Sai Kulkarni ‘23
Culture Editor
Stanley Birch ‘22
Managing Editor
It was a nice day out, the kind of day where you almost forget we are in the middle of a global pandemic. The sun was shining, the air was warm, undergraduates were still acting like there was no ’Rona, and the birds were chirping. Breaking the calm of this Thursday afternoon was an email alert from Jim Ryan. After scrolling through the three-paragraph summary of what had happened over the last year,[1] some good news: case numbers were down, so people could meet outdoors in a group of ten. Two roommates[2] texted a few friends and filled out the other eight slots of the roster for a backyard “barbecue.” The texts read, “it’ll just be a chill hang” and “no stress,” but everyone on the receiving end knew this was a call to get blotto. The night began exactly as the administration would hope: ten friends, sitting socially-distant, catching up and sharing comradery. Nothing could ruin this policy-adhering COVID fun.
Until the second drink.
Having interviewed the seven individuals[3] who make up the remainder of this story, the best explanation of what happened next is that this is the first time they had not been drinking with their roommate, with their parents, or all alone. The endorphins and the alcohol hit a lot harder than they remembered, with a few being K-JD’s fresh off fraternity tolerance levels. Recollections of the remainder of the evening include: “chill,” “a little relaxed about the restrictions,” “it wasn’t a big deal, we had all just gotten negative saliva results anyway,” and “I think it was nice.”
However the night escalated, and when the morning light hit, there were seven students still scattered around the house. The first of the rent-paying residents sat up on his couch, only to quickly lay back down and cover his head, now remembering just how bad Fireball hurts the next morning. Slowly this time, he sat up, opened his laptop, threw in some Airpods, and joined his Friday morning lecture. After the first 10 minutes of swimming in his own thoughts he heard his name. He was on call. “I can’t see you. Are you with us this morning?” Panicked, he threw on a hat, turned on video, and apologized profusely. While speed-scrolling through the seven-year-old outline he managed to trade for, the questions came and went and it seemed like a miracle had been pulled off. A night of fun was had, he still answered cold-calls, and all this while “complying” with university rules. Then the professor innocently asked a question that his outline didn’t hold the answer to. “Wow, how many roommates do you have?” Confused, he unmuted to ask what the professor meant. “Well,” the reply started off, “I’ve just seen about five different people walk behind you on this call. One of whom was not wearing a shirt and I cannot be confident about pants.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” was all he could muster as a reply.
“Well, let’s hope you and all your roommates stay safe and healthy. I’ll have to mention something about the lack of clothes to the Dean.” Before he could say another word, the cold-call had switched to someone else, so his video went off. Turning around for the first time since the night before, he saw three people slumped in chairs and another one on the air mattress behind him. None of them lived there. None of them had on masks. As it turned out, of the ten that started the “chill” evening together the night before, only three of them had Uber still installed on their phones. That left five people who had no idea how to get home, and in the moment, could not have cared less.
Just as the first roommate was coming to the realization that they needed to get a bunch of people out of their house, the doorbell started to ring. In response to the jarring noise, another husk of a man came shambling out of the bathroom as the second roommate trotted down the stairs to open the door. It was the neighbor,[4] the same one who had texted nine times the night before about the group making too much noise. Without saying anything, they held up their phone, took a picture of the maskless sick-bay that had taken shape in the living room, smirked, and walked away. The second roommate closed the door and felt a cold-flush wash over them that they couldn’t peg as being caused by the sixth White Claw or by the realization of what had just happened. After racing to the bathroom to unpack this newfound feeling, the two actual rent-payers gathered together to form a plan.
Realizing that an “anonymous report”[5] was definitely about to be filed, they had to come up with something to explain what had happened. These two wanted to be lawyers, after all — they could read the rules and outsmart them. The indoors gathering of seven and lack of face coverings were what would get them. There was only one way they could see to avoid the oncoming earful from the Deans and a tedious UJC hearing: the exception for roommates.
After a few texts and pleadings, former roommates of the “freeloading five” brought their books, computers, clothes, and other basics to the doorstep of the new bunkhouse. What was a mildly spacious 2-bedroom had just become a very overcrowded, four-room, one-bath, two-floor holding cell for seven. The email from Dean Goluboff came sooner than expected and the Zoom call was scheduled. Arranged in stadium seating from the floor to standing behind the couch, all seven hopped on the call. Immediately there was silence, followed by the question, “Why are there seven of you and not a single mask in sight?”
“The separation was really starting to get to us and we thought, for the rest of the year, we should be here to support each other and just move in.” The call was short, questioning the story and seeing if anyone would break. With a warning as the closing remarks, Dean Goluboff said, “I hope you all are comfortable, because you’ll be like this through the end of finals.” As she went to end the call, one of them, none will admit who, asked if they were allowed to have “overnight guests.” Met by the groans of the other seven, the Dean declined to answer and ended the call.
While this author wishes the story had a nice ending akin to classic students-vs.-administration comedies like Old School and Animal House, there is no cheeky tagline for the seven men trapped in a small Charlottesville house. They’re still there. The end of the semester is the nearest end in sight. But until then, let’s hope they can make that COVID House, a COVID Home.
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omk6cg@virginia.edu
sfb9yu@virginia.edu
[1] Yeah, because we’d all forgotten until that email…
[2] Who asked to be kept anonymous, for obvious reasons to come.
[3] Again, asking to remain anonymous.
[4] A 1L who not only acted like the biggest 3L gunner but actively took up the title and treated it like a badge of pride
[5] Actual information required includes your name, date of birth, Student ID Number, Social Security Number, astrological sign, spirit animal, and maternal grandmother’s first grade teacher’s name.