I think everyone on campus has lived with my roommate at some point or another. You know the type: dedicated studier, amazingly fun at parties and a room that pains you to walk in.
But being messy isn't the problem. I myself checked the "neat" box on Princeton's housing form despite acknowledging that it wouldn't be uncommon to find my room cluttered with piles of papers, 15 "urgent" phone messages and a heap of clothing on the foot of my bed forming an extra layer of protection from the New Jersey chill. (And to think I wasn't listed as "extra neat" only because my mother hid the stamps until I brought it down a notch.)
My roommate is beyond messy. Our room is cluttered with stacks of disheveled newspapers, mountains of overdue library books, and a suspicious box marked "warehouse supplier" to supplement her eBay business. To make it worse, she's not alone. Living in Wilson has blessed me with multiple living partners in which to share my Princeton experience. But in all honesty, do I really need six of them?
One would think that a room with seven girls would struggle most with problems involving boys, clashing hormones and seeking out long-ago borrowed clothes. In our room, the problem is the prox.
The Princeton prox: A seemingly brilliant invention allowing any member of the University community access to buildings, dorm rooms and dining halls. In one pocket-sized card lies the ability — literally — to eat and sleep. The addition of Pawpoints may even allow the purchase of clothing. Then the communist prox society would be complete, totally fulfilling man's three most basic needs: food, clothes and shelter. Brilliant . . . until yours is lost.
"I swear I had it, I mean, I'm in the building so I know it's here. It's gotta be here, right?"
"Guys, I lost my prox." "I thought you got a new one." "I did. It's the new one that's lost . . ."
At any given hour on any given night, room 221 in 1938 will hear the blue phone right outside buzz into action only to have the call patched through to our own room. "Uh guys? Can someone throw down a prox?"
Last year was ridiculous. When one of my roommates, a self-noted "Indian Princess," showed up the first day, none of us realized that this petite, smiling girl would one day perform miracles.
"A.J., I definitely had it a minute ago. I mean, I just walked in the door. It was in my hand, I walked in my room . . . oh no . . ."
And so it began. Each day marked a new quest for a priceless treasure. Hours upon hours we spent overturning unpacked boxes and lugging piles of clothes from one side of the room to the other. No prox to be found. Finally accepting her fate, my roommate trekked to the New South building. One check for $15 later and she had a new prox. $15. Not bad considering all the functions a prox performs for its holder. At least not bad until she returned to New South for the eighth time within the span of two months. Though her proposition for a "baker's dozen" option for prox replacements was denied, the ladies in the department actually call her by name each time her prox successfully eludes her.
Again this year, in a room of seven girls, proxes — or lack thereof — have been the pressing issue: One has lost her's twice, another is on her fourth, and still another has snapped her's into two pieces — a problem until she realized that one part functioned perfectly for doors and the other for meal swipes.
True, there are always people willing to "prox" you in around campus. In fact, it almost negates the security system in general. The problem with our room lies in that it is a "tester dorm with high security that will result in a more efficient entry system."
Translation? No more keys. Instead, the individual doors of 1938 mimic hotel card systems in which the prox is swiped and a four-digit code is entered before the reinforced fireproof doors click open. No longer is the problem getting into the building; now it's the battle with the door that wakes us up late at night to answer the pounding of a desperate roommate. Or doesn't wake us up.
Public Safety just loves us.
Apparently the problem doesn't lie totally in the realm of lost proxes, but also altered ones. The housing department refuses punched holes, bent cards and "natural wear" as valid complaints by students claiming nonfunctioning proxes. In fact, after so many complaints, the housing department published a list equivalent to the Ten Commandments regarding "proper prox care."
Number three proved especially painful for one roommate who wishes to remain anonymous. Two days after her prox suddenly stopped working — and ironically also two days after a late Saturday night out — she appeared at the "welcome" desk for prox replacement. She explained the odd dilemma, expressing concern over the sudden malfunction of her prox. The lady took the prox, examined it, and carefully handed it back.
"Hon, this prox has bite marks . . . you've been chewing on your prox? That's not a malfunction honey . . . at least not of the prox."
Aghast, my roommate claimed innocence, swore it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. We believed her until we noticed under closer examination that what she claimed, "must be a key indention — you know, from my pocket," was actually a perfect impression of her left molar. Living with her for the next year prevents me from publishing her response following the discovery — she stands firm on her threat of knowing where I sleep.
Essentially, proxes hold the power to the majority of Princeton's campus. Want to use a computer? A printer? A meal? Want to get lunch? Shop at the C-store? Grab coffee at Café Viv? It's simple, just hold on to that little white card complete with birthday and outdated high school yearbook photo.
Or don't. Then dial Public Safety. They're very friendly the first few times. After that, ask for Ted. Tell him that the girls from '38 sent you. Ashley Johnson is from Florence, Ala. She can be reached at ajohnson@princeton.edu.
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