A coup by any other major—except political science—would be just as radical. 

I like Furnald. I really do. 

Hot take—I know. 

This is mostly because Furnald is clean. O! It’s oh so clean. It’s squeaky clean, squeaky deaky clean, and not even a hint of freaky. You could probably eat a full meal off the floor of the restroom and feel fine. It’s that clean. Floormates are respectful and there are no awkward interactions.

But that isn’t a fair image. It’s a partial one. While Furnald is clean, it’s also quiet. I swear there are still floormates I have never seen. There are barely two dozen of us. I have classes bigger than that where I know all the names. There are so many mysteries behind closed doors. Community, to some, is defined by one person alone.

I think that lack of communication brought us to the problem that began maybe a week before Thanksgiving. There are two bathrooms on an average Furnald floor. In each of these bathrooms are three showers. Pretty early on, you form your spiritual bond with the shower of your choosing. It’s intimate. It’s vulnerable. It’s surfactant-filled. It’s your shower (and a few unspecified others). 

One morning—before my chem lecture—I went about business as usual. I hopped into my special shower, gently placed my body wash and shampoo on the ledge, and turned on the shower. Something was different. I couldn’t quite place it at first—was it the changing temperature in the air? The progression of the seasons? The maturation of my sense of self? I decided on the lattermost; I’ve been doing a lot of growing.

I was wrong.

The change was the sound. From the belly of the beast—Furnald’s piping system—water pooled. The shower was not draining properly. My shower quickly became a swimming pool. It was like Charybdis but I was no Odysseus. I was left to ford the small enclosed space and move into my second choice shower stall which always has these nasty hairballs on the ground.

That was just one day. The next day, I went about my business thinking that equilibrium and harmony were restituted. Nope! Flooding. Every morning I was met with a depressing confirmation that my semester shower soul mate was now unusable except in waders.

Thanksgiving break was on the horizon so I resigned myself to using the second choice shower until we returned. At home, I reunited with my main girl and had that mushy-gushy unprotected foot contact. It was bonkers-crazy-off-the-hook. But on the train ride back I was already planning how to pick things back up with my Furnald Shower side piece #1. It was probably fixed by then. The next morning, after slicking back my hair and biting my lip as I opened the shower stall door, I lightly flicked the dial to hot water and prepared myself for an experience probably soundtracked with Bruno Mars’s “Locked Out of Heaven.”

Reader, it fucking flooded.

I was mad, but I couldn’t be too mad because I had work I needed to do. It wasn’t until last night did my anger reach its apex. I decided to take a stand. I confirmed the shower drain issue one last time and valiantly called in an undergraduate maintenance request.

“Hello! I just wanted to let you know that one of the showers on Furnald floor [REDACTED] floods.”

*Audible Scribbling on the other line*

With a little more conversation, I was told that maintenance would be over in the morning. And they were. And my shower drains correctly now.

This is all to say that I am the alpha resident on my floor. I didn’t even fill out an RA application because I wanted to give the other plebeians a chance. The committee would read about this burden I’ve fixed and just make me every single RA ever. They’d just clone my body and create a breed of RA people that they probably keep locked up in one of the Butler stacks. I, they, we’d (?) get certified by the American Kennel Club.

For now, I am just the leader, the backbone, the blood, and the heartbeat of my floor. This is a revolution from my RA (love my RA. Great RA. I just shoulder this more, built different, sorry). I control this floor. 

Today, an unspecific Furnald Floor. Tomorrow, replacing Deantini. The day after that, idk! Not President of the Uni—that role is cursed now, yuck. Maybe I take a role at Yale or Oxford. Oxford could be fun. But until then, this is the start of the Furnald mafia. I am the godfather. No, I am god. Pray to me for proper drainage. 

Furnald via Bwarchives