Reservations For Anderson
This week, I went to South Station to buy a bus ticket home for the weekend. I did this for two reasons: 1). I have had the uncharacteristic desire to go to an apple orchard and drink hot cider lately, and that Fruit Festival we just had didn't cut it for me, and 2). A button fell off of my jacket and I don't know how to fix it.
After meandering my way through the maze that is South Station, I purchased my ticket and rode the T back to the Hynes Convention Center stop. I then visited my friend at Urban Outfitters, thus receiving my weekly dose of Trend I Cannot Afford Because I Am Too Cheap before returning to Danielsen Hall. This was where I met the Andersons.
When I walked into the lobby to swipe my Terrier Card in the security slot provided by my undergraduate student fee, I noticed a middle-aged couple reading a map and quietly arguing with each other. I noticed them because they both were wearing twice their respective body masses in backpacks and suitcases, and they were both speaking in foreign accents. I decided to stay for a moment and watch, because foreigners + backpacks = funny.
The couple mumbled to each other for a few moments before the man approached the security guard on duty, who was beginning to look slightly perplexed by the situation. The man opened his mouth, finding nothing at all unusual about the sentence he was about to speak: "Reservations for Anderson."
The guard did exactly what I would have done in the same situation: he raised his eyebrows and asked, "Excuse me?"
The man, unflustered, responded in time. "Reservations for Anderson," he repeated.
The guard paused for comic timing before saying, "I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong address." The woman rushed into the fray, armed with a very tattered map and a wrinkled piece of white paper.
"This is 512 Beacon Street, yes?" she asked.
"Yes," the guard responded, clearly becoming more and more agitated as this scene played itself out before him.
There was a short pause before the man said, "Reservations for Anderson" again. The guard released a very noticeable sigh before stating "This is a Boston University dormitory."
He was met by another pause and another repetition of "Reservations for Anderson."
I would have liked to hear more of this conversation, but the sensory information my brain had just received manifested itself into a silent movie villain, complete with handlebar moustache and top hat, and tied my motor centers to a railroad track. After shaking off the player piano music, I stumbled into the elevator and frantically pressed the "Close Door" button. Then I began to think.
I want to live in whatever parallel universe the Andersons come from - a marvelous universe where Danielsen Hall is a world-class hotel that attracts backpackers from around the world; a universe where simple repetition of a statement makes it fact; a universe where the light brown M&M still exists. This was not to be, however.
When I arrived on the fourth floor, the elevator refused to open its doors, and instead began emitting an obnoxious high-pitched keening noise. I began systematically pushing every button in an attempt to escape this dread noise, but to no avail. After I kicked the door, however, the elevator saw that I meant business and decided to let me leave before going to the third floor, where it promptly opened its doors and began screeching at the top of its lungs.
When I got to my room, I noticed that my five Bay Windows That Won't Close had reduced my room's temperature to something I like to call "Canada." I went to the vestigial thermostat in order to return the temperature to the recommended seventy-one degrees, but it was still Medicine Hat for me that night.
The same day, there was a localized power shortage on my side of my floor and only my side of the floor. Later, when I was putting the finishing touches on this very column, I was interrupted by the cacophonous sound of dozens of fire alarms, each sounding like three truckers' foreheads hitting three steering wheel horns as three doses of No-Doz dissipated in three circulatory systems.
Now I know I complain a lot about Danielsen Hall and I probably will continue to do so - Muse, thy name is "Terrible Housing Choice" - but I guess it's a nice place to live. Sure, it's easy to get lost and the laundry room is sub-par, but Danielsen Hall is a nice place to live, nonetheless. Yes, I would say that despite all its many, many shortcomings, Danielsen Hall is a nice place to live…
Damn. I've got to find out how the Andersons do it.