Winter Songs

Freshman Year Part I

Freshman Year

Leaving home and starting college is a huge step for a teenager. After the exhaustive tests, visits and applications, I decided to go to Syracuse University. Fortunately, they decided to let me.

During the summer I prepared for the move by making the necessary purchases. Lots of warm clothing, a shower kit, and all many of the items the school suggested I have. In the mail came a letter from the school which told me I would be living in Dellplain Hall, room 719. Not only that, but they also told me I would be rooming with Bill Wiegand from Staten Island.

In Dellplain hall, there were three types of rooms. Singles, which were primarily given to upper classman, Split Doubles and Open Doubles. An Open Double was simply a room, large enough for 2 beds, 2 desks and two people. A split double was a similar room, but it had a wall unit consisting of a closet, desk and dresser which separated the roommates. They shared the doorway, but had a lot more privacy. I was told that my room was an open double, typical freshman housing.

I called information and was able to track down a phone number for my roommate and all excitedly, called him. He was called to the phone, and in a voice that worried me, said hello. It worried me because it was completely stoic, there was no excitement over the prospect of talking to me, nor could I discern any personality. However, I pressed on and introduced myself. He was silent. I told him that I was planning to bring a television, stereo and would be renting a refrigerator. I asked if he would bring a fan (it was going to be hot for several weeks) and anything else that would complement my things. He agreed, I think, and we said goodbye. I put a lot of stock in first impressions, and mine led me to believe that he was going to be wearing a hockey mask or carrying a chain saw.

My family packed up my clothing and necessary creature comforts and we drove to Syracuse at the beginning of September, 1980. Although I was a day early, they let me move in. I set up all of my stuff, did some decorating and then we went to a local mall and purchased a small rug, garbage pail, and other useful items to complete the room. My dad suggested we go to Sears, and once there he found the personal refrigerators. Rather than renting a tiny refrigerator, I purchased a larger one.

The next day I spent helping others to move in. I wired stereos and fixed closet doors that had fallen off their tracks. Essentially, since I was already moved in, I was able to socialize. My roommate showed up, he was big and tall, and looked like a cross between Frankenstein and a nerd. He had a low voice which only made him seem slower and dimmer. Among his possessions was a stereo, two cases of 7up and a small rented refrigerator. He also had 5-10 handheld electronic games which were tossed onto his bed, like japanese teddy bears. I tried to be friendly, but he simply didn’t respond. Maybe a grunt or two, but no give and take.

It was great getting to know these people and that night, after a goodbye meal, I said goodbye to my family and officially started my freshman year.

Very quickly, many of us on the hall became friends. You left your door open and people would stroll in and out of each other’s rooms. The dorm was co-ed; the rooms alternated male-female-male-female.

Within a few days, we’d all suffered the anguish of registering for classes. Everyone had a number which indicated when you could go into the gym and fight for the classes you wanted. There was a master schedule and each subject had a couple of tables where you went to sign up. However, to be fair to those with the highest numbers, they would close courses, only to reopen them later. If you’d worked out a schedule that fit in all of the courses you needed, but then one was closed, it had a domino effect on the rest. I ended up on the floor of the gym, desperately searching the catalog for alternates. If I move English from Monday/Wednesday to Tuesday/Thusday then I can take History on Monday, but then I won’t be able to eat lunch, unless I can move Spanish from Monday morning to Friday afternoon….and on and on.

After that ordeal, there was yet another hurdle. You had to go to the bookstore, and get the class texts. The bookstore had tiny aisles, lined with the books that had been ordered. However, you didn’t just get THE book, you had to buy whatever the Professor had assigned. So some classes had 10 or more books to purchase. With arms overloaded with books, you then waited on line for a half hour or more. The cashiers seemed to get some perverted joy watching the total go up on the cash register. For five classes, you were spending over $100 on books, and then you also needed note books and pens and other utensils.

Life started to become a nice routine. You went to class and you studied. That was the biggest part of your day. Since many of us on the hall were friendly, at dinner time people would knock on your door and we’d all go as a group. In 1980, the legal drinking age was 18, we all seemed to take good advantage of that. Within 2 blocks of the school was a small town with everything from Pizza to Posters, Books to Booze. Not only that, but the food places would deliver to the dorms. So on weekends, we partied. Sometimes we’d go and see campus sponsored movies, other times we’d all gather in a room and drink and listen to music and behave like the teenagers we were.

This, so far, sounds like a typical college experience, and it was. However, there was one little thing that rained on my parade. I was in my room reading one afternoon. Frankenstein was over on his bed. I became aware of the sound of springs squeaking. I turned to see what he was doing, and saw him, lying there face down, and he would lift himself up from the bed, and then drop down onto the mattress. He repeated it over and over, and his pace sped up. I turned away, unsure of what he was doing. Eventually I left the room and went to chat with our neighbors.

A few days later he was at it again, now feverishly bouncing up and down onto the bed. It suddenly occurred to me what he was doing. I couldn’t believe it, so I went down a few doors to a friend’s room and asked him to come and see. He was quite sure of what was going on, and told me so. There was my roommate, masturbating on the mattress, with the door wide open. Over the next few weeks everyone on the hall got to see this behavior. The girls were completely revolted, the guys would give me one of those punches on the shoulder to say, ‘I’m glad it’s your roommie, and not mine’

When he wasn’t attending to himself, he would just appear at the edge of conversations. He never spoke, but was obviously listening to what was being said. For days afterward he would repeat the lines that made people laugh. I don’t mean jokes, I mean something said in the course of a conversation. For example. There was a guy on the hall whose name was Benny Valle. When he was first asked his name, and said that, someone remarked, “not your address, what’s your name?” 25 years later, it’s not funny, nor was it funny 3 days later. However, my roommate would be standing waiting for the elevator, or sitting at his desk and would mumble, “not your address, what’s your name?” Over and over he repeated this line, as if it held some magical power. It got so odd that we would simply go to someone’s room and close the door.

As I mentioned, I often went next door for solace. We became good friends and sometimes, when the rest of the floor was boozing and listening to loud music on a Saturday night, we would light candles, turn off the lights and slowly sip wine while listening to mellow music. It’s not to say that we didn’t get plastered, but it was a sophisticated drunk; no throwing up. However, my roommate soon discovered where I was hiding and would knock, no not knock, thud on the door. At first, being kind people, one of the girls would answer the door. “Mind if I join you?” he asked. How could you say no, we weren’t sure if he was a serial killer, a relative of Frankenstein’s monster or just a simpleton. In any case, he’d come in, and we would continue the discussion. He stood there, watching and listening. It was very odd. Eventually he would leave and we’d laugh. After a month or more of this “Mind if I join you” routine, I’d had enough. I was there to escape him, not to have him come and stare. So the next time he asked, I said yes, we mind, and closed the door. Eventually he got the idea, and stopped coming by.

If that was Saturday night, Sunday morning showed the results. I was always an early riser and on my way to the shower in the morning I would have to step over 4-5 bodies, and through the sticky residue on the floor from beer that had been spilled, and then dried. The bathroom was even worse as guys who had tried to make it to the bowl, had missed. There they slept, arms around the toilet. It was disgusting, but became typical for Sunday mornings. Between the access to bottles of vodka, scotch and whatever, down at the liquor store, and the seemingly endless supply of beer at frat parties, getting drunk was easy. Recovering from it, was not.

Posted by bbrother at May 12, 2005 06:37 AM