On Fall Break: Not All of Us Are Privileged Enough to Visit New York

Dustin Dunaway

Last Tuesday, I walked out of my German L1 test that I totally didn’t study for, marking the official start to my Fall Break. I headed to Durfee’s and the lady didn’t charge me for my $0.40 over the $9 allowance, so it seemed my break was off to a good start. I ate my chicken tenders on a bench outside, hoping someone would walk by and strike up a conversation. They did! But both of the people only stayed long enough to brag about their plans. One going to New York to “get stoned” and “meet up with some people.” Way to remind me that I have no weed or friends! The other was going to Boston to “get stoned” and “meet up with some family.” Way to remind me that I have no weed or family!

As the day progressed, I watched kids leave campus faster than Hopper’s Alumni donors after the name change. Soon, Old Campus was quiet, eerily quiet, like how I imagine most of the stores on Broadway feel. 

Luckily, the few remaining students (me and like four people) decided to band together and become friends. But we weren’t real friends. We were like the friends you make at summer camp, or in high school, or on FOOT. Friends by circumstance. Being the sole person with a fake-id, I quickly assumed my role as the ONLY cool kid in the group. I bought a handle of Dubra and taught them how to take shots like a man. (Two of them were women, one of them was gender non-conforming, I’m not a dick, I swear.)

The first night we decided to visit President Salovey. We assumed he was still on campus, like, he lives here, right? Wrong. Apparently, he lives in Washington D.C. “ behind closed doors” with “White House policy staff and six U.S. senators.” Fucking bullshit. We still walked to his house, though. Some sweet lady named Marta came to the door. I guess she was the dog-sitter for Handsome Dan. Because he lives there too, right? She wouldn’t let us in, she kept yelling, “Dan doesn’t live here!” and “Get off my lawn, you drunk kids.”

Wednesday night was weird. Alliteration, that’s dope. We went to Woad’s. Alliteration, that’s dope. Even with the slim crowd of mostly grown men, Woad’s still offered the hotbed of campus hookup culture. I found a suitable mate and quickly ran home to procreate.  

Thursday was when my makeshift ensemble of remaining kids disbanded. They went to New York (the sell-outs) and Boston (the desperates). I was now bitterly alone, only strangers passed me by in dining halls and on the sidewalk. I wished that they would be my friends. I tried to change. Closed my mouth more, tried to be softer, prettier, less awake. Fasted for 60 days, wore white, abstained from mirrors, abstained from sex, slowly did not speak another word. In that time, my hair, I grew it past my ankles. I slept on a mat on the floor. I swallowed a sword. I levitated. Went to the basement, confessed my sins, and was baptized in a river.

Sunday, my suitemates came home to a dirty bathroom. I told them I wasn’t fucking cleaning it. It felt nice for things to be back to normal.


Yale Rumpus