Fear and Loathing in (UW-)Whitewater (Part III)

Maybe we had walked down some stairs or something- well it was in the basement. Nothing too exciting down there, we had passed a broken bubbler which, by the way, is the proper name for it, continued down a hall towards wherever Dusty had been leading us to. Either we had stopped in an Apple Lab for a moment, or that was just a figment of Phil's imagination. Thank God we had gotten out of there before Phil could get any more excited. Though this wasn't the room that Dusty had intended. He had led us to a small room with two chairs and an electric piano. Not a cool electric piano like a Wurlitzer (you know, type like Ray Charles used in “What'd I Say“). For some reason Dusty has wanted to hear a harpsichord tune or something. Okay, sure why not? Well I didn't; I tried and played, from what I could remember of the Pumpkins' “Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness.” That lasted only for a moment and then we went back to a lounge area. There we sat. And sat for a while.

Cody and I had amused ourselves at the table while the others played the “nervous game” or some shit like that. Upon the table there was the Whitewater school paper. Sure, their school newspaper may be bigger than The Voice, however there's one thing The Voice has over them: coupons to Culver's. And Culver's coupons are extremely important. There were also some taped together branches for some sort of an arts and crafts time, and some alcohol awareness thing. While sitting or waiting, there were three large women, who I assumed to be be-drunken, who waddled up the stairs. And they were quite loud. If they weren't large or women, it still makes a better story. We just sat there. Well almost all of us, Stueven had gone off somewhere to talk to his betroth… for quite some time. The rest of us continued to sit. Eventually I ran out of sit and explored my surroundings, such as the Mr. “Geddy” Lee, which by the way doesn't look like Geddy Lee at all, he looks more like former-president Truman. You know, Harry S. Of course, that common thing. Near the portrait there was a handmade poster with “Bowling for Boobies.” Okay. I'll bite.

I'm pretty sure the rest lost the sit in them and we returned to Dusty's room. We went up the stairs and through the hallway back to the dorm to where one found none other than Kenny, who was doing something (probably playing Mass Effect). Eventually he had ended his game, and we tried to watch a movie. I’m not too sure what movie it was but it did star Mark Wahlberg. Alas, it was early and I don't think anyone was paying attention anyways. (Though I could be wrong.) A Whitewater native had sneaked in Dusty's room and used it as sanctuary. He was hiding from the RAs. As Kenny put it; he was “balding,” a Whitewater term for being under the influence. After an hour of the movie or less than that we all had given up with trying to watch, so we tried to sleep.

The sleeping arrangements were most peculiar: two beds, one floor, and a futon. Although the two Whitewater natives got their respected beds. The floor was to Carter, and in addition to the floor he had gotten my pillow. Though with a pillow case of the Packer kind, it would only make sense more to him than me, I suppose. And the futon was shared between Stueven, Cody, Phil and I. So yeah, four guys… sounds hot, doesn't it?

It was like something out of Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. Wait, that's a terrible reference; it doesn't really apply at all (and it's probably out-dated, and not all walks of life will/would get it). Sure, there were four bodies, but we were all guys, we weren't couples, we weren't exploring free love, and most importantly we weren't in a bed. Although Kenny had offered to return to his “room,” though that wouldn't be too nice. I mean, throwing him back to a room that smelled of “shame, sweat, and disappointment” would just be cruel. And yet, oh how much I would give for a bed. Believe it or not, but surprisingly I'm not the tallest. However, in this strange turn of events I was just tall enough to have my legs dangle off the edge. Then to top it all off, there was all this ploy-rhythmic wall of snores, coming from all round me. I had this thought floating in the back of my mind, “I can't sleep in this shit.”

To the person on the right of me, I was pretty sure he was tossing and turning, and for some reason smothering himself with his pillow. Though I don't really remember, but I'm also convinced the person on my right had touched asses. Certainly a nightmare. That’s weird. Maybe the floor or Dusty's bed wasn't sounding that bad after all. Like I had mentioned earlier about the snoring, there was this loud obnoxious snore from person on my far left, at the time I described as “the sound of a person, who hated Apple products.” That doesn't really make much sense. Could one tell I was sleepy? Later I was told that I wasn't the only one annoyed by the loud snorer. Someone had punched him, and surprisingly it had worked. Though it had stopped, he still had mumbled “goddam it, son of a bitch.” And that's that, I would suppose. Phil was still one sick puppy, sleeping with his shoes (and jacket) on. That's just gross.

I must've fallen sleep, because I remember waking up. Though I'm quite puzzled by how that had happened. My legs hurt. Dusty didn't want to bring us through the Whitewater eatery. I think he's embarrassed by us? Of all the places one could eat at Whitewater and the city, we went to MacDon's. Oh, that's fancy, not like I could find one of those in Sheboygan. So yeah, we ate there, Stueven made a mess, and we went back to the school. Alas we needed a group photo to at least prove that Whitewater existed and that we were actually there. There was a couple who helped take the group picture. They were driving a Sebring which prompted Cody to say: “first compliment them on their Sebring and then tell them that their engine's going to die.” He did have emotional ties with Sebrings. So the couple was nice enough to do what we had asked. Then it was time for the big goodbye. And then we had left Dusty to fear and loath in Whitewater, by his self. Hours later it had ended on the road with Blind Melon's “No Rain” playing. I think that's a fitting end to a place that was in the middle of nowhere.

Though of course there was Dylan's proto-rap song, “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” which was later, and came on my way home. One just has to play it loud... Sure did any of these experiences or blurry pictures prove that Whitewater actually existed? But who knows, I'm not there, I'm gone. We must have done something right, at least I think. I mean it felt like we had lost an hour. Not only did we lose time, but one didn't come home with us. Indeed, we left to him to fend for himself in Milwaukee. I don't think I had learned that much of anything, except maybe a certain pair of people, who'll remain nameless, had this whole Verlaine and Rimbaud... well, that's just my thought. And sure there was this whole “we had to bring the entertainment and food” type of deal. Really Dusty? Maybe one should redefine their definition of being a “host.” But still it was nice to get out of Sheboygan. That's always a plus. I had gotten a couple of tweets out of this, that's good. I almost forgot, I had gotten a Ralph Steadman-like doodle. And yet I don't believe that I found the great American dream, but I might have...