The dorm room speakeasy

(Did you miss yesterday? Better catch up or this will make no sense.)

“The closet. Can we open that door?”

The girl, a Resident Advisor in the dorms, pointed to our closet door.

My slight buzz vanished in a heartbeat, replaced with whatever it is that people feel when they have a gun pointed at their forehead.

“No.” I was starting to shake.

She sighed.

“Well, then I’ll have to call the cops, and they’ll ask you to open the door, and then the hall director…” she continued but I was not paying attention.

There was no way out.

There was no way out.

She was going to open the closet door, and then we were screwed.

Screwed.

There was no way out.

“Hah this is so cool!”

I stepped back and admired our work

Both of our desks stood on top of cinder blocks, elevating the surface to “bar height.”

The particle board wood paneling stapled across the front made the two desks look like a continuous piece of furniture.

Three bar stools completed the look.

Almost…

“How about some lights?” my roommate asked.

He began stapling a strand of Christmas lights across the front of the bar.

This was perfect.

The bar looked like a bar, our room had a sink, and the walk-in closet was huge…

Almost ready for our grand opening.

All we needed was some inventory.

I flipped through the wad of cash one more time.

$1500.

In 1998, that could buy a lot of booze.

We’d decided to focus on cocktails, because dollar for dollar they had the best resale margins.

We’d need a handle of every major spirit…

Vodka. Rum. Whiskey. Gin.

Sounded like a Chumbawumba song.

My roommate and I were underage, so we couldn’t go to the liquor store with our upperclassmen supplier.

Instead, we gave him our pile of cash and a shopping list.

When he returned, it took us over an hour to sneak everything into our room, one bottle at a time smuggled in our backpacks.

So much booze.

Once we had everything safely stashed in our giant walk-in closet, I realized how much this actually was.

I was vaguely aware that anyone caught having a “kegger” in the dorms would be immediately expelled from the college.

And in terms of total mass of ethanol, this was way more than a single keg.

But we weren’t going to throw raging parties.

Quite the opposite.

We had a list of “clients” who wanted a quiet, safe place to enjoy some adult beverages.

In fact, they had all paid us a deposit to join our club.

That’s where our wad of cash came from.

We were going to run a secret, massively profitable speakeasy bar from our dorm room, and no one “outside” would ever know.

To 19 year old me, this seemed like a really good idea.

She turned the doorknob and pulled the closet door open.

She stepped inside.

I heard a gasp.

“No way. No way. Are you serious? Ken, we’re going to need a LOT of boxes. Call Trish and tell her we need backup.”

The young male RA-in-training peeked inside the closet.

“Oh. my-”

“Ken, call Trish and tell her we need help!”

Ken nodded and briskly stepped into the hall while unholstering his 2-way radio.

The girl emerged from the closet, a look of wonder on her face.

“Listen, you guys are in trouble. This is bad.”

She spoke matter-of-factly, but there was a new look on her face.

Was it… admiration?

She scribbled furiously on her clipboard.

“You can expect a call from the hall director tomorrow. You need to be here for that call.”

“But we have class!” my roommate said.

“You need to be here for that call.” the girl repeated.

I sat on the edge of my bed, thinking.

Thinking as an army of RA’s marched in front of me, carrying out box after box of our inventory.

Who cared about missing a day of class?

We were about to get kicked out of school.

I wondered how I’d explain this to my parents.

Public school teachers, sending large chunks of their salaries every few months to allow me to be here.

I felt sick.

Finally, the closet was empty.

The girl was the last one to leave.

“Don’t miss the call from the hall director tomorrow.”

She closed the door behind her.

I’ve never told this story publicly before.

It makes me feel exposed.

Some of my best and worst moments, compressed into hours.

Am I bragging or confessing?

Will you think less of me when you know the truth?

Tomorrow, the conclusion.

Greg

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