The Res, Part 2

We were all trying to find ourselves that year. Some did better than others. I suppose some didn’t like what they found. Most in Residence were in their first year, a scary prospect at best. I ought to know, as I’d already been through what they were just then experiencing. It was actually rare to find people not in first year in Residence, myself and the floor deans being notable exceptions (and I was an exception to the exception; 2^nd year, but first year in Cambrian). There were a few other 2^nd and 3^rd year about, but they, we, were rare, and we all came to understand why. Residence can be hard on your marks. 

There were parties, never planned, they just evolved. Two people might be sharing a beer and quiet conversation in a room, stereo pushing music out into the hall. Doors were almost never shut, and an open door was generally an open invitation to passers-by. Music playing, another would poke their nose in, and be offered a beer, an invitation to join. Three is always a crowd, so a fourth would invariably resolve. Four people are louder than two, so a few others might look in, just to see who was there, and the music would rise a couple notches. And before you knew it, you were up at 1am on a weeknight.

If only it were just the booze. There were drugs, lots of them. It was the ‘80s, so hash and oil mainly. Some people smoked so much they had smokers’ coughs, yet somehow still declared themselves non-smokers. I ask you, how does one break down weed or fill a joint with hay and oil and inhale smoothly without coughing and still believe themselves a non-smoker? I proposed an experiment. I challenged one such hypocrite, handed him my dart, and declared that if he could inhale cleanly he was a smoker. Mine were particularly strong in those years, Export A, the green pack, anything stronger was unfiltered, and the only people who I knew who bought those only bought them for hash filler. He refused to participate in the experiment. 

Was I cool that year? I think so. Cooler than I’d ever been, anyway. I still had hair, it was thinning but I still had it. I had a noted look: knock-off Wayfarers (all I could afford), my HSM blue leather jacket, jean jacket beneath it, plaid shirts, unbuttoned, untucked, open to t-shirts. Voluminously baggy sweater. 501s. White cross trainers. We all wore white leather cross trainers, then. I smoked like a chimney. And I may have partook of the processed cannabis, then, too. No pills. No ‘shrooms. I watched a guy nicknamed Brain pull the payphone off the wall while on them to bring it to the girl whose parents were calling her. It was some time before we got our payphone back. That said, I had friends, I had a real girlfriend. We had parties, we hit the bars. I liked the Colson. Best of all worlds under one roof: bands and strippers. I remember we, the guys, were supposed to meet the girls downtown. They were shopping, we had no interest; so, we told them to meet us at the Colson. The band sucked, unfortunately, so we settled into the attached strip club. Before long, the girls rush in, Deb first among them. Deb didn’t care that she’d just entered a strip club. Deb didn’t care that all eyes were now on her and the other girls. Deb didn’t give a shit about things like that. Let them gawk. Deb leaped and landed in my lap in the front row. Was the stripper put out? I don’t know. I didn’t care. Why would I care when I had a real woman in my lap, my woman. I only had eyes for Deb. 

Of course, all this may explain why my marks, while somewhat better than they were the year prior, were nothing to brag about. All I can say is that I had more and better personal growth that year than the last. I’d begun to have a better sense of myself. I’d begun to wonder what the hell I was doing in mining. I was hanging out with anyone but. Musicians, singers, audio-visual, the literate and artsy crowd; these were by and large the people I called friends, not the engineering set. I thought the engineering set dull as dirt. They talked about stocks they didn’t have, and couldn’t afford. They talked about torque, and production rates, and they talked about money. I thought them all morons. Well, that might be too strong a description.

One such showed promise, early on. He was local, he liked to party, talked about girls, had a sports car. He invited me to his place to taste his old man’s homemade wine. Problem was, we had classes in a couple hours. I was thinking about seeking out Deb and Evan, but I wasn’t sure if they had class then, and there was no one in our front entry common room spot, so I agreed. Stupid decision. It was pretty strong stuff. I wanted to beg off, but he called me a pussy, so I had a couple more, half of what he had. For whatever stupid reason, I got back in the car with him. He was drunk. He was reckless. I thought I might die, just then. He laid rubber down everywhere, even in the college parking lot. I got out quickly when he finally did stop, and I staggered away. The passenger door not yet closed, he took off again, and continued to peel around the entryway.

I entered the college, pale, somewhat unsteady, all eyes on me, and found my gang in the front common area I mentioned, 2^nd floor, ground floor, just in from the entry. They were arranged as usual in and around our adopted comfy couch, lolling about in the sunlit warmth. They were looking back where I had come from, the tires still plainly heard.

“Fuck me,” I said, as I collapsed into the spot made for me. They asked me what I meant, and I filled them in. Half of them ran off to see the commotion, and saw old whatshisname get arrested.
The Res crowd had our preferred area, always sought out, always seemingly occupied by one of us. I didn’t hang out with the mining crowd much, after that, despite their telling me the guy was an idiot. I had my crowd, so what did I need them for? I was always safe with my crowd, and I was never alone.
I’m not saying I disliked my classmates. They were alright. Some better than others. Ken, the first to tell me to never mind about old whatshisname, had a motorcycle. Grant had a wicked sense of humour.

Another, can’t remember his name, was a noted slut, eager to give advice and clear up some of those mysteries. They were certainly a far cry better than those I’d spent my prior year with. They just weren’t my friends. They were always giving me shit; not in a bad way; it was because I never invited them to Res parties. Because I don’t know when they are, I told them. They looked comically dubious, when I told them that. Res parties are never planned, I said. They just happen. My classmates were insistent, so I threw one. Or tried to. Throwing a party was relatively rare, almost uncalled for. They arrived, I tried to drum up some interest. One did resolve, but it was not an all-out, end-all like the spontaneous ones always were. I suppose it was a success for Grant; he got laid that night; and he locked me out of my room for just that reason. I was forced to crash in Deb’s. Not the worst outcome, but the beds were singles, a hair wider than twins, not particularly comfortable for two. We made due.
Grant finished, the rest of the mining crowd crashed in my room, and my room smelled like beer farts the next day. It was toxic in there.

My female floor dean lent me a couple incense rods to clear the air. There was a fair bit of incense about that year.
Why? See above.