This post has been co-written by Thrill writer Emma ’15 (who gets to lose her last name for this one) and Spencer Kaye ’14. The content chronicles the night of Friday, March 23. Names, besides our own, have been redacted.
Emma: When we’re not basking in the warm blue glow of a laptop screen, Thrill editors and writers wear many different hats around campus — for example, David McCabe runs shit at the Horn, Leslie Martin moonlights as a Russian AT, Spencer Kaye enforces law and order on the quad as a first-year CA and I enjoy an illustrious weekend career as a semiprofessional drunk person. Unfortunately for me, these last two positions came into conflict last weekend when Spencer was on duty and happened upon myself and some friends (all names withheld, because I’m not a complete douche salad) celebrating the end of an arduous week the old-fashioned way — with a handle, a box of Franzia and a total lack of understanding of how far sound travels (for the sake of my future employment, I’m going to go ahead and refer to this entire piece as “satirical fiction.” Who’s to say whether it happened or not? How do we truly separate “concept” from “reality”? Do any of us really “exist”?)
My memory of events is a bit blurry, but a few moments do stick out — seeing Spencer and his co-CA emerge from the Norton stairwell, realizing the door was open, remembering that containers of alcohol don’t actually have the power to turn invisible because you want them to, proceeding to freak out a little bit. I’m pretty sure my first move was to assure Spencer I would “do all of his Thrill bitch-work forever” if he didn’t write me up (note: always give desperately bargaining with your CAs/editors a shot; it’s totally appropriate and not at all weird). A few impromptu ideas I threw out there—”What if you only saw the vodka?” “What if the wine was in [name redacted]’s purse?” Spencer seemed amused, but not amused enough to not write me up — damn that CA code of conduct.
Spencer: I really was hoping for an easy round. I traipsed through Gund not looking for any trouble and made my way to Norton. I was already in a foul mood, having discovered only that day that I was on duty that night. For those of you who have not had the experience, there is nothing worse than getting to the end of a hard week and realizing that you are in fact on duty when all you really want is to hang out with friends and maybe go to a party, and trust me, friends do not want to hang out around a CA on duty, especially if they live in a first-year area. As I walked up the staircase I heard people talking. “SHIT SHIT SHIT,” I thought, “time to take off my civilian pants and put on my authority trousers.” Lo and behold, a whole mess of first years was standing in the hall around a full box of Franzia. A few bolted (I don’t get paid enough to chase them down), so we waited for the remaining few to grasp the gravity of the situation.
E: From what I’m told, I then tried to convince the CAs that I was the only one drinking. I have literally no idea where this came from and would seriously never, ever play the martyr if my judgment weren’t compromised. For some reason, I slipped into a bizarre drill seargant state in which I was starring in my own personal film about a drunk first year nobly saving her friends and triumphing in the face of adversity — one of my friends kept drunkenly poking his head out to try and get a read on the situation, and apparently, every time he did I screamed “[NAME REDACTED], GET BACK IN THE ROOM” like he was the youngest Von Trapp child and I was the Captain trying to ward off the Nazis.
S: I immediately realized that I would be writing up the prolific Thrill writer, and my indentured servant, Emma. I knew the day would come when I would have to write someone up and have seriously mixed feelings about it. There is a mix of emotions on their face, ranging from shame to shock, that is heart wrenching. It is truly difficult to step into the shoes of a CA knowing that not so long ago you were bragging to your friends about how you had just outsmarted the CAs on duty. Emma, like the good friend she is, threw herself on the CIR grenade, taking the responsibility. But lucky for her it doesn’t really work like that. The funny part about the whole thing, though, was the fact that her friends barely knew what was happening.
E: Luckily, my attempts at heroism didn’t work out (if they had, I would have been mightily pissed the next morning). One by one, my friends filed out of the room to give the CAs their names, and it was then that the proceedings took on a slightly more festive air. It was everyone’s first (AND LAST) write-up, we knew we hadn’t given the CAs much choice (honestly, guys, if you’re going to have alcohol in your rooms, which you shouldn’t, maybe turn down the Robyn?) and our main concern became making sure the booze didn’t go to waste. (Another solid piece of advice—always encourage your CAs to finish off the Franzia they’re confiscating from you, because they can definitely do that. In fact, the CA handbook mandates it.)
S: One of the most horribly depressing parts about writing someone up is the lack of understanding. On the one hand you have first years who are not only unfamiliar with the rules, they are also feeling slightly buzzed and argumentative. This is the part where the residents have realized what is about to happen and use their half-baked rhetorical skills to get out of it. Like someone going through the stages of grief, residents go through stages. From disbelief, to anger, to bargaining, and finally acceptance and self-pity. The bargaining we dealt with in this particular situation was the blatant waste of alcohol. Standing over the sink and ripping open a bag of Franzia has to be the saddest, most wasteful, depressing experience that can happen on a typical party night. Watching the sweet, sweet white wine flow down the drain is truly tragic. “Why can’t you drink it?” they asked woefully. “Protocol,” I reply sullenly.
E: There was a classic sitcom moment in which the closet door actually got stuck while we were trying to pry it open to get the wine box out, but it looked like we were just being wacky and trying to thwart the authorities but it really was stuck; oh, what larks, insert laugh track here. We then all engaged in a heated debate over whether the shirt that one of the CAs’ observing friends was wearing was pink or orange (apparently, it was salmon. What a world). In short, once we all calmed down and realized we probably weren’t going to get expelled, things definitely took a turn for the better. Once the CAs left, we took a collective deep breath and headed out to ugly-dance our troubles away at Weaver.
S: After assuring everyone that they would survive getting written up, we parted ways for the evening. One of the biggest problems with writing people up is doing the paperwork involved. Seriously, no fun at all. Between duty rounds all I really want to do is watch re-runs of How I Met Your Mother and eat some “food” I ordered from the Cove, but now, lucky me, I will get to do paperwork. This is all because a group of first years decided they wanted to leave their door open. Slick. My night and your night are now ruined. Come to think of it, the morning after may be even worse than the paperwork. Nobody likes to be hated, much less be the bad guy. Lucky for me, Emma was very chill about it. I was really worried; nothing says awkward like a good ol’ Thrill staff meeting with the girl whose night you unquestionably ruined. Finally we decided, like the good bloggers that we are, to write about it.
E: The next morning, however, was a different story — the first text I sent upon waking up and remembering that an editor for the blog I write for had just written me up read, in full, “I have to quit the Thrill now, right?” I had a raging case of the post-drunk shames, and I was completely prepared to just fade away into the ether and never mention the incident again, but luckily Spencer emailed me apologizing for the weirdness of the situation (which, though appreciated, was completely unnecessary — spoiler alert, guys, underage drinking is actually not a thing that the CAs can condone. In fact, it’s sort of specifically what they’re hired to discourage) and, in classic Thrill-editor style, suggesting we co-write a post chronicling the evening. Hence, this article was spawned—hopefully, it will serve as an impetus not to drink in first-year areas. Or anywhere at all. Ever. Even after you’re 21. Just don’t.