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Page 28 text:
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ffi iii iHi or, How 1 Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My MIRF by Robert Sugar and Fran Atlas We wouldn ' t say that the following story is true, and that . . . the names were changed to protect the Registrar, but the events in the following story have all happened at one time or another; if s just that it didn ' t happen to one poor soul. Consider our hero a creation of the sense of frustration we all feel at one time or another when it ' s that time of the semester. Its a bright summer day in September, 1973 as Sandy Scfiwartz, lately from Stoneybrook, Long Island, but now of McDowell Hall, American University, walks up unfamiliar steps to the Ward Circle Building. The front door is locked, but inside Sandy can see a throng of people milling about large tables in the lobby. After a sign-language and lip-read discussion with someone on the other side of the door, Sandy realizes that the real entrance to Registration is one floor below. Now all she has to do is figure out how to get there. Clutched in her tanned hand is her class confirmation, it is, as is not unusual, completely screwed up. While battle-scarred veteran upperclassmen understand this trauma and accept it as part of the technological society, for Sandy it is her first, and surely not last. Insurmountable Task. While wandering aimlessly on the stone porch in front of Ward, Sandy spies a group of kindred souls waiting in a line that descends down steps on the side of the building. Putting all the resources of her superior New York State secondary education to work, she figures that line is just where she wants to be. So she goes and waits. And waits. I don ' t understand this at all, Sandy thinks, as she lights up a Winston, There are 200 people in front of me and it ' s not even nine in the morning. They ' re just started and it ' s already mobbed. Sandy relaxes and looks around the line. Now there are a good dozen people behind her, and of course the interminable line just up front. Hey, don ' t I know you? Sandy suddenly asks the person in front of her. He is a bit stunned, having mulled over the incomprehensible A.U. Course guide for the last half hour. Huh? Oh, right. I saw you in the Meal Ticket line, right? Yeah, and in the I.D. photo line, too? • Right. Sharon, isn ' t it? the sleepy-eyed person asks. Sandy. And you ' re Fred. Sandy smiles, feeling good about knowing someone among the long line of anonymous faces. I guess you ' re going to change your schedule, huh? Fred asks.
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Page 29 text:
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Uh, huh. I signed up for Honors English, Intermediate French, Intro to World Politics and Intro to Western Thought. So? That sounds good . . Fred begins. Yeah, But I got Reading for Illiterates, Boys Field Hockey, Archeology I, and Arabic which, believe me, I could do without. Sandy and Fred stare blankly at one another for a moment, which is a Freshman way of saying Yeah, I ' m lost too, so what ' s new? but then the line actually moves and the two are so caught up in that joy they forget what they are talking about. You know, Sandy. I think your schedule is worse than mine, Fred says after a bit of slow shuffling that suffices for movement to people in long lines. I got two courses, but the computer says I ' m closed out of the other two. What the hell does closed-out ' mean, anyway? I think that ' s when you haven ' t paid your bill yet. One person up the line meekly volunteers, but since the line is made up of mostly dazed Freshpeople no one really seems to know. I haven ' t even figured out if I ' m matriculating yet or what, Fred says at last. You look OK to me. says Sandy. Finally, the line has moved up two flights of stairs and has deposited Sandy into the maw of the huge Registration machine. Signs divert her in all directions, people are running from place to place, and she doesn ' t know where to begin. What am I doing here? Sandy thinks, as she lights another smoke, her fourth this morning, which is unusual since she just picked up the habit from her roommate over orientation. Suddenly, Sandy realizes she ' s at the front of a line and two eyes are watching her. Can I help you? the eyes ask. I . . I ' m not sure. I got all the wrong courses. Sandy begins. Oh, well, you want that line over there, her helpful informant says and points to another stairwell clogged with people. Jump in, honey, Sandy thinks to herself, It ' s got to get better. The next three hours make Dante ' s trip to Hell seem like Spring Break — at least to Sandy, who doesn ' t even know what Spring Break is yet. She argues with a receptionist for a half hour, only to learn that her advisor is on sabbatical, and no one can sign her add-drop slips. But Sandy perseveres and after scurrying around campus with the many-layered tissue add-drop slips, she finally gets to deposit them at the Registrar ' s table. I ' m really sorry, Sandy says to the Aide, It must ' ve been my fault. After all, the computer can ' t make mistakes. The bill came home just fine. Believe me, kid, the Aide says, ' The computer ' s only human. Later that day, Sandy walks wearily down the Dinner line at ARA, eyeing the entrees suspiciously. She looks up and sees Fred. Oh, hi, Fred. How ' d it go? Sandy asks. Well, I ' ve finally figured out the system, says Fred, and it sucks. But let ' s face it, Sharon, we ' re only virgins once, thank God. That ' s ' Sandy, ' Fred. Time passes, as it has a nasty habit of doing. For Sandy, things once-strange become familiar. She learns where the pit is, and finally figures out which building is Roper, which is Grey, and which is IVtcCabe, but she never does learn which department is in what building. But that ' s better than some students do. Classes are even kind of interesting, and Fred happens to be in her Honors class, which was a nice surprise. Soon, November rolls around, and big green-boardered MIRFS show up in mailboxes all over campus. Everywhere but Sandy ' s mailbox, it seems. So, realizing something is once again screwed, Sandy heads for Asbury and joins a long line waiting in the hall. But Sandy is used to lines now, and her trained ear has learned to pick out conversation up and down the line . . . . . . How many times do I have to tell them, I ' m a fucking senior? Christ, I ' ve got to graduate this semester, and they say I ' m still a sophomore!! Cool down, Chris, look on the bright side, at least they ' ve got your major down right. I ' m a lit major and they still think I ' m in School of Nursing. Shit. Chris declares suddenly. . . . For the last four years the Registrar has been billing me for a course I never took. I mean, I signed up for a dumb thing back in ' 70, but I dropped it, and they ' ve been billing me for it every semester since then. Then I gotta go fix it up before they put a stop on my MIRF. It ' s ridiculous.
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