62 Park Two: Electric Bugaloo

The dark facades that line Park Street are made flat with walls of white light painted on them by the glowing bulbs. Those posts line the street, and yet, the scored texture of the pavement is barely illuminated. The lakes of rainwater stir in the potholes, bouncing white lines across its void-black surface. These are the few details you pick up; the rest of the scene is no more than abstract shapes painted on a black canvas. 

The street is quiet, save for your friends who chatter amongst themselves, the soft rolling of squad car tires, and the distant slapping of shoes against the concrete caused by a running drunk. 

You’re pretty hosed yourself, evident by the “shit!” you say to yourself as you pull your foot from a puddle whose depths you underestimate. And then, you see it: home.

You trudge up the grey concrete causeway and swing open the heavy metal door. As you enter, the violent vibrations shaking the brick walls become clearer and louder. Kanye West’s hit song ‘CARNIVAL’ featuring Playboi Carti and Rich the Kid is currently threatening the structural integrity of your dorm, and you could try to stop it, but much like a Viet Cong guerrilla from 1961-1973, it’s best to just wait it out. 

You climb the metal-edged stairs, which ring out after every step like the chapel bells, letting all the residents know you’ve arrived. Before you try and punch in your room code five times without success and scream profanities in the hallway (it could just be a me problem, tbh), you take a quick trip to the bathroom to rig a piss before you hit the hay. 

But as you stand at the liminal bathroom entrance, you are met by a trail of vodka-sauce-colored vomit leading to the center of the bathroom. You pull out your phone and check the time: 2:23 a.m., 62 Park St., home. You know, *draws from a cigarette* a lot of people call their dorms their home, but for me, I prefer to refer to good ole 62 not as my home but as my castle. See, *quickly hits cigarette again* a castle is surrounded by a moat, much like the cement sea that wraps around 62. Like the gothic castles of Europe, 62 boasts steep roofs that cannot be claimed. 

But most of all, *draws deeply and lets out a dramatic wisp of smoke* a castle houses both the king and his prisoners under one roof. Now, who in the Big Six Two is a king and who is a prisoner is… up to interpretation. I mean, *softly snubs out the glowing tobacco* who’s to say we aren’t all prisoners? Is the king not a slave to his crown just as the peasant is a slave to the tax? Just as a tree is a slave to the dirt and the axe? Just as a thief is a slave to the high of the act? 

Just- oh- oh, hold on folks *starts flipping through papers* yup, okay. My apologies, folks, I was mistakenly reading from the script of the soon-to-be-released film adaptation of Alessandro Giardino’s debut book, “The Caravaggio Syndrome: A Novel.” please disregard…or not; I mean, you’re the one reading, aren’t you? Aaaaaanyway, having nearly completed my second year as a not-so-proud 62 resident, I can say I am truly an expert on the topic… no, no, I can’t. 

See, one of the many tricks 62 plays on its inhabitants is, right when you think you’ve figured it all out, it changes, and you’re right back to square one. One day, you walk into the usually uneventful kitchen, and suddenly, half the room is now blocked by a massive brand-new fridge. 

Why is it there? Why do we need a huge fridge to house the communal garlic cloves and three-week-old pizza? Who even bought that shit? Some things are perhaps better left unanswered.

You want my advice, kid, *pauses and lights up another cigarette, signaling to the audience that what’s about to be said next is the character’s genuine feelings* 62 is a bit of a trip, like I honestly don’t think half the people who live in that building are real, but it’s no different than Sykes, or Lee, or any other dorm on campus. It’s shitty when you’ve had a long day and loud when you just want to sleep. But it gets the job done, and at the end of the day, that ain’t so bad. 

So goodbye, 62, and thank God I have a townhouse next semester. And for everyone else moving into a townhouse, here’s a tip from ‘Ol Uncle Sam: Clean the walls in the bedrooms.