The Lockout

If, after my last post, you still find yourself searching for good ways to spend free time or avoid doing work, there is one more option that I failed to previously discuss: relatively major emergencies.

You see, an unusual series of events befell the fourth floor of Howard Hall on this brisk October night. Our lovely and capable RA, who shall remain nameless (but who may or may not also follow this blog), headed down to the green lounge at 9 tonight for a routinely terrifying meeting on ResLife punishments. Upon returning to her humble fourth-floor abode after the meeting, she discovered that her room key was apparently no longer functional. She tried the lock several times and even tracked down the master key for the building, but after attempts from the rector, another RA, and pretty much every girl on the fourth floor, her door remained stubbornly locked. While the crowd that had gathered discussed the possibility of a cockroach blocking the lock or a freshman pulling a particularly cruel prank, our rector made a quick phone call to the locksmithing powers that be and arranged for the campus locksmith to head over forthwith.

Until he arrived, then, our RA was locked out, and she needed somewhere to go and something to do. The remaining lockout spectators - namely, myself, another fourth-floor-single lady, the entirety of the fourth floor sophomore quad, and the RA herself - decided that the only logical course of action was to hold an impromptu par-tay in Club 421, also known as the fourth floor quad. The seven of us piled onto the couches and lounge chairs of the quad's common room, and we commenced with the good times. We collectively read the latest Domerberry post (because what else could we do), laughed about the lockout, further developed our conspiracy theories on the freshman hiding out in the RA's room, exchanged Twitter names, tweeted about the lockout, discussed our reputations in the dorm (my personal favorite, from one of the very heterosexual quad residents: "People probably see me and say, 'Who's that lesbian?'"), watched a live dance performance (put on by ourselves), ate candy corn, and generally procrastinated our lives away. About a half hour later, the promised locksmith arrived. He tried unlocking the door with the same keys we had tried and, to no one's surprise, had no luck. After "jokingly" telling our RA that she must have broken the lock somehow, he informed us he "had to go get the drill." He returned with said power tool and, as we took sneaky muploads and attempted to laugh somewhat quietly, went to town on the door. A few minutes later, he had successfully managed to get the RA's door open - by straight up removing the lock from the door altogether. He said he would bring a new lock back in 15-20 minutes, and twenty minutes later, there we remained in Club 421, still laughing and, in my case, blogging about this completely ridiculous night.

By now, it's been well over half an hour since the locksmith's most recent exit, but if he keeps us waiting for another two hours, I think I speak for the group when I say we won't mind. After all, if the NBA and NFL taught us anything this summer, it's that a lockout is only as good as its obnoxious duration...and its ability to get you out of doing work.