I, the faceless author of this column that is so conveniently plastered upon the very rear end of the Troubadour, have peeled off my guise of “studied reporter” to speak on a topic which has recently deeply affected my personal life.
Once a week, a staff member of the Troubadour descends into the dungeon of Antonian Hall and slips a wrinkled Kroger receipt under the door of my windowless cell. Upon it is scrawled the campus news of the past week.
When I received the slip informing me of the grand opening of the St. Drogo Coffee Bar, I was interested and amused. It appeared that after nearly eight months of dictatorship, Julius Caesar and his henchman King George III were finally making good on their only campaign promise that mattered: espresso in the Caf.
Every three days, I am given leave to exit my jester’s prison between the hours of 11 a.m. and noon. During this time, I am expected to gather any research that I require in order to give an account of campus happenings.
This past week, I had my sights set on the Drogo addition. As I sat staring at my blank cinderblock wall in the preceding days, all that brought me joy was the thought that tomorrow morning, I might partake in a warm latte and so melt the ice that shackles my heart.
The moment the keeper of the prison came to fetch me, I dashed up the 15 flights of stone steps which lead directly into the women’s bathroom in the Caf. Upon emerging, I noted the sign advertising in bold letters this newest caffeine center.
I stepped up to the card-swiping station and boldly proclaimed that I desired this day to imbibe a latte. The woman behind the counter gazed at me with the tenderest pity, powerless to control the situation, and let me know in soft tones that the St. Drogo Coffee Bar closes at 11 a.m.
Horrified, I looked to the poster. 11 a.m? Where and when did they relay this information? Nowhere did I see anything that remotely alluded to such time constraints. I steadied my breathing, forced a smile, thanked the woman and returned to my cell in disgrace.
Having not gotten my latte, I was a shell of my former self. “No matter,” thought I, after 24 hours of mental agony, “I shall beg that I might be released but an hour early, and so obtain that which I desire.” And by the heavenly powers, I was given leave to do so.
This blow, dear reader, was worse than the first. Arriving on time, I was sure that naught could stop me now. But, alas — if I were to tell you that the next day, with my hopes once again raised, I was met with the sorry news that the coffee bar was indeed open, but not functioning, wouldst thou not pity me?
I desire not revenge, no — only justice. We suffer while the fattened calves reap the benefits. I call for rebellion against these men of student government who taunt with their great promises and deliver nothing, escaping both punishment and derision.
We shan’t stand for this suffering any longer. My clown’s shackles are light compared to the heavy chains of tyranny under which the student population chafes. In the name of St. Drogo, I demand reform.