After my Italian class on Friday morning, I stopped by Durfee's Convenience Shoppe, hoping to supplement the sparse contents of my pantry--gum, diet coke, oatmeal--with some of the other comestibles I masticate on a regular basis --cheese, cereal, wheat-thins. They say grocery lists are revealing of people's personalities and lifestyles (cue stereotypical images of single, depressed women hunched over pints of Haagen-Daz). Mine only betrays my lazy reluctance to purchase food that needs to be prepared or cooked.
Anyways, I walked into Le Shoppe, and the lights were turned off. The doors (there are two entrances--one on Old Campus and one on Elm Street) were both mysteriously open, but no one was manning the register, save a hastily written sign with "GOOD FRIDAY--CLOSED" scrawled on it. As I walked around looking for an employee to ring up my selections, other students began entering Durfee's. Eventually, there were about eight of us milling around the aisles, giving each other quizzical stares.
Moments like this--social situations that deviate from normalcy, like an excessively long line at the DMV or a black-out at work--can stimulate three different responses: genial bonding between strangers, awkward hostility/suspicion, or intellectual collaboration. At Yale, a breeding ground for sociopathic geniuses and toolish morons, one generally expects some sort of mixture of the latter two effects.
A hypothetical for my readers: It's noon, you're hungry, and you're in an empty retail shoppe that's fully stocked with delicious wheat-thins and tantalizingly mild cracker barrel cheese. The other patrons are discussing whether or not the security cameras are on, and, let's face it, you're suddenly thinking like a kid who just won the Nickelodeon Super Toy Run sweepstakes--does one go straight to the expensive organic aisle? shoot for bulkier items?--as you listen to your peers. WHAT WOULD SHELLY KAGAN DO?