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I did what part one before/after I did what? Part 1. It was the first time I ever got caught smoking weed. Red handed in college. They tried to reason with me, get me to admit it. I needed help. That darn-devil reefer! They wrote up a report and sent it to the Student Administration. I read the report, and agreed to meet in the student court. The report contained many inaccuracies, including glaring typos. I shaved and put on a tie. I remember sitting at the door to the court, waiting with my RA, and he looked perplexed. As if I'd somehow morphed into something else. Someone credible. "Hey, uh Arg...how's it going?" He was wearing jeans and a football t-shirt. He literally did not get paid enough for this. "Swell." I said, and stared straight forward. We went into the courtroom, which was a plain beige room with wine colored chairs. In the room was the judge, some woman in her fifties. She looked me up and down and could tell I was innocent. I spent the next half-hour pointing out the inaccuracies of the report, postulating on other probabilities which lent an air of reasonable doubt. In the end the RA hadn't any idea HOW to prove his case beyond a reasonable doubt, or even a preponderance of the evidence. I won. And I thought...hey, maybe I might be good at this... I did this one more time after even more extenuating circumstances. We had been having a good time in my dorm room, as we were won't to do at that age, being kids. The grads formed a semi-circle around my door, all four of them. A rather too-solid knock on the door and I knew the jig was up. I had also ordered pizza. I hushed the girls and opened the door. I immediately saw the grad students and grasped the gravity of my situation. "You guys aren't the pizza." I said, incredulously, "Where's the pizza? Two of the Grads laughed. And I knew I would be ok. "There's no pizza," one began, "We thought we smelled incense..." "Well, write up your report," I said, "And I'll meet you in court. Send it to me." And I closed the door. I'll admit, the grad student wrote a better report. But good lord, there were still *typos*. And inaccuracies. But only a few. "What was that?" one of the girls asked. "The grads. They're writing me up." I replied. "We're cool." And the party went on. Like I said, there were inaccuracies that damned them in any court of opinion. And grad students at that. I mean, I can understand not giving a fuck, but when you have that kind of position in a dorm, as defacto guardians and authority figures to kids, you might want to adopt a few different approaches to your position. Maybe don't give a fuck, I don't know. Don't let anyone die, and the obvious cries for help get heeded. But fucking with the guy that lived in the end of the dorm for waaay too long shouldn't be on your agenda. I thrive on dependable institution and a degree of certainty that I can modulate with controlled doses of chaos and randomness. Dorm life was great in many ways, and I was never lonely. The appointed day arrived and the grad student that wrote the report showed up with another female grad student. She was nervous. Nervous to speak. Nervous to go up against me. I had developed a little reputation among the principals of the dorm. Nobody one once at that point. Let alone twice. Until me. I found those flaws and exposed them. I flogged her with it. By the end of it, she couldn't even verify it was alleged that had happened, had happened either day or night. She couldn't even get the time of day right. AM or PM. Some people just aren't solid under pressure, I guess. I hated to go at her and her report like that, but...I had a life to lead. Go save the kids that try to hang themselves in the shower, or puke all over campus trying to show how large the live on a Saturday night. I was a quiet guy living on the end of the dorm. I serenaded women and we stayed up to the late hours being weird. But we weren't a direct threat to anyone's way of life. We were unto ourselves and after my second victory an enclave grew up around me of guys that had lived in the dorm too long. We also fostered an enclave of girls on the sister-floor that had lived there too long. There was a sympathy and rapport. By-and-large we were good to each other, with the natural drama that will flourish when hormonal kids get together in any proximity for any time. I tried to remain aloof, but they gathered around me inevitably, and I was always welcoming. My victory had given us a sort of umbrella or shield. The next RA appointed to our floor was tasked with keeping us contained, and not letting anyone die. Minor rule infractions were ignored. Just keep a lid on it. And with that negotiation, we did abide. A small community of friends and lovers. Seekers and a few of the lost sort. Some folks will never find themselves because they can't even look at themselves without seeing through someone else's eyes. And I thought, after that second victory, that I might have something here.
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