In the wake of this ridiculous and infuriating scandal concerning rich, famous people spending huge amounts of money to get their shiftless, dead-eyed children into top schools via an array of Benny Hill-level ruses, I am of course moved to ponder my own college experience. Which was largely uneventful; I wasn’t particularly interested in college, certain as I was that I would soon be a famous cult writer raking in millions from devoted fans, but I went because my parents made it clear that my alternatives all involved uniforms and asking people if they wanted fries with that.
I diligently did the applications, essays, and interviews, and got into some pretty decent schools, but wound up going to Rutgers for the in-state tuition and relative nearness of home, because I am lazy and timid. I also arranged to room with a kid from my high school, which meant my entire Freshman Year was essentially a waste of time, because all we did was delve into an ever-deeper simulated universe of our own making. We stayed in our room, made hilarious recordings to send home to our friends, and had deep conversations. We did not really attend many classes.
Yes, I was an asshole.
I don’t want to talk about grades or the socioeconomics of higher education or the fact that bachelor’s degrees in non-STEM fields are pretty much just coupons for entry-level jobs because they demonstrate you can wake up, hold to a schedule, and perform soul-killing tasks with aplomb.
No, I want to talk about Manhunt.
The Least Dangerous Game
You know: Manhunt. That slightly more mature version of Hide and Seek that adds an element of fascism and mob mentality to keep things exciting: One person starts off as ?it,’ the others hide. When It finds you, you also become ?It’ until it’s everyone hunting for the last person.
Old friends from high school visited one day in the fall, and since we were on an isolated campus with no alcohol or anything to do (and this was before Internet, people. Before. Internet.) we decided to go to the golf course on campus at night and play a game of Manhunt. In theory, this was a madcap, kooky thing to do—we had to register for the draft, and here we are playing a kids’ game! WE’RE HILARIOUS—and in practice it was, you know, kind of fun. Until we lost someone.
We kicked the game off: Someone started off as ?It’ and the rest of us scattered while they closed their eyes and counted. Some of us had clever ideas, like climbing trees, and some just relied on the shadows and terrain. One by one we were all caught … except one guy. Let’s call him Hanzo.
Hanzo was nowhere to be found. For a while this was exciting—Hanzo had found the greatest hiding spot of all time! Then it became boring. Then it became worrying. We gave up on the game and started shouting Hanzo! MANHUNT is OVER!
But Hanzo would not emerge from his hiding place. We began to hate Hanzo. He was ruining our night—possibly, if he was found facedown in a pond or something, our entire lives. Despite this reasonable fear we put in about an hour of searching and then returned to the dorms … where Hanzo was hanging out with another friend of ours, eating chips and watching TV. He’d gotten bored because of his hiding skilz, and simply wandered home.
We collectively chose to not speak to Hanzo for the rest of the evening. He now claims not to remember the incident.
What’s the point? Just that I was both an asshole and an idiot when I was in college. All I can say is, thank goodness Instagram didn’t exist.