Just Remember One Thing: Avoid Any B-31 Room

One of my closest friends at The Crimson wrote a perfect example of these first-year stories for last summer's issue. It was full of funny anecdotes about the friends--male and female--whom he met his first year.

Most of those people never spoke to him again.

I would rather not destroy my social life for the sake of your entertainment. Instead, I am going to try to limit my stories to my inanimate friends at Harvard. Like toilet bowls, liquor stores and the man from Kirkland House I went out with for the first three months of school.

First things first, avoid all rooms numbered B-31. They are not your friends. Nothing good happens there. Ever.

The boyfriend from hell lived in Kirkland House B-31. The sports editor from hell lived in Lowell B-31. And in Mass. Hall B-31 one of my roommates had a night from hell. But I can't tell you about that.

Luckily, I was assigned to nice, safe, Holworthy 5. When I unpacked the first day, I pulled out all the usual junk--books, clothes, sheets, vodka. The Smirnoff was a going-away present from my boyfriend back home. I dumped the boyfriend for the man from Kirkland House. Big Mistake # 1. All he ever gave me was a headache and a hangover.

But on that first day I still innocently believed that vodka was my friend and B-31 was just another number. Next to me, my new roommate was also unpacking the usual junk--towels, notebooks, computer, goat cheese. Goat cheese?

Welcome to Harvard, land of diversity. Pass the shot glass-I think I need a double.

My roommates didn't know what to make of me that first day. For starters, I appeared to be parentless.

Actually, at that point I was the proud possessor of not one but two complete sets of parents. But Mom had dropped me off in front of Holworthy at 8 a.m. and headed straight back to western New York. Sayonara sweetheart, have fun carrying those boxes to the third floor.

And while the others watched mom make their beds and contemplated room size and closet space, I selected my room based strictly on lower-bunk availability. Top bunks are not my friends. Have you ever tried climbing up a ladder after a 3 a.m. drinking binge?

In typical first-night fashion, I wandered around campus, drank a lot, lost my roommates and met a man named Jason who claimed to be the evil being from the Friday the 13th movies.

I formed a few theories about Harvard that evening. For example, I decided that Pennypacker Hall--site of that night's big party--must be located somewhere east of hell. And I learned that the fishbowl room at Herrell's is NOT the place to go after seven shots of vodka chased down with warm keg beer.

Both my assumptions proved correct--Pennypacker is just east of the Union, which is most definitely hell in my book. And following my visit to the fishbowl I ending up worshipping its close relative--the toilet bowl. The bathroom between Holworthy 5 and 6 was the first of many dear friends I would make that year.

The second, to stick with the toilet bowl theme, was the evil Mower toilet paper man from hell.

One of the less pleasant aspects of life in Holworthy is having to get your own toilet paper. Unless you showed up at school with a lifetime supply of Charmin, don't plan on signing up to take any noon classes. You see, toilet paper can only be procured from our friend in the basement of Mower. And only from 12:15 to 12:45 on weekdays. Seriously.

But the evil toilet paper man from hell sits there behind his little desk guarding the precious stock of tissue all day long. I know. Once, in an emergency, I ran down and asked for a roll at 12:46. Sorry, I was told, toilet paper hours were over. Come back tomorrow.

Still, Holworthy did have a few good points. The bathrooms are "semiprivate"--meaning that you don't have to trek down the hall in a towel and shower behind a see-through map-of-the-world curtain while various individuals wander in and out. One of my friends was privileged to have this experience, and has informed me that contrary to popular belief, Asia is not big enough to cover your body from shoulders to knees.

There were other advantages to Holworthy as well. Most of my friends lived there. Jason from Friday the 13th did not. It was close to the Science Center--a building with a name that still conjures up visions of pain and death for me, but is nonetheless home to the greatest chocolate-chip cookies in the Square. Best of all, Holworthy was far from the Harvard Union--a bizarre place where students actually wait in line for crispitos and something called venerable vegetables.

Which brings me to another long-lasting friend: Store 24. It was close, it was full of junk food, and it was open all night. I learned to like Ramen noodles. A lot.

Holworthy is also close to Broadway Supermarket--where liquor, mixers, ice and munchies can all be bought under one roof. Not only was I the only roommate to show up with a bottle of vodka, I was also the only one to arrive with a fake I.D. Broadway and I became friends. Good friends.

At registration I made the acquaintance of Mr. Red Dot, who appeared on my package indicating that Mr. Term Bill (a monthly visitor) had not been paid. Since I am responsible for paying my own tuition bills, I knew right away that I had made a friend for life.

After much whining and a trip to the Financial Aid Office, I received my study card, and happily embarked upon my first shopping period.

I have always been a compulsive shopper. This time, however, I was a bit too compulsive-I signed up for Ec 10 after attending only one lecture. Call that Big Mistake #2.

How bad was it? Well, I was assigned to a section taught by Larry Lindsey. Lindsey is now an economic advisor to President Bush. I fear for our country.

For some reason, the Harvard administrationseems to think it's fine to ruin your Christmasvacation. While your friends go skiing, you sweatover January finals. But to make up for yourruined holiday, Harvard gives you a wonderfulthree-day-or-so break called "intersession" whichcomes between the end of first-semester finals andregistration for second semester.

Our rooming group dubbed intersession "Club MedBraindead" and from Day 1 of January readingperiod, we were counting down the hours until wecould spend our break in an oblivion of food,drink and sleep.

The first night we went to a party in LowellHouse (contrary to popular belief, Lowell doesoccasionally have parties) and my roommate'sboyfriend introduced me to his roommate.

Jenny, meet Mr. Funnel. Mr. Funnel, meet Jenny.

We spent the night together.

Now, I'm not usually one to pick up men forone-night stands. But Mr. Funnel and I got alongwell. Really well.

I awoke the next morning suitably braindead. Ihad an absolutely evil hangover and six holes inmy earlobes. Six. I was suddenly able to wear myentire earring collection simultaneously. I wasnot pleased.

There were no hard feelings. Mr. Funnel and Istill run into each other upon occasions. I keepmy ears protected.

Mr. Funnel did not do nearly as much damage tomy body as did my dear friends at UHS--UniversityHell Services. I entered Stillman Infirmary onesunny April day an innocent 18-year-old withstomach pains. I left 10 pounds lighter with moretrack marks in my arm than you'd find on anyjunkie.

UHS has two internists--a father-and-son duowhom I affectionately nicknamed Dip and Shit. Namea test, and they ran it on me. Name a body part,and they abused it.

In UHS, I was treated like an inanimate object.Stick out your arm. Open your mouth. Bend over. Noone told me what the tests were for, what theresults were or what they thought might be thecause of my aching stomach.

The answer of course, was the dreaded ulcer. Icould have told them that from Day 1. But no onetalked to me. It took Dip and Shit five days and500 needles to figure it out.

Somehow, most of my stories about my first yearat Harvard seem to have to do with alcohol.

Now lest you think I was (and still am) a lush,let me tell you that I managed to do reasonablywell in all my first-year classes--although no onehanded me a gold star for attendance. Oneclass--contemporary American history with AlanBrinkley--inspired me to read pages ofnon-required reading. Of course, Harvard sentBrinkley away the following year. He spent toomuch time with students and too little writingbooks, or something like that. So much foracademic inspiration. I signed up to be a Govmajor (Big Mistake #3).

I also signed up to live with most of myroommates again the next year. Somehow Harvard'sstrange system of arranging rooming groups haddone a good job for me.

And I survived endless nights at 14 PlymptonStreet, home of The Crimson.

By joining The Crimson I was sacrificing allthose A grades I was certainly capable ofachieving for something more valuable--experience.Or so I told my parents after first semestergrades came out. It sounded like a good excuse tome.

And I did learn a lot of things--not just aboutwriting, but about working with people. It waskind of like a trial run for future days in TheReal World. After surviving a 5 a.m. Press runwith a sexist managing editor standing over myshoulder. I felt capable of facing just aboutanything.

It would be an injustice to reduce my firstyear to one long drinking story. Some of my bestfirst-year memories are of marathon conversationswith a friend in my entryway who could completethe entire Sunday New York Times crossword puzzlein under an hour and seemed to know the answer toany question I asked-including the mysteries of Ec10.

And I will never throw away the goodbye note Idiscovered hidden in my boxes after my closestroommate left for the summer. Or the "FreshmanFavorites" tape two of my friends made as amemento of our first year together.

Harvard, of course, meant hard work--sometimesan overwhelming amount of it. But I didn't wantHarvard to be just tests and papers and the questfor good grades.

So I had fun--after writing my Expos papers,passing the QRR, and turning in my required 18sports stories for The Crimson comp.

OK, maybe 17. Don't ask me about the golf storyI supposedly wrote on Head of the Charles day.Just suffice it to say that warm keg beer, toiletbowls, and Kirkland B-31 played a part.The Two Emilys, BERNSTEIN (left) and MIERAS(right)