It’s an uncharacteristically quiet Saturday night and you’re in your dorm room. You read a book to keep yourself from falling asleep, or perhaps to maintain the illusion of productivity while simultaneously avoiding your real homework. Your roommate and suitemate anticipate a double date with their respective boyfriends in the evening, and they extend an invitation to you. Recognizing their obligation—and not wanting to imbalance the evening with an unnecessary fifth wheel—you decline. The first of many unintentionally good choices.
When the group returns, they play cards and deliberate what to do next for entertainment. Eventually, you overhear a consensus in favor of buying beer and watching a movie. Beer and Netflix don't strike you as much of an improvement over regular ol’ Netflix, so you resolve to stay in your bedroom and watch The Office while they listen to music and drink casually in the common room. After a few episodes, you’re comfortable, relaxed, almost ready for bed, so close to calling it a night…
An innocuous knock at the door, and then the music stops. It all goes unnoticed until the silence permits you to hear a man’s voice, an unfamiliar voice, coming from the common room. Suddenly your roommate appears in the doorway of the bedroom, looking startled but saying nothing. The anonymous voice demands everybody come out with their IDs. You skeptically step forward, uncertain of how to react to the six-and-a-half-foot uniformed police officer lingering over the high-top table, which at that moment is littered with empty beer cans. Your roommate and suitemate—boyfriends accompanying—file reluctantly into the common room and form a semi-circle around him. The officer flatly explains what happened: “I was walking down the hallway and heard loud music. When she opened the door,” he indicates your roommate (who is undoubtedly lamenting not looking through the peep hole first), “I saw the beer cans.” The cop commands you to surrender any more hidden alcohol; your suitemate produces a nearly empty handle of vodka and an unopened bottle of white wine from under her bed. The officer collects and counts the confiscated booze as you exchange panicked glances. You’re instructed to wait for the Residence Hall Director. In the meantime, however, the alcohol needs an owner.
Your eyes widen with mutual anticipation, scanning each other as if to prepare for the climactic shoot-out in a Spaghetti Western. (Although the circumstances are quite the opposite, you suppose, because none of you want the other to take the bullet.) You can only speculate who really bought the beer. The boys seem the strongest contenders for the blame, but their silence divulges their reluctance. Everyone is quiet. You lean against the wall while the couples huddle together. You admit, in that instant, you have to contain your amusement at the absurdity—such a tepid evening ending in MIP tickets. The cop stands akimbo in the doorway; each second you struggle to decide grates on his patience. You begin to mentally cross people off the list: You, your suitemate, and her boyfriend earn an unspoken amnesty. They’d been arrested before, and you have no intention of being a sober scapegoat. That leaves your roommate and her boyfriend. Of course, this isn’t something you can deliberate out loud with a cop standing beside you, so you make strategic eye contact… maintain the poker face, avoid inculpatory glances… It’s not as simple as pointing a finger, shouting “j’accuse!” and escaping scot-free to finish The Office in peace. One moment you’re ambitious freshmen, and the next, a bunch of anxious criminals.
Your roommate recognizes the pleading gaze of the group, and protests—it’s agonizingly sympathetic, sure, but does little to overturn your resistance. Your suitemate’s boyfriend continuously nags the cop, “C’mon, man, we’re not hurting anybody! You don’t have to do this, man!” As you expect, the officer remains unconvinced. But your roommate finally capitulates and takes credit. “It’s mine,” she confesses, “The alcohol belongs to me.” The group releases a collective sigh. The cop, terribly unimpressed by the display of heroism, pulls out his ticket book.
“How serious is it?” your roommate asks, tears brimming.
The officer half smiles “Well, it’s not murder,” he replies earnestly.
In that moment, you’re panicking about the consequences. But in a few weeks, you’ll be laughing at the circumstances—to think of what you had gotten away with, compared to what you were actually punished for. Underage drinking can hardly be characterized as a rarity in college; getting busted for it might even be the most important lesson you learn as a student. But regardless of your major, a minor in possession isn't an ideal addition to your degree. (It's also a terrible way for your roommate and her boyfriend to conclude their first date.)
