Before the incident, the night had been a perfectly mediocre experience. Solo cups, out. Miniature fan, at work. Sheck Wes, on. Around twenty kids crammed into one Keenasty dorm that for some reason has kept on its garish overhead light this whole time? Dare I say, I’d had fun, but anyone could sense that things were winding down. The music had oh-so-subtly shifted from SICKOMODE to Country Roads sans my knowing, and then without warning, people were draping themselves over various surfaces and throw pillows––“chilling”. The international students had gone to smoke. That one couple who is already together a month into freshman year (explain?) are cuddling in plain view. Sure. Fine. Expected. Fine. Until––
“Lol, is that someone’s guitar?”
You know, I’d watched Kristen Wiig’s SNL sketch and laughed, but I didn’t think shit like this actually happened. It was one of those moments when the world moves slower, slurred. My eyes darted about the room, but my friends had long since left, even that one chick from section was nowhere to be found.
And across the room, ears are pricked.
“Actually,” Our illustrious host calls out. His expression––manic. “It’s a ukulele.” He barrels his way through the thicket of drowsy freshmen to reach his bed, but before wrenching the wretched case from beneath it, he hesitates. He turns to the three of us who are still paying him any attention, and smiles, sadly.
“I couldn’t.” He laughs, before looking up at the now two of us, expectant. Sheepish. None of us speak, but he still manages to cut us off.
“UgghghhHhhghghgh!” He groans, putting his face in his hands. “Don’t make me sing. Seriously, guys. Don’t make me sing. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”
“You don’t have to, like, at all.” We reassure him.
“I so would sing for you, but… it’s so embarrassing.” This conflicted gentleman from OutsideBoston™ laments in response. And it was then that I knew what I needed to do, for no matter how I addressed this boi, he would never let up––no, I needed to starve him of attention. That was what he was seeking, surely. So I looked away, said hasty goodbyes, and yeeted myself the fuck out of that dorm.
So that night, somehow, I got out. I’m grateful, humbled, and profoundly shook by the experience. Sometimes, still, I wake in the middle of the night, tossing and turning, tormented by visions of what would have happened should I have stayed. Should I have been sung to. Because Lord knows, if Luke/Dylan/Nick/Jake/Daniel had worked up the confidence to recycle his breathy take on ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ that fateful Wednesday night, I would have been forced to juul till I’d passed out and gotten EMS’d- which, for reference, is also how I plan on getting out of my midterm this Thursday.