Dan DaranciangWhen I arrived, the man at the door was demanding five dollars. He was sitting casually, perched on a stool; his arms, which matched the rest of him, were like elevator cables-they each roughly resembled the circumference and heft of a fire hydrant. He nodded vaguely in my direction, without a trace of a smile, and continued chewing gum violently. He had a scar that ran vertically from his right eye to the outer point of his lips, and to me, this seemed very clich‚.
In fact, all of it was feeling very familiar: stand in line, flash identification of some form-real, borrowed or otherwise-and pay the ogre at the door. I was thinking to myself, I’ve traveled 838 miles for nothing. I was thinking to myself, I probably should have stayed in St. Louis.
But I had left Washington University for Washington, D.C., and like most of the city, I’d come to intern. In my imaginings, in my pre-Washington fantasies, I had pictured myself-sporting a stately three-piece suit-sitting alongside senators. I invented scenes where I would contribute the crucial piece of evidence-such sage advice for a young man-to a roundtable of rapt legislators. I would single-handedly rewrite the tax code, I would rework Medicare. And after a long day of nation-saving, I might share a martini-or whatever it is that powerbrokers drink-with the well-placed
Of course, my time in our nation’s capital has been dominated by copy editing and a poorly lit cubicle-but at that moment, standing toe-to-toe with a mountain-sized bouncer, I was still unaware of the fate that await me: I had been in Washington for about three hours.
With five dollars lost, I took a tentative step into the bar. I was in search of my roommate, Ben, whom I assumed would be easy to spot. He, despite being a genuinely charming and worthwhile human being, has some regrettable features. He is, and I feel certain it’s something he can’t help, fratastic. His closet features a cornucopia of pastel polos, each adorned with a spirited little horse-and-rider pair. He wears seersucker shorts and linen pants, and does so with a remarkable earnestness. There is, inexplicably, not a trace of irony. With this in mind, I confidently walked into the dark of the bar with my eyes peeled for turquoise and Lacoste.
What I found, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, was more than a little disconcerting: there were Bens, of varying severity, in every direction. Before me was a small battalion of gentlemen under the dictatorial influence of fraternity and Southern charm.
There wasn’t a man above twenty-five in the bar, but I counted a handful of blazers. Every shirt was tucked carefully into khakis and there were scores of loafers. I noted one young man, I kid you not, who was wearing a Burberry-patterned bowtie; if he had told me he traveled solely by yacht, I wouldn’t have doubted it. All at once I felt very unsettled: I had stumbled blindly into Ben’s territory, into a veritable orgy of tweed and Cole Haans, and it only took a cursory glance to realize I was very poorly camouflaged.
Now, as I see it, there are a few important lessons to draw from my adventures in Fratland. First, it should be pointed out that I had a marvelous time that night. Pink or primary colored, popped or un-popped, it was made abundantly clear that one shouldn’t judge a man by his polo alone. But perhaps more important, I was struck by the disparity between my experience in Washington, D.C., and my time at Washington University.
There isn’t a bar in St. Louis-at least not one populated by Wash. U. students-that will present uniformity to that degree. Wash. U., to its credit, is a place teeming with diversity and individuality, a place where heterogeneity flourishes. This isn’t to say that you won’t see a healthy number of lavender colored garments, because you will; the difference is it’s a matter of fashion, a choice, not a uniform to be dutifully donned.
So, without reservation, I can say that we look forward to your contribution to the eclectic fabric of Washington University-no matter the shade or stripe of your polo.