Dewey Hall is the quintessential "residence hall" with its echoing stairwells, dingy indoor-outdoor carpet, mismatched lounge furniture and cinder block walls. Why do they call it a residence hall? An oxymoron if I ever heard one. Who would want to reside in a hall? It makes me think of the middle ages. Drinking wine out of goblets, watching people do stupid human tricks. Dorms are nothing like that. Oh wait...(remembering undergrad) yeah they are.
Anyway, this is where I found myself, back in a dorm room after 11 years.
The room was unremarkable (as dorm rooms usually are). It was eerily similar to the jail cells you see on A&E prison specials. Twin beds attached to the walls. A desk. Two chairs. "With little to recommend it" as Jane Austen would say. Jane Austen would have been miserable here. Or maybe not. It IS Vermont. Lots of writers.
My roommate is Linda Hamilton (Sarah Connor, more specifically). She is frazzled, hardened and driven in exactly the way that a woman would be if she were being stalked by a terrible cyborg from the future on a mission to kill her.
I like her.
Around midnight of our first night, Sarah Connor was already asleep (presumably conserving energy for the next day's mission to stay alive) and I was reading. Occasionally, the ancient, paint-peeling radiator next to my bed groaned and screeched like dial-up internet. Then exhaled some dry, hot air for a few minutes before succumbing to elderliness once again. It was highly ineffective in keeping me warm.
Yet, somehow I managed to fall asleep...for a few minutes.
Then the fire alarm went off. Not just one, every one in the building. At 12:41 a.m.
Obviously confused, I jumped out of bed and turned to Sarah Connor, who was groaning and jamming her feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers.
"This happens. We have to get out."
"Seriously?"
She didn't respond, already yanking on her jacket and muttering about needing some sleep. I followed suit. Downstairs, we were joined by Drew Barrymore, Robot Santa, Carlton and Edna Garrett (the mom on The Facts of Life). The security guy, Sam Elliott, hustled us on outside.
Even when topped with a down jacket, my pajamas were no defense against the biting cold. We stood on the steps shivering. Carlton was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. Robot Santa's pajama shirt was only buttoned at the top, revealing his bowl full of jelly. Then, out of nowhere, it began to snow.
I'm not talking about the It's-A-Wonderful-Life kinda snow either. I mean real live blustery snow. Whipping-around-your-head-and-sticking-to-your-eyelashes kinda snow. The stupid kinda snow.
It took us 2 whole minutes to decide to wait just inside the door. By then, the number of displaced dorm residents had climbed to 9. Robot Santa and Carlton found themselves amused by the whole ordeal. They began exchanging elbow-nudge stories and laughing. The rest of us took turns repeating the same phrases of incredulity. "This is ridiculous" or "I can't believe we're out here at 1 in the morning". Sarah Connor slid down the wall with her knees pulled up to her chest, occasionally muttering to herself. She was pissed.
It was entertaining, though inconvenient.
After about 10 minutes, the firefighters, fully-outfitted, arrived. They barged past us with axes in hand to chop down the alleged doors of the rooms containing the alleged fire. As it turns out, there was no fire... or discernible smoke. Apparently the residence hall is outfitted with ancient automatic fire alarms that are extremely sensitive. In lieu of regular smoke detectors in individual rooms, there are finicky smoke sensors that trigger the alarms in the whole building in the event that there is a fire, or smoke, or someone uses a blow dryer, or someone shakes out a dusty blanket, or coughs.
After a thorough investigation of every room in the building, the firefighters cleared us to go back to our rooms. At 1:30 am.
Only in Vermont.
-FH
