Dorm Discipline
The new Resident Assistant
"Out with it! You must have more reason to call me in here, than a cup of tea."
I have known the Dean for nearly a decade, since I started as a post-grad and now as a research fellow. She is agreeable and social, but mostly efficient.
Sitting in her office by her invitation on this warm fall day, maybe one of the last fine days of the year, sipping Earl Grey, I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Dean Harken smiled. "We know one another too well."
She sipped, put her cup down.
"You've had a productive time here, as a scholar and as researcher. But I'm interested now, in your skills at administration."
That had me baffled. I'd never been in an administration role at this school.
She saw my look, smiled.
"I refer to your time as a dorm RA."
Ah! Clarity! In my first two years here I took a Resident Assistant position to help fund my way. The pay wasn't great, but it came with room-and-board.
"You're interested in the part where I cleaned up Hazard House?"
She smiled.
That was the campus name for the Sophomore floor of Minster Hall, the oldest dorm block on campus. It had become a tradition for second-year students to party there.
It had become a problem as the school's dropout stats had gotten worse, mostly because of slackers in Hacker House, partying at the expense of their academic progress.
As RA I'd put some brakes on that. Not so much as to spoil the reputation, but enough structure to ensure each student made time for study.
Things like a 'dead week' before finals, when there was a moratorium on gatherings bigger than a 6-person study group. Sunday cram sessions where students helped each other in an all-day study session in the commons, with tutors and pizza provided.
It was not enough of a crackdown to engender resentment. In fact students routinely expressed relief when their grades improved enough to take pressure off from family, who were paying the bills after all and wanted to see progress.
But that was all in the past. I'd been in the classroom as teaching assistant, tutor, lab technician and now researcher since then.
"How can I help you?" I asked sincerely.
Dean Harken was a friend as well as an advisor. She'd supported me when my funding got bumped for lab renovations, landing me work on outside contracts from her friends in the the commercial world.
Also, Dean Harken was a stone cold beauty. In her 30's, even dressed conservatively, her classical features and superb build could not be disguised.
Not that I mixed academics with pleasure. I didn't shit where I ate; the academic life was hard enough without screwing around with... well, screwing around.
"I need an RA for a Sorority house. Yes, normally the national Greek organization would be expected to step in when a house is in trouble.
But this house has been de-certified by it's umbrella society."
"You don't just close them down in that case?" An un-credentialed house meant trouble - hard to justify to the Regents, to parents, to the Faculty board.
"This is a... special case. The residents are all exceptional scholars. Some are from influential families, legacies with stellar histories in this institution. And the rest are special needs. Not in a scholarly sense. In a financial one."
Ah. Dean Harken had a soft spot for that kind of student. It was rumored she'd come from a trailer park in Florida herself, pulled herself up by her bootstraps to get a PhD and a role in University administration.
Some said she'd slept her way up; I doubted that extremely. She was too sharp; too formidable. Pity the bloke who tries to tap that powder keg! She had the skills, and now the power, to ruin even tenured profs who got too frisky.
"They don't have an RA now?" Lack of an RA was a serious breach of the University policies.
"We went through three last semester; none lasted more than a month. They are un-supervised at the moment. The last one left the school, is in therapy."
I swallowed hard. That sounded rough. But how rough could a bunch of 19- to 21-year-olds get? Especially good students.
"Well, you know I'm your man. Nothing I wouldn't do for you."
"Just what I hoped you'd say! You can start this afternoon."
That was fast. But I was between residences now, my previous situation ending when my roommates simultaneously fled - either graduating or transferring. It would be a relief to stop couch-surfing. And Dean knew it. She knew everything.
Approaching Meta Mu (and how was that a Sorority designation? Meta wasn't a greek letter), I paused to take it in.
The house was three-story, some old Queen Ann built by an architect from the last century. Roof good; no windows broken but some on the 3rd floor were smeared pretty liberally with something nasty.
A hose snaked up one side to the roof. I knew what that always meant - a weed garden on the roof, in this case a widow's walk. Pretty handy actually, good sun, flat, probably a hatch access inside.
And not visible from the street. No cause for campus security to inspect, as they left houses alone as long as they weren't a public nuisance. Private pot was pretty standard, especially as this institution had an Ag department. Lots of students with the know-how to grow a respectable crop.
A motor bike was parked on the lawn. Indian, smaller model but well-maintained. Expensive. I'd be interested in seeing more of that.
Walking to one side I peered at the back yard, what I could see of it. A full-sized tee-pee had been erected. No smoke came out at the moment, but with the door flap open I could see a hookah and what must be a blizzard of torn condom wrappers littering the inside.
Nothing I couldn't deal with so far. The usual college-age undergraduate excesses.
The front door was ajar. A big double-oak paneled affair, a little scarred but it's a century old so pretty good. One half was unlatched, stood half-open.
That could be a good sign. They welcomed desperate folks in need, a holdover from the riots up north. On a midwestern college campus it wasn't as risky as it would be in an inner city.
