University of Rhode Island - Renaissance / Grist Yearbook (Kingston, RI)

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S. Johnson BAY CAMPUS 26

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D. Lew Confessions of a Dormitory Attendant Hi. URI students know who we are. We used to be called Evening Managers. We managed the night. How did the less elegant but more graphic title of Dormitory Attendant come into being? It’s possible that the State Department in Providence got the word that somewhere in the south of Rl dwelt a large thriving community of humanoids living in closely-packed dormitories at a place called a UNIVERSITY. The in-dorm atmosphere is surprisingly reminiscent of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. So people were hired to watch over these humanoids each night to make sure they didn’t destroy themselves in their enthusiasm, their lust for life. Marvelous tales were brought to the ears of the wise men in Providence; when they heard of the near-world-record feats, the celebrated keg parties that rivaled the body-packed phone booth contests of the 1950 ' s, the mysterious trains that sometimes went off the track, they were amazed. They listened with growing respect to stories of the Great Water Fights and understandably confused them with an older battle of local interest — the Great Swamp Fight. They were skeptical with regard to the story of General Burnside, who not only named a great URI dorm, but invented sideburns as well. Last year at Burnside Hall, true to prophecy, one side of the building burned. And the tales went on. There was the one about IRVING and his dog who delivered half-sour pickles and sandwiches to starving inmates at 10:00 every night. He waged capitalist war with The Truck and The Machines. These combines in miniature were sometimes stocked with questionable edibles. They especially loved to eat quarters. Nickels and dimes were spat out. If a humanoid was lucky, a lumpy something would appear to remedy the widespread dormitory disease called The Munchies. Frequently the humanoids would place themselves across from each other separated by a long green board. Holding a round wooden paddle in one hand, they would assume a crouched posture and with narrowed eyes and tense smiles double-whammy each other, sending a small white ball lightning — quick across the table. Sometimes the ball would be returned. This was called ping-pong. A form of Chinese torture. Halloween, the full moon, and Thursday nights often produced bizarre happenings. Faint strains of Moussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain would play as formerly calm inmates rushed around baying at the moon. On Halloween, a man with a large plastic bag over his body was asked who he thought he was. A giant condom, of course, came the indignant reply. A girl won a contest dressed as a large plate of spilled spaghetti and meatballs. In the dining halls so much food was thrown that a new floor was put in. It was the color of mashed potatoes and gravy. Our wise men in Providence thought and thought. They reasoned that Evening Managers sometimes didn’t manage their evenings very well; the humanoids needed attending to so we naturally became Attendants. As the euphemisms continue, I foresee — and hereby suggest one more — why don ' t they just call us Zookeepers? Eleanor Carpenter 28