who was smoking a cigarette and yelling in Spanish on his cell-phone. ANDRECITO! I yell for Andres, but instead of saying, “what up Badman,” the kid pulled a switchblade and stabbed me eight times in the gut. Finally I realized that Andres Bobadilla ’06 wears tight Prada shoes, and that Puma was different. College is going to take some adjusting. To me, beer looks like the delicious apple juice in Commons. Sometimes a low-income housing unit looks like Fuess. Every time I see Barbara Chase and yell her name, I am shot at. I try to have girls to my room, but there are no parietal hours, so I never get any action. Mr. Cardozo is so cold to me when I walk by, and Mr. Cox doesn’t speak English anymore. The last time I saw Steve Blackman ’07 he was shoeless on a street corner, and Eliot Wall ’07 never stops wearing tight pink shirts. The football team is really better than I remember, so I get messed up on the line. The best part about college, though, is that I found out Nathan Hale has no locks on the doors, and all of the girls are so friendly. They never call PAPS when I am walking around outside, but instead yell for me to come in. For some reason, this guy charges me after every night; maybe it’s a hotel. At least the girls are the same age though; luckily some things never change.
