ode to dartmouth.

Chastity and Donovan and I are downstairs at our favorite bar, indulging in some of our favorite activities. 

Chastity giggles as she takes the hit. “Hey, remember when we were here one time and someone's prosthetic leg fell down the stairs?”

“Or when we got kicked out because like 5 people had alcohol poisoning and we wrecked the bathroom?” I add, accepting the joint. “Speaking of which, where is everyone?”

Donovan is sealing the end of his latest cigarette while the other burns in the ashtray. “Rasheed is supposed to be coming.”

“Ooh, has he heard back from Dartmouth yet?” I inquire, as Chastity simultaneously asks, “Is he still hooking up with Gina?”

Before Donovan has the chance to answer, there is a crash from the upstairs of the bar, punctuated by an unmistakable voice shouting, “La putain de merde!!” 

A moment later, Rasheed, drunk, belligerent, and holding a 40 of vodka, appears at the top of the stairs.

“In answer to your questions….” Donovan begins,

“FUCK! DARTMOUTH!” Rasheed bellows.

“Yes….”

“And FUCK! GINA!”

“And no.”

Rasheed is making his way unsteadily down the stairs in between taking formidable swigs of vodka. We rise to our feet in concern, seeing as these stairs are supposed to be blocked off to the general public.

“He knows there’s a step missing… right?” Chastity asks as Rasheed crashes down the last five steps onto the floor.

“Are you ok?” We run to his aid, but he wants none of it. Staggering upright, he swipes our hands away and yells,

“I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m FINE! This is the best time of my LIFE! Two rejections in one NIGHT!” His dramatic gesture almost knocks over the tray of the bartender, who has just arrived with the drinks. Without missing a beat, Rasheed picks up a shot and downs it. The bartender takes in Rasheed, his 40 of vodka, and the joint.

“Now it’s three rejections!” I’m trying to make light of the situation as Sunset's door is slammed shut behind us. But Rasheed is already running off to the next bar, shouting obscenities and jabbing his vodka bottle like a spear.

Donovan, Chastity and I exchange ominous looks.

“This is the American dream gone horribly wrong,” Chastity notes as we attempt to remove Rasheed from a heated argument with a bum.

“This is the American nightmare,” Donovan concurs.

Half an hour later, Rasheed has everyone taking shots to his rejection. Standing on a stool, he even has the French people rallying against the unknown American university.

“Who’s that girl?” He cups his hand to his ear to hear our response.

“GINA!” We yell in unison, punching our glasses into the air.

“And what’s that school?” He adds, waving his arms to motivate an increase in volume.

 
“DARTMOUTH!!!!” We roar. Shots are taken, random cries of “Fuck Dartmouth!” echo through the bar, and embraces take place between new friends, brought together by the emotional intensity of the moment.  

Rasheed has collapsed onto his stool and is now ranting to his neighbor, hand on the shoulder of the man, who is nodding deeply as if moved to find and avenge this foreign institution.

An hour or so later, we have finally managed to drag Rasheed outside, where, in the square, he is putting on yet another public display for his newfound group of followers. He positions himself at one end of the circle, then begins to run full speed across the cobblestones clutching an imaginary object in his hands.

“Oh God, what is he doing now,” Chastity mutters, hands cupped over her face, yet still peeking through due to morbid curiosity.

“If Gina were a footballlll…….” The cry reverberates around the square.

Oh, no.

Before we have the chance to stop him, Rasheed is positioning the invisible pigskin and, with a dramatic, gleeful wind-up, kicks his leg forward as hard as he can, and, predictably, flies over backward before hitting the ground in a sickening crash. 

The backpack which has housed his beverage stash for the night has broken his fall, accounting for the loud tinkling sound. The French people laugh, clap, and whistle for an encore as we rush to his side. This time, he does not resist our extended hands, and there is a moment where, as he lies on the pavement, groaning, I wish desperately that I had my camera. This would be the perfect image to send to the Dartmouth admissions committee.

On the bus home, I learn more than I ever needed to know about Rasheed, his family, academic and extracurricular history, and the legacy of his brother, a current student of Dartmouth. We decide that it has all been a horrible, injust mistake, whereupon Rasheed promptly falls asleep on my shoulder. Every so often, between snores, I catch a mumble about varsity lacrosse or a 1500 SAT score.

Back at home, a feeling of dread washes over me as I peruse the Wellesley brochure for the millionth time. Would this be me in a few days? Despite my slight intoxication, I pull out my calculus book, wipe off the dust, and begin to scan its contents. I can’t let myself continue at the rate I'm going, or else there might not be acceptances at all.