“You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”
— Obi-Wan Kenobi

When I’m back in my old room on Grand Island, I see the M&M piggy bank on my dresser. Looking at that smiling cherub of a color-coated candy shell, it makes me think of the time Pig Boy threatened to set me on fire in my sleep.

But I’m starting at the end of the story. I’ll rewind for those just entering the theater.

For five of my eight semesters attending SUNY Buffalo (UB) I lived in my parents’ house on sunny Grand Island (Motto: “Because Niagara Falls Makes Us Sad”).

A mere 20-minute car ride from campus made attending classes a breeze — but a continent away from what made college the quintessential experience for middle class Americans. (Undergraduate commuters across the Internets nod in agreement.)

My first day college: searching for a parking spot for an 11 a.m. class that wasn’t meeting the first day of classes, awkwardly killing time reading the campus newspaper, attending my introductory English 201 class at Noon and driving home.

The next two years played out in remarkably similar fashion. Please, your jealously over my fabulous undergrad life embarrasses us both.

I (finally) realized how much was I missing when I started as a full-time editor at the student newspaper The Spectrum in August 2000. It was the first time in a long time I was around people my own age for a significant period of time. The fun they had was obvious. I wanted in on the action. I applied for campus housing for the Spring 2001. I was probably the only junior at the university voluntarily moving into the dorms.

When the letter with my housing information finally arrived in December, I read nervously. I was placed in a double in Lehman Hall.

Lehman Hall? Where?

A quick scan of the map revealed it was on North Campus (the main campus) in the Governors complex.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Being placed on South Campus in Buffalo proper would make me a de facto commuter, since all my classes were located on North Campus.

Also, persons of my, uh, pallor, were rarer on South Campus. Just imagine “The Mad Real World” from Chapelle’s Show. Guess which character I would be?

The sad thing is I had that haircut.

The letter also gave me the contact information of my new roommate, Paul. A call to make first contact revealed the dynamics of our soon-to-be relationship:

Me: Hi, Paul?

Paul: Sup?

Me: My name is Mike. I’ll be your new roommate this semester.

Paul: That’s cool.

Me: Is there anything the room needs that I can bring?

Paul: Nah.

Me: (pause) Welp, see ya later!

Paul: Cool.

Move In Day finally arrived and I eagerly joined my fellow students as a dorm resident. Finally, I was one of them, I was an equal.

I was also horribly lost and confused.

For those who never attended SUNY Buffalo (How come?), the Governors complex has four wings (Dewey, Clinton, Roosevelt and Lehman) that connect to a central square building. Each hall is narrow full of anonymous doors. Labels and signs are a precious few. Take the blank, white hallway full of doors and Agent Smiths from The Matrix Reloaded, add furniture and color scheme from the Bunker on Lost and mix the smell of noodles, unwashed clothes and lonely nerds.

The result? UB’s Governors complex.

The middle section is Hurley’s bedroom.

After being saved by a Swiss Alps rescue dog (it is Buffalo after all) with a survival pack of Natty Ice around his neck (it is Buffalo after all) I finally made it to 308 B Lehman Hall — the only double in the complex with four mattresses inside.

Um, what?

I started putting my stuff away, trying to figure just what the heck was going on. Quite shortly I was introduced to my roommate Paul — and his two roommates Jerry and Rich.

Make that my two roommates Jerry and Rich who live in 308 C but sleep in 308 B.

It breaks down like this: The boys in 308 B and the boys in 308 C were friends. Buddy Mark, who lived in 308 B, went to France for the semester. University housing selected me to replace him. I was unaware of their unique living situation that made the Amistad look spacious by comparison.

The mattresses in 308 C — Jerry and Rich’s room — were dragged into 308 B. A futon was set up in 308 C, along with a stereo, television, Jerry’s computer and guitars for, y’know, jammin’. Room 308 C was the living room for four people. Room 308 B — my room — was the bedroom for four people.

That would be Jerry:

Rich:

Paul:

And me:

So a room meant for two college-aged American males is stuffed with four college-aged American males. That’s like cramming ten pounds of ape into five pounds of ape cage.

The floor RA Lisa — a nice girl my roommates viewed as a shade above Cruella De Vil — even came up to me and said I could move into a different room or she would force them to change things back. Apparently, the university tried that the previous semester, but The Triplets just refused to change and got away with it.

I told her I’d stay. Why? Because after living at home for five semesters, the closest to the college experience I got was a tingly feeling watching the “Girls Gone Wild” commercials late at night. I needed some male bonding with people other than Dad and, uh, Mom.

So, I became “The New Guy.” Seriously, that was my name. The Triplets penchant for nicknames knew no bounds. The neighbors across the hall? The one they liked was “The Dragon.” The one they didn’t like was “The Lizard.” Extra roommate Rich was “Goober.” RA Lisa was, uh, unprintable.

I wrote a Spectrum column in February entitled “Defending the New Guy.” It was about then-new President George W. Bush, but one of the Triplets thought I chose the headline based on my situation and nickname. Subconsciously, maybe I did.

The first thing I learned during my unique living arrangement is men stink. Oh, not in the Carrie Bradshaw “My-boyfriend-would-rather-watch-Game-Seven-than-shop-for-shoes” sense. The Triplets emitted an unpleasant odor during nocturnal periods. Mornings were like the simian house at the Miami zoo in July.

I also quickly learned dorm etiquette. For example, when it’s clear to you, your roommates and the Asian Computer Science major on the fourth floor that your neighbor is having sex, it is impolite to run down the hall yelling like a Newsie: “HEY, THEY’RE MAKING BABIES!”

Okay, that didn’t happen. But the squeaking bed and female moaning made it clear somebody was having sex on my floor. The neighbors weren’t the only ones. People in my room, too. Not just in my room, but my room while I was in my room.

Just not me.

In order to physically accommodate our odd living arrangement, there was a bunk bed in 308 B. I slept on the top bunk. Room 308 C refugee Rich slept below me. Paul and Jerry slept on their mattresses on the floor.

One night I awoke to muttering in the bunk below me. Male and female muttering.

Can he hear us?

No, he’s sleep.

No, I’m not, said my brain.

Mmmmm. Mmmmm. Ooohh.

Oh my, said my brain.

That was the only time Rich (“Goober”) had sex with Blondie (“Blondie”) while I was in the room. That is, the only time I know about.

Perhaps most difficult thing about the living arrangement was not the tight quarters (more on that in a moment), but the constant swarm of girls flittering around. Between Blondie, Jerry’s girlfriend and couple of other ladies in various orbit, “Survivor” night or “MTV’s Jackass” night was a bonanza of cute girls.

“Hey Numnuts,” say the Internet voices of reason. “Why is that a bad thing?” On the whole, it’s good. It’s very, very good. But it’s bad when you’re awkward around women as I was. It was worse when viewed by them as the object of sympathy and pity; not somebody whose face they’d want to sit on. I was the tall ape in the small cage too afraid to approach the female apes as they preened outside the bars.

That’s me in the back not getting any action.

At least Goober and Blondie were quiet. The same couldn’t be said for one guest in particular. Sadly, this is in no way a sexy story.

It was a Friday or Saturday night. I went sleep, tuckered out from a long night of memorizing the 15 former Soviet republics or staring at the phone waiting for friends to call (they didn’t). The Triplets were out, but they came back.

With a guest.

His name was … I don’t recall his name. I will call him Pig Boy because his bald, displeasing features and desire to eat his own waste reminded me of a pig (I made up the eats his waste” part up, to the best of my knowledge).

He was a Triplets’ friend from out of town. Since Paul was “entertaining” a young lady in 308 C, Pig Boy slept on his bed in 308 B. So there were six apes in the cage: Pig Boy, Goober and Blondie in his bed, Jerry and his girlfriend in his bed, and The New Guy.

I should mention that Pig Boy was drunk.
And suicidal.
At 3 a.m.
In a room with six people meant for two.

Aw, man my family hates me, said Pig Boy.

Shut up and go to sleep, Goober told Pig Boy.

How about “Shut the fuck up and go to sleep Pig Boy,” I thought, trying to go back to sleep.

I’ll just go sleep in the hall, said Pig Boy.

“Good idea,” I thought, trying to go back to sleep.

No, don’t do that Pig Boy, just go to sleep, said Goober.

What would you say if I set you on fire New Guy, said Pig Boy.

Pig Boy, shut the fuck up, said Goober. I’m sorry Mike, just ignore him.

Not bloody likely, I thought.

Alcohol finally consumed enough Pig Boy brain cells and he lapsed into sleep. The rest of the evening passed without incident.

In retrospect, this was one line crossed too many. A stranger threatened me with physical violence. True he was hammered and probably couldn’t operate a Twinkie, but my outrage was legitimate.

But I didn’t make him sleep in the hall (the Triplets would have got in trouble for that). I didn’t move to another room. I didn’t force them to switch around the living arrangement. For one thing, I didn’t have a TV. The Triplets did.

They didn’t walk all over me, but I didn’t put my foot down, either. As the semester wound down, our co-habitation scheme came to an end. After making myself intentionally absent one evening, I returned to find 308 C locked and 308 B empty except for my stuff. And a large piggy bank shaped like an orange M&M sitting on my desk.

No goodbyes or good lucks. We didn’t swap phone numbers or e-mails. I haven’t spoken to the Triplets in five years. I doubt I ever will. But thanks for the M&Ms piggy bank.

That really makes up for the threat of death by immolation.

Questions? Comments? Pig Boy? E-mail me at mlucinski@yahoo.com

Michael Lucinski lives, loves and works in the Washington, D.C. area. He’s a graduate of the University at Buffalo and the George Washington University. The Governors complex was called “Gover-nerds” because the smarter kids lived there. Hey, it’s a state school.