Yes, part 5. Like I said, that year was one of the most formative of my life. A lot happened then; of course, a lot happened every year, but that year has been etched into my mind, like no other.
Needless to say, I was no angel, but I did do a few rather noteworthy romantic things, one of which was upon sighting someone selling roses one evening in a bar we were hangin’ at, declaring that no woman at our table should go home without one. I leapt out of my seat, bought the best looking red rose on the verge of blooming and gallantly presented the flower to Debbie. There were others, of course, not just red. There were white ones, there were yellow. Only red would do, red indicating love. Let the others buy those others, even the ones in full bloom; they’d be wilted come morning, while Deb’s would last the week, long enough until it could be replenished the next weekend. Would it have been cheaper buying them from a florist? Undoubtedly. But there was no florist at hand in the bar at that hour, at such short notice. Not to be outdone, the others followed suit. The girls were dutifully impressed, and we were all rewarded with a kiss for our chivalrous feat, and for our unparalleled manliness and bravery. A precedent had been set, one that lasted out our year. The night progressed. We danced, we drank, we laughed. Mid-evening, “Let’s Go Crazy” roared from the speakers, and Mark Lewis stood up and said that the music was not loud enough (it was; we could barely hear him), so he got up, approached the glassed-in disk jockey’s booth, and making two fists, he pointed his middle fingers to the floor. Then he rotated them, both fingers dialed up to the ceiling. “Turn it up!” he screamed. The jockey laughed, and he did. Bass drummed everywhere, compressing us, deafening us. There was nothing to be done after such a display but invade the dancefloor. Deb forgot her rose on the table as we headed home, and other than to catch her breath as we were pulling out of the parking lot, and to curse that she’d forgotten it, thought nothing more about it. “It’s just a flower,” she said. But the look on her face said otherwise, so I made a point of going out that Saturday to replenish it. Back home, I leaned against her doorframe, the rose at my back. “Got something for you,” I said, bringing it forward. The look that took hold of her face when I presented it to her was worth the effort.
But as I said, I could be an ass, too. Early on, Evan and I played a prank. Actually, Evan did, but I didn’t stop him. I did aid and abet. A Timmins girl in Y-section had brought her bike from home, and was always going on about it. It was a nice bike, better than any I ever had. Evan decided that we ought to hide it, just for a little while. Yes, alcohol was involved. Why’d we do it? I don’t know, the girl was a friend, and we certainly shouldn’t have, but we did. So, when she wasn’t looking, we, meaning he, took it out of her room, and brought it down the stairs to the utility room. I held the doors. She flipped out when she found it missing. A search was conducted. Of course, the bike was not found. Who’d have looked in the utility room at the base of the stairs? She was angry, then desperate, then she began to cry. Evan thought she was acting like a baby, it had been less than an hour, after all, and that her histrionics were childish, at best. But my heart broke for her, so I went and got it. Evan was pissed at me, but I told him to fuck off and grow up. We were assholes to have done it. But I did say I wouldn’t rat on him. Our deans were livid. They asked me who else was involved, but I wouldn’t say. I told them “what does it matter? It was me, just blame me.” I got down on my knees and asked the girl for forgiveness. She slapped me across the head, twice, going on about how her dead brother had given her that bike. If that were the truth, I can understand why she was so pissed. I took the punishment; it was the least I deserved. The female dean stopped her, said that was enough, then told me to get out and go to my room. She’d come by later to have a word with me.
Later, the female dean asked me, “It was Evan, wasn’t it?” knowing how inseparable he and I were. I shrugged. Then she thanked me for returning the bike, and said that, since I returned it quickly, nothing more would be said about it. She also said she thought the victim was a bit of a drama queen and that she ought to grow up. That was when the dean lit a joint and handed it to me.
The girl from Timmins transferred to 4th floor a week later, and didn’t speak to me for months. 4th floor was the all-girl floor, quieter, safer, whereas the rest were co-ed. I don’t think there was any taboo about our being up there (guys, that is), but it was declared all-girl, so we just had to see. Evan and I had “snuck” up there before all this to check it out. It was ALL girls, after all. It was rather adolescent of us, looking back on it. It was definitely quiet up there; in fact, it was like a tomb. We got some funny looks as we stepped from the elevator. I couldn’t stay long, it felt forbidden.
We chased another from our floor. There was a guy in Y-section, actually next door to the Timmins bicycle girl. He kept to himself, so no one knew him. He smelled. He never washed. Long stringy hair collapsed about his shoulders. It wasn’t just that he smelled, his room did too. The odour escaped out into the hall, even with the door closed, and clung to the walls. The bike girl was disgusted, and wanted the deans to do something. The deans asked him to wash, but there was only so much a dean could do. So, we pooled our resources and left toiletries outside his door. He took them in, but owing to the continued odour, he didn’t use them. So, we held a bit of an intervention. We knocked on his door and told him to please wash. He didn’t.
So, one day we jumped him in the hall, and carried him into the Y-section washroom. We held him down and poured dish soap and shampoo all over him, clothing and all. The girls yelled “Don’t you fuckin’ move,” as we boys applied the roughest brush we could find in the hardware store to his head, his hair, his clothes. Others sprayed his room with about 10 cans of aerosol and poured liquid detergent over his clothing and his bedsheets.
I never saw him again. He too moved. It was probably in his right to have us
all charged with assault. Our deans shrugged, and handed us another joint.
