Double Take

Ah, the power of the pass. Before entering the world of black pants, beer and random hookups, who would have thought that a small, credit-card sized scrap of colored paper could make or break one's social life at Princeton?

Freshman year, I remember visiting a senior T.I. friend to acquire the coveted gold card for that evening's revelry. She wasn't home, but she had left them in an envelope on her desk. As I hastily snatched them up and made my way towards the door, her roommate said to me, "Oh. Are you looking for T.I. passes? I just threw mine away. Do you want them?"

All freshman fear and humility aside, I nearly leapt into the trash can beside her chair and fished through smelly, dirty nastiness to get my hands on two more hot pink licenses for fun, two more friends, two more chances at "moving on up." I had struck it rich. Tonight was my night. That senior may have approached her passes with a laissez-faire attitude, but I took my passes seriously, for I understood the power of the pass.

That night, the mood was festive, but tense. Three critical decisions would come to pass (no pun intended) as I stood near the doorway of T.F.I. late night – decisions that could either launch me into social stardom or permanently wreck my chances of ever showing my face at the Street again. With the three hot pink passes stuffed into my bra (no pockets in my tight, black pants, of course), my future looked bright. I surveyed the scene. All systems go, I said to myself. It was time to do the deed.

Drunken North Face-clad bodies struggled to squeeze in through a tiny gap between the door and a large wooden bench that was pushed up against the frame. With alarming speed and determination, they were flashing their social badges and throwing passes at the safeguard like money. I had to remain calm and cas', but I had to think on my feet. One false move could prove deadly.

Fortunately, I spotted Senior Ivy Hottie #1 right away. He was waiting by the door and, as far as I could tell, he couldn't get in. O.K. Play it cool, I thought. First make eye contact and then go in for the kill. "Do you need a pass? I have an extra one," I purred, in my best Michelle Pfeiffer Catwoman voice. "Why, yes, I'd love one," he smiled. "But, do you happen to have any others for my friends?" Senior Ivy Hotties #2 and #3 were peering out from behind #1's shoulder charmingly and longingly. "Sure," I said, dolling out the goodies. Bingo, I thought. I was on top of the world.

For nights when I wasn't so lucky, however, I quickly honed the skills for developing my own means for a night of debauchery. I chose to think of myself not as a criminal, but as an entrepreneur of sorts. I was not committing fraud, but I was simply manipulating the system. It was counterfeit, yes, but I was working for the greater good of the Princeton social scene.

Now that I'm in rehab, I am finally able to share my secrets without apprehension or embarrassment. But first, a warning: Don't try to mimic my devious fraudulence. It breaches the boundaries of Street etiquette and can lead to immediate social self-destruction. Beware.

Yes, I vividly recall the sunny spring afternoon when Sally (name has been changed) and I worked tirelessly, cutting, coloring and tracing our way to our ultimate goal – a stack of fluorescent orange "T.I. Passes." We returned to our room after a perilous trip to the U-Store where we had stealthily purchased one orange highlighter, 50 unlined index cards and one black fine-point pen. Sally would cut and color while I scrupulously etched out the celebrated Tiger logo with a magnifying glass in hand. Our assembly line produced five passes in just three hours. We were money.

But, we weren't quite finished, yet, as our plan hinged on one other key factor: the fluorescent orange Cottage pass (stashed away in our ample, thoughtfully compiled "just in case" collection). With one real T.I. pass strategically placed as a cover up, we could layer our fake ones with nearly identical Cottage passes (flipped over, of course) in a delicately arranged fan of social fortitude. The only thing left to do was practice discretely slipping by the safeguard before he could examine the evidence and realize he had been duped. Now we had the means. And all it took was some careful consideration, a little hard work, a killer pair of black pants, climbing lessons and the willingness to root through someone's trash for the opportunity to rule the school.