At first, I was sure it was artillery fire. There was a cacophony of crashes, furious pneumatic hissing and the sound of metal striking concrete with an intensity that indicated a deep dislike for both materials. Little explosions bombarded my open windows and the revving of a diesel engine filled my room. As my eyes tentatively blinked open, I worked to adjust my sleep-addled brain to the idea that University City was at war.
After a few moments of ceiling-staring and eye-rubbing I came to some important conclusions: (1) the United States was in the middle of a hostile conflict, but fortunately, for myself, Washington University and the ill-prepared University City Armed Forces, the war of the moment was taking place about 7,200 miles away; (2) Washington Avenue was, in fact, under attack from the Tuesday morning garbage-collection truck, not a vengeful nation-state. With my imagined machinegun fire forgotten, I roused myself from bed, performed some vigorous yawning and took a look out my window. From my perch on the second floor, I could see Delmar’s stoplight glowing green, I could see clusters of telephone wires and power lines, and, of course, the war-producing garbage truck. As the dumpster was lifted and emptied with deafening, wall-shaking percussion, I smiled serenely: Ah, the beauty of off-campus living.
This seems an appropriate time to note that, originally, I was not exactly eager to head off-campus. In fact, one might say that I was down right resistant. For a man of limited culinary abilities and a strict aversion to walking, the draws of campus life were many. At nearly anytime, the bounty of Bon App‚tit-from eggplant sandwiches to fresh-water salmon-was available with only a swipe of a card. Moreover, there was the distance to classes and the convenience of a pre-furnished room to consider. In sum, being a genuinely lazy person, it was hard to pass up the opportunity to have someone else arrange my life. And as a result, instead of heading out with the more intrepid, I hung back and found room and board at Small Group Housing for my Junior year. But after a year of hotel-style living within the characterless walls of Small Group, it became clear to my suitemates and I that it was time to step out into the brave-new-world.
Upon moving into our new apartment we were struck by the realization that “moving in” isn’t something you do, so much as it is something you suffer through, something you survive. Furnishing the apartment was a two-week-long job and one that required either treasure chests full of cash or the generosity of many SUV-driving friends and an intimate knowledge of St. Louis thrift stores. Painting the walls of our bedrooms and “family room” was as much fun as getting stitches as a child; calling-and waiting on hold for the better part of the afternoon-to setup internet, cable, gas and electricity was actually less fun. Showering across the hall while we waited for the hot water to be turned on best summarizes the experience: For the first two weeks, we felt more like squatters in an abandoned apartment than the newly minted semi-adults we were supposed to be.
And yet, trials withstanding, from the very first step into our very unfinished apartment, there was the sense that this was undeniably a good thing-that we should have been here much sooner. Though it defies explanation, just being in the middle of things, just seeing power lines and parking lots, seeing Delmar and its traffic lights, offers a great sense of well-being. Which brings us to garbage trucks and artillery fire: loud though they may be, its just one more reminder that I’m out in the world, out in the fray. So, for now, I’ll leave my windows open.