I was awakened by a knock on my door around 10 a.m. on Homecoming Weekend my freshman year. At the door was a preppy, intoxicated senior followed by an apologetic, pretty upperclassman girl.
“This was my freshman year room!” he whooped. “New South 410!”
“I’m so sorry,” she said sheepishly. “We can go.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“Let’s take a shot!” he said, now inside my room.
I retrieved the bottle of cheap whiskey hidden inside my desk, far from the RA’s prying eyes, and gathered two shot glasses. I was groggy, clad in just my boxers, and it was not yet noon, but this is what Homecoming is about—right?
An unpleasant burning sensation and a few minutes of “Can you believe I lived here?!” later, she herded him out of my room. I got back in bed and drifted off, satisfied that I had brought some warm nostalgia into the life of this drunk man who was about to exit Georgetown and enter the world.
Weeks later, talking to my hallmates, I learned the truth. He had stopped at every room on my floor that morning, his lady friend abashedly trailing him. “This was my freshman year room!” he would yell. “Let’s take a shot!” Homecoming, indeed.
—Sam Sweeney (COL `10)
Stairs’ complicated geometry make them an excellent explanation for all kinds of injuries. Last September, for example, they saved me the embarrassment of admitting to my mother how I’d really mangled my ankle over the weekend.
A senior had gotten it into my head that all the cool kids climb John Carroll—and maybe they do, but probably not in heels, and probably not as rookie drinkers. I ignored my friend’s pleading (“Molly, this isn’t a good idea”), and had gotten about halfway up to our founder’s lap when a DPS officer yelled from the front gate, “Yo ma’am, get off the statue!”
I said, “No wait, I’m almost there,” and promptly fell flat on my ass. I don’t remember doing anything to my foot, but when my friend plucked me out of the dirt, I could barely limp.
All things considered, there are worse ways to end up in Radiology. But when my mother called about the insurance charge from Georgetown’s Student Health Center, I opted for the reason: “Yeah, I fell down the stairs.”
—Molly Redden (COL `11)
People make stupid decisions when they’re alone and drunk. One night during my first semester freshman year, after downing a few tall glasses of whiskey, I found my way to Red Square with determination. My goal was to help promote my radio show and prove a point to the Georgetown community. With a large roll of duct tape in one hand, and a sprawling poster in the other, I stumbled out the door. I had printed out the phrase “Punk Ain’t Dead” in bold Helvetica—one letter per 8” by 11” sheet of paper—and placed them together to form the phrase.
My chosen spot on ICC’s brick walls was past my short reach, so I drunkenly hoisted the nearest trash can next to the wall, then climbed atop and began my task. Minutes later, residents of the area began to walk by in groups, headed to the rugby-, lacrosse-, and Corp-sponsored events of the night and all individually murmuring and laughing as I slipped and struggled to balance in my incapacitated state. A group of six or seven students were walking by after I had finished and was trying to dismount from my perch on top of the trash can. But when my left foot slipped into the trash receptacle I had been standing on, I fell face first into the brick below. I didn’t dare look up while the group heckled as it passed by. I eventually found my way back to New South. I regained consciousness the next afternoon and headed back to Red Square to see last night’s achievement. As I stepped back onto the brick, I saw that the strong gusts of wind were carrying the letters that previously formed “Punk” and “Ain’t” across the ground, while only “Dead” remained stuck to the wall.
—James McGrory (COL `12)
