I’m known for my work ethic. Before that windy fall day when I walked into the dorm at Hooper University, I had already achieved a great deal. My three year junior college career had yielded twenty-one credits. But I was more than a student. I had managed to hold down a part time dishwashing gig at the Steak n’ Brew the entire time. So as I left home that day, my mom was misting up a bit, hugging me goodbye. The old man nearly crushed my hand as he shook it, saying “Focus, will ya Tommy!” He’s always been sentimental. I took a duffel bag of clothes and my unvarnished ambition and started the three hour drive up Route 32. The mandate was a 3.0 GPA or the checks stop. I planned to ride that gravy train all the way to graduation.
It was an interesting first day at Hooper. I had been assigned to Chatman Hall, which had been built in 1936 with WPA funds. It had held up pretty well, but the fresh paint barely covered the musty smell. My resident advisor, Brad, met me in the hall. He was new to the job and a little too eager. He had on the standard issue late ‘70s preppie suit. His teal Izod shirt had the collar turned up and his chinos were perfectly pressed. I was going to ask if he played intramural football, hoping for a future opportunity to tackle his butt. I chatted him up for about five minutes then asked for the key to my room. He wanted to show me the way. Thoughts of tackling resurfaced, but I just said, “I think I can manage.” I don’t think he realized I was a man of experience, a second semester freshman.
The luxury accommodations of room 110 were not exactly what I was expecting. A few inches less and I probably could have touched both walls with my wingspan. It was Spartan, a pair of desks and beds. I was wondering if the furniture was WPA era. The two closets had three built-in drawers each. I figured the hard tile floor was there to give it that homey feel. I heard my roommate wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow, so I unloaded my bag and went out for a campus stroll.
The university was about a mile outside of Burton, a small city of about 100,000 people. The original school was built around 1900 with a couple of expansions, one during the Depression and the second to accommodate the VA influx after WWII. They had updated several buildings, but overall the campus had a quaint, older feel. It had the ivy but not the reputation or the endowment. My dad and I had made a couple trips when I was younger to catch the local Double A Burton Beacons ballgames, but I hadn’t been there for several years. I was looking forward to meeting the townies and being denigrated as a “college boy”.
I covered the entire campus, with a few stops, in about two hours. I scoped out where my classes would be and made a commitment to myself to attend at least 75% of them. I didn’t have to declare a major until next year so I had an eclectic schedule this semester. Women’s Studies 101, The History of Mexico, Calculus, Introduction to Anthropology, and my mandatory psych course. I was able to get into Drugs and Behavior since I already had Intro to Psych at the JC. But I was wary. Most psych majors I knew were serious whack jobs and they frightened me. Maybe I’d only go to that class half the time.
On my way back to the dorm I ran into Frank, whom I had had a couple classes with back at the JC. I didn’t realize he had transferred up here but this was his second year and he invited me to a party at his place that night. I was really hoping to curl up with my anthro text but what the hell. I needed to meet some folks. Frank and I were quite a bit different but had always gotten along well. He liked to think of himself as being on an evolutionary journey. Beatnik, Hippie, Frank. I thought he should stop smoking joints for breakfast.
I got back to Chatman and my RA was welcoming a few more students. One kid that looked about fifteen had Mom and Dad carrying his stereo and TV into his room. He admonished them to be careful with his equipment. As they left they gave him a wad of cash. Five minutes later he asked me if I could buy him some beer. I declined. He felt I was being unreasonable. I disagreed. He called me shithead. I called him punk ass. Needless to say, we became fast friends.
After that little episode, I went to my room to do some reading and maybe catch a nap. Brad knocked on the door about an hour later and said I had a call on the payphone in the hall. It was my mom. “Hi honey, I just wanted to see how you were doing.” I repressed the impulse to inform her that not a great deal had changed in the intervening eight hours. I told her about my self-guided campus tour and all the nice people in my dorm. She talked for quite a while and I let her. She finally put Dad on the phone. “You in any trouble yet?” came the voice at the other end of the line. I told him he’d have to come up this spring to catch a Beacons game. He agreed and before I could stop him he put Mom back on.
Another monologue ensued for about 10 minutes before my new buddy, whom I had nicknamed PA for short, started hovering by the phone booth. I was surprised Mommy and Daddy hadn’t called the school in advance to get him a phone in his room. However, it gave me an opportunity to end the conversation without being abrupt with my sweet mother. As I exited the booth, I got a bit of a stare from PA, but we didn’t exchange any pleasantries. I went back to my room.
Soon it was time to head out. I took a quick shower and walked across campus to Frank’s. I got to the party about 9pm and it was pretty slow. There were about 20 people hanging out, mostly by the keg of Molson. That’s where I met Joe and Jim, to this day my best friends. Joe was wearing a pair of bright green surgeon’s pants. I figured this guy was trying to announce he was pre-med. I later found out that the pants were all the guy ever wore around the dorm. He got several pair from the hospital he worked in as an orderly. He wanted to save his jeans for class. He told me he had given some thought to med school but the C he got in chem and bio put the kibosh on that. He was mulling over other fields of study.
Jim was wearing a bouffant wig and singing “Rock Lobster” along with the B52s when I first saw him. He was 6’6”, 240 pounds and a lovely dancer. An image like that never fades. I decided to keep my comments on the wig to myself.
He had been recruited by several major basketball programs but chose Hooper to be closer to home. He had a brother with Down Syndrome and wanted be able to help out the family if needed. He was also the brightest of our bunch, a mathematician and heavily involved in the school’s fledgling computer science program.
Around 10:30 this short guy bolts into the room. He looked like an extra from Saturday Night Fever. His hair was brushed back and had so much hairspray it looked plastic. His Hukapoo shirt had the top three buttons undone and his polyester pants were too tight. He shouts out “I’m Johnny Dee and I’m looking for Tom Moore.” My first thought was, “Did I write a bad check?”
I said “I’m Tom.” He walks over and says, “Howdy roomie!” I sensed the semester would be a long one. But Johnny was an OK guy. He did have a penchant for discussing his prowess with women, but at least he wasn’t crude about it. After about half an hour I decided to change the subject.
“Hey Johnny, you play intramural football?”
