CHAPTER FIFTY: The Dismal Dorm

My weekend course and fellow students were great, but my dorm experience left a lot to be desired.  There was definitely material here worthy of a journal entry. I began writing notes as events unfolded and read them out to the group as we gathered for a summing-up session on the last day:

Arrived at the dorm Friday evening in trepidation at the prospect of meeting roommates: Dezzie (a little older than me) and Sherry (some years younger).  In order to check in, security guard requests we sign forms. On perusing said forms, we discover that the college is not responsible for injuries sustained through negligence of college staff.  Show this clause to security guard. He's never read the form but agrees we shouldn’t sign.

First of all, none of the doors are labeled. We try keys in each door we come to.  Finally find one that fits. Dorm encompasses a ‘sitting area’ surrounded by five bedrooms inhabited by plastic-clad bunks, several species of bugs and creepy crawlies, and a central bathroom-cum-shower.

Toilet is blocked.

Roommates leave to find coffee.  I remain to tackle Security about the toilet.  The office is empty, except for young girl in orange tee-shirt who gives me a form to fill out for maintenance.  

No good. Need toilet fixed tonight!

Like getting blood out of a stone:-

“Where’s the security guard?” 

“Making his rounds.”

“Can you call him?”

“He doesn’t have a phone.”

“Does he have a radio?”

“Yup.”

“Where is it?”

“There.” (Indicates radio on desk)

“Can I call him on the radio?”

“No.”

“Can you call him on the radio?”

“Yup.”

Girl calls Security on said radio. Reports blocked toilet.  Security heard to say, “We don’t unblock toilets. Tell them to buy a plunger.”

Visions of making trip to unfamiliar nearby town to purchase plunger at late-night hardware store or supermarket, the whereabouts of which are unknown, float through my head. We paid eighteen dollars for this!

“Just get him down here,” I order imperiously.

“Can’t,” says the girl. “If he doesn’t want to come down, I can’t make him.”

I persist. 

Finally Security says he’ll open up the third floor so we can use a bathroom there.

Return to the dorm.  Suddenly spy plunger in shower room beneath sink.  Ah hah!  Try plunger. Toilet works. Hooray!

Sit down in 'sitting room' to await return of coffee-searching roommates. Have ample time to survey the scene.

It’s not pretty: couch and chairs covered in suspicious stains. The carpet is gross. Afraid to remove my shoes, lest something should crawl across my feet. Oh, for a bright, clean motel room! 

Where are those dratted roommates?  It’s lonely by myself.

Suddenly, all hell breaks loose. Seeming hordes of elephants are thundering up the stairs. Floorboards protest overhead. For a women’s dorm, those sound very much like male voices.

Security guard arrives, no doubt bracing himself for female histrionics. Moustache twitching, he listens to my explanation that the toilet is now unblocked, thanks to the plunger.  Asks me if I’m from England. 

Sit down to wait some more and write it all down. 

Sherry and Dezzie arrive with welcome coffee.

One o’clock a.m., getting ready for bed.  Dezzie’s looking through a photo album in her room. Suddenly there’s a security guard in the 'sitting room,' striding through our palatial suite.

Dezzie, being scantily clad in preparation for shower and bed, asks him what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

“Security,” he announces.  “I come through every night.”

Recovering from being momentarily stunned, Dezzie mentions the bugs.

“Yup, there’s critters,” comes the cheerful refrain.

I exit the bathroom to find a tall, gangly security guard, complete with hick accent and too-long trousers drooping over his shoes, lounging in the hallway. Hands on on hips, he's informing Dezzie of his custom to walk through the dorm every couple of hours.

Aghast at this, we gaze back, mouths agape.  Is this guy for real?

Jokingly, I remark, “Well, don’t jingle your keys too loudly when you walk through in the middle of the night, will you?”

To which he replies, “No, but they can’t help making some noise." Holds up a large bunch of keys for our inspection.

" 'Cause, if we hadn’t known you’d be coming through, we’d be pretty scared,” I continue. “I’d have to come out here with my karate chop.”

“That wouldn’t scare me,” the hick guard laughs, preparing to leave. “I’ll be back around three o’clock … two more times tonight.”  He departs, leaving us still wondering whether he’s serious about the nightly walk-throughs.

Dezzie checks with the noisy upstairs neighbors, who confirm this fact. 

“He’s one weird security guard,” a student pipes up. “Lock your bedroom doors.”

Great.  We have to lock ourselves in to protect ourselves from roaming security guards.  What next?

Six, a.m..  A blaring siren awakes us from our fitful slumber.

BAAP!  BAAP!  BAAP!

What’s going on? 

Dopey-eyed we emerge from our respective bedrooms into the 'sitting room' to have eyeballs assailed by searing flashes from a fire alarm. 

Hastily get dressed. 

Go downstairs to gather with other students in the frigid outdoor air.

False alarm.

Return to bed. 

BAAP!  BAAP!  BAAP!

Not again!

It stops.

Silence.

Then, BAAP!  BAAP! BAAP!

Someone comes to inform us there’s an issue in “B Block." They’re trying to fix the problem. 

We sit, hands over ears, waiting it out and popping headache pills.  Dezzie’s pain is over her left eye.  Mine’s over the right.

Three minutes later, blessed silence descends once more.

No point going back to bed. It’s almost time to get up. 

Oh, God!  Wish we’d stayed in a motel!

                                                             * * * * * * * *

I drove home in the middle of a torrential wind and rain storm. It was raining so hard that all the traffic on the two-lane country road was forced to pull off to the side to wait it out. Sheets of water cascaded down the windshield as powerful gusts of wind buffeted my little Geo Metro from side to side. 

When the storm moved on, I continued home, trying to decide whether I felt refreshed or exhausted after my dorm experience. As I pulled into the driveway, Mummy came running out, practically sobbing and wringing her apron. She engulfed me in a big hug and didn’t seem to want to let go. 

“I thought you were dead,” she gulped.

“What?”

“We were watching TV, and a message flashed across the bottom of the screen saying a tornado had just passed through Bellingham, just about the time you left. Oh, I’m so glad you’re safe!”  She engulfed me in another mammoth hug and rained kisses on my cheeks.

“So that’s why it was raining and blowing so hard,” I said. “We had to pull off to the side of the road. An actual tornado, though?  Cool!”

“Not cool at all,” Mummy retorted, indignantly.  “I was very worried.  Come in and have dinner.”

Over dinner, I asked Wim about the status of the ceiling situation in Schemmerhorn.        

“ ’S’okay,” he drawled.  My friend Tim came and helped me.  He’s an expert in ceiling installation, so, between the two of us, it only took an hour or so. Ya, Giselle was hovering around, taking photos and grumbling, going on about how we’re gonna be in trouble for not getting a #permit, blah, blah, blah. We just ignored her. There was a basketball lying on the floor. I reckon Giselle’s son was bouncing it against the ceiling over and over and that's what made it fall down.

The next day, as Wim and Tim were finishing up the job, Giselle was still pondering painting the walls, which she hadn’t yet gotten around to doing.

"Trouble is, they get dirty so quick from the kids puttin' their hands on 'em all the time," she moaned.

Wim suggested she paint them white and let the kids fingerpaint them. Giselle thought that was a great idea and actually cracked a smile.

On Monday, I received the promised notice from the #building #inspector advising me I needed a permit in order to install the ceiling.

With his usual "Agh!" Wim picked up the phone and called his building inspector buddy, Ron. When he told him that he and a ceiling installation expert had already put up the ceiling, Ron said that was fine and confirmed that a permit was not required for renovating walls. "Whoever inspected the fallen-down ceiling shouldn’t have talked like he did with your tenant.” he added. Then he waived the need for the ceiling permit and agreed it was doubtful that the fallen ceiling had had anything to do with the walls because they'd been "solid as a rock" last time he checked. 

During my lunch hour a few weeks later, I delivered a brand new, huge recycling bin to 51 Manson Street. As Marvin handed me that month's rent, he told me they’d be using the recycling bin for papers and would need two more bins for plastic and glass. I sighed and promised to deliver them soon.

Meanwhile, #Social #Services had suddenly decided to increase Giselle's #rental assistance by $200.00. Giselle told me to keep the extra money to help pay off her debt to me, which was a nice surprise; I’d expected that debt to drag on forever.

When I delivered two new, plastic garbage cans the next week, the ever-present Marvin again mentioned the fence. 

"As I told you before, get me an estimate," I told him as I got into my car.

                                                              * * * * * * *

Every couple of months, Wally the realtor had been sending me printouts of market activity in the surrounding #neighborhood. #Selling #prices ranged wildly and didn’t seem to correspond with the condition of the #properties: A #house listed as being in “very good condition” sold for a measly $50.00, while a house in “poor condition” went for $4,500.00.  The “fair” to “very-goods” ranged from a measly $5,250.00 up to $45,000.00. Only two were listed as being in “excellent condition” and sold for $39,000.00 and $45,000.00  My house was listed as “very-good.” 

The printouts were always accompanied by a form letter, the final paragraph stating in big, bold letters: REMEMBER: Price is the most critical factor in getting your #home sold.  Buyers always buy what they perceive as the “best buy.”

I was gloomily perusing the report for August when Wally phoned.  “Someone’s interested in your house,” he announced.  “They’d like to view it in a few days.”

“Really?” I said, excitedly.

“Yup.  Can you arrange it with your tenants?”

“Oh, er, yeah. I guess they’ll know the house is for #sale now, won’t they?”

“Can’t be helped,” Wally said. “If your #tenants are going to be absent, you’ll need to get the keys to me and advise them there’ll be strangers walking around their #apartments … supervised, of course.”

"Okay." 

Yes!” I yelled as I put down the phone.  “Oh . . . just someone interested in buying my house,” I explained as some nearby secretaries were startled out of their word-processing reveries by my outburst.

I put off telling Giselle and Diane the news that night and was glad I did, because Wally informed me the next day that the prospective buyer had decided on another #property. 

Bummer.

“It’s coming up four months now,” the realtor said. “You wanna renew your listing?”

“Yes.”

“You know, it might not be a bad idea to think about reducing the price.”

I sighed.  “What would you suggest?”

We dropped the #listing price $5,000.00 to $54,900.00.