The Richardson Inferno

            Halfway through the first half of my allotted four-year scholarship at Winthrop University, I lost the true and lighted path to academic excellence and wound up wondering about a dark parking lot. While standing in the blue light of an emergency call box, I was able to discern the outline of two towers. Hoping that I may be able to get some directions, I made my way towards the eastern building. As I approached the main entrance of the easterly tower, I noticed that above the doors on the façade of the building were black letters saying “Richardson Hall,” except the “a” in Hall had been crossed out and the letter “e” was formed in tape above it. “This university is getting so cheap they won’t even buy new letters,” I thought to myself. But upon further examination, I found smaller letters under the building name that I had never noticed before. They read, “Abandon all hope of graduating ye who enter here.” “Man, that is so true,” I thought to myself as I started for the doors again. Suddenly, from out of the small bushes along the sidewalk, a German Shepard leaped in front of me, blocking my path to the building. I tried to edge my way around it, but it would not let me pass. Giving up, I started backing up slowly, and returned to the darkness of the parking lot. When the coast was clear, I again made an attempt to get to the door, but this time I was blocked by a very large and poorly drawn ram. The ram lowered its head and charged towards me. While I was fleeing, I suddenly remembered a scene from Monty Python and hoped that the animator of this cartoon monstrosity would have a similar fate as the animator of the Black Beast of Aaauugh. When I looked over my shoulder, the cartoon had vanished. “Thank God cartoonists are prone to heart attacks in these situations,” I said aloud. I made my way towards the doors of Richardson once again, but a peculiar beast yet again turned me away. This time it was an extraordinarily large lemming that chased me away; “must have been living near the nuclear power plant,” I thought to myself as I retreated. Suddenly, the lemming decided to migrate somewhere else, and ran right out in front of a passing freight train. I then turned around and headed back towards the building. This time, the figure of a person appeared before me. It was dressed in khaki pants and a dark blue shirt with “Winthrop University” printed in white letters. There was a nametag pinned to the shirt, as well, with “Winthrop Ambassador” etched in blue letters on the white tag. There was no name printed on the tag. Then he spoke to me, saying, “Dawg, I’ve been watching you try to get to the doors of Richardson, you’ve tried three times, why do you keep coming back? And why did you run from that lemming? What are you some kind of pansy?” “Hey, that thing had to have been irradiated,” I started, but the tour guide cut me off. “Look,” he said, “I’m a Winthrop Ambassador, I know everything there is to know about this campus. Follow me and I can get you into the building and take you to where you need to go.” At this, he started to walk towards the end of the building, and I followed after him. “Hey, uh, um, hey what’s your name?” “I don’t have a name, Jared, just call me W.A.” As we rounded the end of the building and stepped into the bright lights of the spotlights mounted atop the building, I gasped at the sight of my guide’s face. I was unable to notice before because his face was concealed in shadow, but now I could tell the only feature on the front of his head was a mouth; he had no nose or eyes. “Holy crap,” I yelled, “you don’t have a face!” “That’s right,” he replied nonchalantly, “it’s because I am simply a tour guide, I don’t need any distinguishable features like a face or a name to do my job, just a mouth to spout out facts.” We came to the center of the back side of the building and we descended to the large door that led to the basement of the building. My guide then went to work on the door, and after several minutes, was able to pry it open. We then crossed the threshold into the building.

            At the moment we heard the door slam shut behind us, a gray door down the hall on the left burst open. A redheaded man wearing jeans and a black, Security Assistant t-shirt appeared and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing? Did you honestly think that you could enter this building without me knowing? We have cameras everywhere, not to mention the alarm on the door you just came in! No one can come into this building with out my permission!” As the S.A. spoke, his head twitched, probably because he had consumed too much caffeine trying to stay awake through his seven hour, graveyard shift, causing his ponytail to make what looked like slashes of fire. “I’m going to have to write you up for this,” he said, “give me your IDs.” W.A. and I reached into our pockets while the S.A. pulled something out of his back pocket. “Crap,” he exclaimed, “I’m out of Incident Report forms. Wait here while I go to Wofford to get some more. If you don’t you’ll get in bigger trouble.” With that he disappeared through the gray door down the hall again. “Moron,” I said under my breath as the door closed. “Well, since we have to go through the whole building to get where you’re going, I might as well as show you everything,” W.A. said, completely unfazed by the militant S.A. He then led me through the first door on our left, and as soon as I had entered the room I was inundated with intense heat and the putrid smell of human sweat. “Here reside the souls of those males who failed to have the decency to do laundry more than once every two months,” my guide explained. Many guys sat along the back wall of the room, opposite the dryers, while on the far side of the room they stood in long lines in front of the washers. “These student souls,” W.A. explained, “have the desire to get their laundry done as soon as possible, contrary to how they lived. The must wait an extraordinarily long time to use a washer, and then they must wait for their clothes to dry in the dryers. Except, since all of the dryers are operating at the same time, they produce so much heat and humidity that their clothes will never dry. Meanwhile, these poor souls must stay here in the heat, sweating like mad, and must endure the smell of their collective body odor for all eternity, since while alive, they made others endure the smell of their clothes.” I turned to talk to some of the guys sitting in front of the dryers, but everything suddenly went black.

            I awoke at the sound of a bell and a flash of a green up arrow. I was lying on a metal floor, staring at three gray ceiling panels. Well, there should have been three panels, the ones with the lights in them were there, but middle panel was missing, exposing all sorts of electrical cords. “I must still be in the ghetto,” I thought. “What happened?” I asked as I got to my feet. “You fainted, you pansy. I had to drag you here into the elevator. I think you put on a little more than just the Freshman Fifteen, there fatty,” W.A. snapped. “Well, the heat and the smell must have gotten to me,” I replied, but while I spoke he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together like he was playing an extremely tiny violin. When the elevator stopped, and the doors opened, we stepped out into the lobby of Richardson. After we exited the elevator, a pack of guys crammed themselves onto the elevator to go up to higher floors. I examined the lobby, and sitting behind the front desk was Celest Williamson, the Resident Director of Richardson. Then, a short young man with glasses came through the front door of the building. He asked Celest, “What room am I supposed to be in?” “Name?” she asked. “Ponds, Jeremy Ponds,” he replied. She then opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a large blue folder. “Ah yes, Ponds,” she said after scanning the printouts in the folder, “you’re in room 415.” He then walked around the desk and joined the crowd in front of the elevators. My guide then pulled my arm and led me up the stairs to the side of the elevators, telling me, “You have now ascended to student hell proper, where the souls of countless Winthrop students who committed student sins that caused them to miss graduation are gathered. The first section is composed of the Violent Against Homework, represented by the dog, notoriously blamed for eating assignments. The second section is composed of those greater sinners, the Violent Against the Mind, represented by the head-smacking ram. The last section is composed of the worst student sinners, the Violent Against the Body, represented by the lemming.” We stopped in front of the door to room 101, and W.A. continued, “All of the Violent Against Homework neglected their work and their studies during their time as students, but here in this place, they have the eternal desire to read and complete their school work.” “This is the first section of sinners, the Overly Promiscuous, they put aside their studies in order to satisfied their lustful desires,” he said as he opened the door. Inside the room sat the souls of two of these sinners. They looked completely normal except for the fact that they had textbooks attached to their faces. “Since they craved physical pleasure in their lives, the books will always keep contact with the sinners skin,” my guide explained. One of the souls reached up and tried to pull the book off of his face, but it just pulled at the skin, like it was super glued on, and when he released the book it snapped back in place, like it was on elastic. The sinners tried this several times, and I asked, “Why do they keep pulling at the books? That has to be extremely painful.” “They have to,” W.A. replied, “because the books are too close to their eyes to read, so they must lower them to a point where they can focus. Remember, they have the deepest desire to read those books.” At that, my guide closed the door and led me back to the elevators. There was a paper taped to the outside of the elevator doors saying: “Follow the Chris Rice rule, do not put eighteen or more people on an elevator or Murphy’s Law will intervene and make you get stuck.” When an elevator arrived, W.A. and I got on, along with some damned souls. W.A. pressed the button for 2, which elicited from our company, “What you guys couldn’t walk up one friggin flight of stairs?”

            When the doors opened, we stepped out into the second floor. “Here the souls of the Excessive Video Gamers are kept,” W.A. said. I saw many the names of many of my friends by the doors of this floor. The Land twins in 209, Larry Albers in 212, Jimmy Ables in 214, and Pierre Moore in 213, all of whom were good friends of mine. I opened the door to Room 213, and saw my buddy Pierre typing away furiously at his computer. “When they were students, they used machines to play games while they neglected their homework. Now, while they try to complete their work on the machines, the machines play games with them,” W.A. explained. “Dang it!” Pierre yelled as he pressed the reset button, “I didn’t get to save my work before it froze up.” “Let’s go, Jared,” W.A. urged, as I stood pitying the poor soul in front of me, and we returned to the elevators, riding up to the third floor. “Here is were the souls of Those Who Blared Their Music Too Loud reside,” W.A. said. “Then why is it so quiet, W.A.?” I queried. “Take a look,” he said as he opened a door. I saw a soul sitting a desk, trying to write a paper, but was preoccupied with the volume control on his stereo. “They can only do work while the music is on, since they forced others living around them to listen to their music by playing it way too loud. The volume will periodically cut out, and since their only inclination is to turn the volume up, the controls have been reversed, meaning they will turn the volume down, causing more frustration. Come, we have much more to see.” He closed the door and we went back to the elevators. When we got on, W.A. pressed 4, and someone on the elevator griped, “What’s the deal here? You guys made us stop at 3 and now you’re only going up to 4? This is ridiculous!”

            “Here on the fourth floor,” W.A. started as we exited the elevator, “are the Members of various Student Bands.” I saw a room where friends Steven Pappas and Jeromy Dean were staying. W.A. led me to the room of my friends Bryan Kuhn and Mike McLeod, Room 410, and opened the door. The two were playing their instruments, and continued for a while, until they finally stopped and made like they were going to use the textbooks strewn open around the room. Suddenly, the sound of another band on the hall could be heard, and Bryan and Mike rushed back to playing. “You see, they want to do work, but since they competed for attention from their friends by playing coffee houses and such, they now are compelled to play to compete with the sounds of other bands. And on this floor, the music never stops,” W.A. explained. Now when we returned to elevators, we encountered three cleaning ladies in front of them who had a certain fury to their demeanor. “You’re not supposed to be here,” one of the women said, “we’re going to call security on you and get you thrown out!” Suddenly, a shudder went through the floor and the sound of rushing water could be heard. “Uh oh, sounds like a toilet got backed up. Let’s get out of here before someone makes us clean it up.” And just like that, they were gone. Ascending to the fifth floor, my guide informed me that the last floor in the Violent Against Homework was home to the Time Mismanagers. In Room 506, I was shown my good buddy Manny Shafer, an infamous procrastinator. He was typing a paper very, very slowly. “Since he always put things off to do hurriedly at the last minute to give him time to have fun, this soul now must endure working as slowly as possible, taking as much time as possible,” W.A. explained before leading me away to Room 528. Here was my best friend, Art Basler, who was guilty of trying to pack too many things into his schedule, hurriedly reading through an ever-growing pile of books. “Because he had too many extracurricular activities and also tried to keep his friends, his studying fell and grades suffered. Now, he is hurrying to get all of his studying done, which will never happen, so he can then move on and have fun,” W.A. explained to me as I watched in great sorrow. He tore me away from my vigil and closed the door, taking me back to the elevator and up to the sixth floor.

            “Ah yes, the sixth floor, where you used to live right, Jared?” W.A asked when we exited the sardine can of an elevator. “Yes,” I replied reluctantly, “Room 618.” “Well, as you know,” he started, “this is where the Anti-Social are kept. They are destined to sit in their rooms forever working, except that they sit in complete and total silence. If anyone tries to start a conversation, or play some music, the overlord, Resident Assistant Caleb Foth, master of the card game Magic, will write him up immediately and punish him severely. Because these souls kept to themselves all the time while students and drove themselves insane before they could exit school, they are now driven crazy by the silence, but are come down hard upon if they try to break it.” We then rode to the seventh floor, whereupon I was told, “Here resides the Overly Apathetic, with one exception. These souls, due to their indifference to everything, did not get up to do anything while students, so now they are eternally bound to their chairs, unable to rise, even though they desperately want to.” “And the one exception?” I asked. “He lives here,” W.A. pointed to Room 707, “and he is the Academic Perfectionist. Since he had took so much initiative and set so high of standards for himself, straight A’s and 100 percent on everything, he has been placed to overlord the apathetic. Try as he might to get them to do anything, he will be frustrated to no end since he will forever keep trying and failing.” After W.A. opened the door, I entered the room, but immediately knelt and bowed my head once I saw its occupant, saying, “Lord Rice, my liege.” The almighty and powerful ruler of the seventh floor, Lord Chris Rice, said, “Arise, my faithful vassal, my Assistant Resident Assistant.” “I would like to point out,” W.A. said chastisingly, “that this is a damned soul, in the eighth circle no less, and is not worthy of such treatment. Now, since he hates to be reminded of some of his academic faults, part of his punishment is for you to taunt him. Go ahead.” “So, Chris,” I started, “ironic how you get placed here, high up in my version of the Inferno, when you so highly suggested this class since you took it last year, how you were the one whose opinion sealed the fact that I would take the class and force me to compose such an essay. How about that Simpson Inferno? I think it could have been way better. And I see more chances for you to screw up in 206 Honors next semester. Oh, and Chris, do you remember that research paper we had to write for Honors Comparative Politics, the one I spent five hours working on, and you dedicated almost an entire weekend? Remember how we got the same grade on that? It was hilarious.” At this moment I ducked a textbook that was thrown at me and quickly exited the room before he could do anything else in his fit of rage. W.A. and I then ascended to the eight and highest floor. As we exited the elevator, there was a sign designating this area “The Penthouse.” W.A. said, “Here are housed the drug users and the alcoholics. While students, they hid from their responsibilities by using drugs to alter their consciousness. Now, no matter what they do, they will remain sober and have to face the harsh realities of the life that they accepted by throwing their opportunities at college away.”

            “Okay, then, I’ve seen everything, now take me back to the road to academic excellence,” I told my guide, but he only smiled menacingly. “You’re not going to leave this place,” he said. “Why not?” I asked, quite perturbed. “Haven’t you ever wondered why your friends call you the devil?” “No, not really.” “Well, Jared, it’s because you ARE the devil,” W.A. told me through an evil sneer. “You are the worst of all of them, you play too many computer games, you perfected the art of procrastination, you are the one who created calculated apathy, you know, that theory of only doing just enough to get the grade you want? You were the one, when having a paper to write, two tests to study for, and a semesters worth of reading journals to do, who went out and played sand volleyball for three hours.” I just stood there, dumbfounded, letting all he said sink in. “Welcome home.”