A Tale of Angst and Oreos

My thesis angst began one Friday afternoon in February of my freshman year. I had just returned from an English 10 section when the phone rang. It was Gil.

"Julie, would you do me a very, very big favor?"

"Sure, Gil, what?"

"Go to the stock room in the basement of the Science Center and buy two cartridges for the Mac printer. Bring them to Zach's room in Adams House. His thesis is due at 5."

I looked at my clock. It was not yet noon. I grabbed my jacket, told my roommate I'd meet her at lunch and ran out of Greenough into the cold, bright day.

In the Science Center basement two people stood in line in front of me. When it was my turn, the man behind the counter started closing the big gray door.

"Wait," I screamed in terror.

"It's my lunch hour." He looked a little surprised.

"But you can't. It's my friend Zach. His thesis is due in less than five hours, and I promised. I mean, I have to bring him these cartridges now." The tears came naturally to my eyes.

"Well, okay." He let me in, closing the door after me.

I ran all the way to Adams and then climbed at least four flights of stairs. Gil opened the door.

It was a harsh sight for a freshman's eyes. In the common room buzzed two printers. In the bedroom sat Zach, frantically typing footnotes. He did not look up from under a three-day beard. Gil had been working on the bibliography at another Mac. Potato chip bags lay open on the bed; random chocolate chip cookies spotted the wood floors.

For three years this picture haunted my thoughts whenever anyone mentioned a senior thesis. I, like Zach, concentrated in History and Literature, one of the few departments that require theses. And I, like Zach. would be spending the first half of senior year in 14 Plympton Street, putting out a daily newspaper.

But I was determined not to freak out about my thesis. All my old and wizened friends had warned me to choose a topic early and research it over the summer. I tried. Really.

But in the end, which I guess was really just the beginning, I blew off the summer and didn't settle on an advisor or a topic until the fall. My first few meetings with my advisor, David, who had been my junior tutor, went something like this:

"David, I don't know what the hell I'm doing."

"Relax."

"But, I mean, I don't know how to write a thesis. I've never written one before."

"Relax. It's not that hard. Think of it like three 15- to 20-page papers. The key is organization. It's a snap."

I'd leave the History and Lit office refreshed and confident. Then I'd walk into The Crimson, where I'd see my friend Brooke.

"How's it going, Brooke?"

"All right, I guess. I handed in an outline yesterday, and I plan to give him my first chapter next week."

Great.

The months passed. The unopened books began to spread over my floor like cactus roots thirsting for water. The only mail I received were overdue book notices. In one day I received five cards from Lamont. One read, "For Shame."

Gradually I weaved my way through the mass of books. My stack of notecards piled higher and higher.

Around mid-January, every conversation in the dining hall, in the Widener stacks or on the streets would turn to theses. The phenomenon could best be called the senior version of the freshman what'syournamewhereareyoufromwhatdormareyou in dialogue. It goes along these lines:

"Are you writing a thesis?"

"Yeah, are you?"

"Yeah, what's it on?"

"Creating Black characters in Uncle Tom's Cabin, the Uncle Remus stories, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. How about yours?"

"The use of the potato as a symbol of sexuality in modern literature."

"Sounds interesting."

"How much have you written?"

"Oh, about half, I guess."

"I'm only on chapter three--of my second draft. I'm really stressed."

"Uh huh."

I would go a whole day without fresh air--waking up, taking notes, eating lunch, watching "All My Children," writing, eating dinner, writing, falling asleep.

Visions of notecards and Harriet Beecher Stowe danced through my head.

As the final days approached, my thesis was falling into place. But I felt disaster was imminent; it couldn't be this easy. I devised contingency plans for every catastrophe I could imagine. I made at least two back-up copies of each chapter, in addition to hard copies. I refused to return any books, despite the rapidly multiplying fines. I bought two extra printer cartridges.

And, in my finest scheme, I outlined three plans of action in case Kinko's was unable to xerox my thesis in time to meet the 5 p.m. deadline. First, I would cry. Second, I would slip the clerk $10. Third, I would call my friend Joe, cry and ask him to drive me to a Kinko's out in the suburbs.

The final 48 hours were invigorating. Even annoying questions like, "How long is your bibliography?" couldn't stop my surge.

Eating Hershey's chocolate and Oreos, I typed in my footnotes to the rhythm of Simon and Garfunkel. And when I had finished the title page, I turned off "The Sound of Silence" to revel in the sound of my printer.

At the department's celebration party the next day, the champagne added to my already delirious state. When my friend Nat--who had spent the last few weeks holed up on Cape Cod--walked in 20 minutes late, I toasted Zach and downed my glass of champagne.