On weekends, we were often found languishing in Lance's room watching films with drinks in hand – in glasses, never in paper cups, nor secreted away in plastic bottles of Gatorade or the like. We did no seek to hide our debauchery and nor did we flaunt it – beyond a point of course. We were fortunate enough to live in a selective dormitory devoted to the arts and a certain level of depravity was expected of us. In this, our Resident Advisor, Schubert, was an illicit ally.
"Tell me when you're going to be drinking", he told us one evening early in our collective university experience, "and I'll make sure to not drop by." Schubert was a stickler for the letter of the rules – if he caught anyone drinking, or worse yet, disruptively drunk, he would sadly turn us in – but he possessed enough sympathy for our plight that he would actively avoid situations which might lead to such disciplinary necessity, provided that we did not do anything to endanger anyone. It was a privilege that was not extended to everyone in the dorm, and we were suitably appreciative.
Schubert was a career student, and I respected him for that. He had found what he enjoyed doing and had applied himself to the task of spending the rest of his life doing it; the year that I graduated was his fourteenth, and still he lived in the dormitory, the lone graduate student among us, allegedly working on his thesis.
Of our merry bunch, only I shared Schubert’s love for learning. We were all intellectuals, granted, we would never have been able to get into the University otherwise, but for the others the task of learning was seen as a labor, whereas for me it just came naturally. This, I suspect, explains why my marks never suffered for my association with the rest of them, while theirs’ invariable did.
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