Back in 2003, I began my college search. I boarded planes, loaded up the car, and even traveled by bus to see the many universities that I thought I’d like to attend. Here’s my (mostly fictional) story:
Fretting. Antagonizing. Debating. Making a decision. Fretting. Antagonizing. Debating. Making a decision. Procedo ad nauseam.
That’s what goes through the minds of most Juniors in high school who are thinking about matriculating to college. Programs, fraternities/sororities, friends, enemies and academics are all considerations that do not have equal weight. I wanted to be thorough in my search, so I narrowed my selection (in a very ad hoc manner, might I add) from ten schools to one. And not even one that was on my list!
As an academic stand out from a blue-collar family, I thought it would punctuate my young academic life by matriculating to Harvard University in Boston, MA. I told my parents that this was choice number one, and they were thrilled! They bought me a plane ticket, and off I went. I was slightly hampered by a cold, and realized on the plane that I had no tissues. But this was no matter for a young man fresh on his academic journey! Upon arriving to the institution, I was ushered into the science advising office. They offered to show me a class in progress—soil agronomics. I went to the class, which turned out looking like an insanely ironic Polo commercial. After digging in the dirt for an hour, I left to explore the campus alone. Everyone in the class turned their noses up at me, so I did the same to people I came across because I thought this was some kind of secret Harvard handshake. Everyone snickered at me, though! Only upon returning to my hotel room did I find out why. I must have wiped my nostrils with my dirty hands, and had a black, sooty nose!
Emory University was number five on my list. I have an older cousin in Atlanta, and he said that if I drove down, I could stay with him and party. He had a keg waiting for me the first night I arrived. I got soooooo drunk, I missed my meeting, and had to take a few days to recover before going back to face my parents. I just told the folks that it sucked and they didn’t have my program.
After a few weeks, I loaded up the car and headed for Temple University in Philadelphia, PA. I loved the campus, but wasn’t sold on the city. I decided to head out to experience my first fraternity party on a Friday night. I learned about one hundred things you could do with Cheez-wiz, and almost none of them I can speak of here. Regardless, I realized immediately I wouldn’t be going to Temple, and that a group of men who pay to be friends wasn’t my idea of fun.
Not too sold on being a Gopher, I reluctantly flew off to the University of Minnesota. I heard it was cold there—much colder than where I come from! I went in summer, but definitely had winter in the front of my mind. Minneapolis was beautiful and the people were friendly. I soon realized that all the women are strong, all the men are good looking and all the children are above average. Striking up conversation, I asked how bad winter really was. I found out that it’s not only the Eskimos who have fifty words for snow! Pass!
My next flight was Washington University. Being a huge baseball fan, it was with great enthusiasm that I matriculated to a die-hard baseball town with a halfway decent team. The St. Louis Cardinals were perennial favorites to win the pennant, and Albert Pujols always put on a show. However, when I arrived, the baseballites were downtrodden. Apparently, ten players were fingered for doping, and that stiff penalties faced the team. Too bad.
Dejected, I flew back to my home in Cleveland, OH, and feigned interest in Case Western Reserve University. Their school logo looks like a fat man with a surfboard, but only part of that was indicative of the male student “body.” Moreover, I didn’t want to be so close to home as to have my parents be able to watch my every move, so I crossed that one off my list.
I had an uncle that lived in Richmond, VA, and he urged me—through my parents, of course—to visit The University of Richmond. I boarded a plane and Uncle Steve picked me up from the airport. Steve is an all-around good person, very successful and such, but he rather had a drinking problem. Notwithstanding, my time with him was pleasant for the most part. During my college tour, I unknowingly stepped in what must have been a chawer that resembled the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Five hours and twenty buildings later, I left a trail of green, slimy destruction wherever I went–including Steve’s white Mercedes. He was cool about it, but I apologized about a hundred times.
Sooner-or-later, I planned to drive to New York University in New York City proper. Being in the throes of winter, travel was dictated by the extended forecast, and opportunities didn’t come often. Finally, a week in January looked promising, so I made my plans with the academic office and packed the car. Jake Goldstein’s mom caught wind, and insisted to Mom that Jake accompany me. Jake and I “got along” because our parents have been friends for like fifty years, and the ire of a Jewish mother is not something to be taken lightly. Halfway through our trip, Jake demanded we take a detour to White Castle in the middle of nowhere Pennsyl-tucky. I despised the food there, but the thought of him being quiet for ten minutes as greasy sliders made their way from his maw to his stomach was as delectable as something I’d rather eat. So we get back on the road—I got a medium fry; he got a herd of Sliders and an extra-large Dew. Twenty minutes later, the food was gone, and Jake looked like he was going to be sick. Rats; that boy got gas so bad It’d make a tuba player blush! All windows were open, and it still reeked! I punched him every time he passed wind as to deter him from doing it again. At about the tenth fart-punch, he took his cup of Mountain Dew and poured it over my head. I looked like a Backstreet Boy with frozen spikes in my hair when I finally made the meeting at NYU. I still wonder why they didn’t call me back for an interview...
Two weeks later, I boarded a bus to Chicago, IL, to visit The University of Chicago. I heard the stories about Greyhound bus stations, so I decided to wear my Walkman headphones and nose into a book to deter unwanted conversation. Not getting the subtle hint, an older woman sat next to me and started poking me in my ribs. I pretended to be sound asleep, but, as the poking got harder and unmistakable smell of cat urine wafted to my nostrils, I decided to see what was up to appease her to move on. Turns out, she wanted to show me pictures of her cats! Who knew?! Being a polite young man, I indulged her for a few minutes before I got up and strolled around. All I could think was that I did not want to be stuck on a ten-hour bus ride next to her! Long story short, she ended up sitting next to me—a terrible omen to start a terrible trip.
I ended up going to a school in Southwestern Ohio. I went for two years and dropped out because I hated my program and about a hundred kids from my high school went there and were still intent on making my life miserable. I worked in a pizza kitchen for two years that drove me back to school. I finished my degree at Cleveland State University in Cleveland, OH. Too bad I didn’t just do that from the start!
The cache, on the other hand, doesn’t take a bus trip to get to, there’s no White Castle around and is not a used Cheez-Wiz container. Just go to:
N 26° XX.XXX W 81° XX.XXX
****Congratulations to Madame Leota for the FTF****
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