Club Scarlet

I am a senior, and I have a hiding place. It's not near any of my favorite haunts: the Chapel, Café Vivian, the Q and PR sections of Firestone. It's not even my carrel, though I annexed that several weeks ago like a good imperialist, planting the Oregon flag with a perfunctory nod to the natives (two shoddy chairs), already plotting how to undermine the existing political structure, chisel off the cultural detritus of last year's occupants, exploit the resident dust motes, and prepare the land for further conquest by the bibliohordes. Soon one of those chairs will writhe under gluteal oppression . . .

But I digress already. This hiding place is closer to home. In fact, it's under my bed. Concealed by a flaming red bedskirt, furnished with pillow and blanket, it is my beloved nook — my very own "senior" citizen's home. I've christened it "Club Scarlet." When I straggle home from yet another glacial precept, melancholic over the thesis and my nonexistent prospects . . . I lift the flap and crawl inside. Darkness swirls down before my eyes, and I doze as contentedly as a child in the womb.

It's yet another symptom of the infantilism marking my passage into my final year. As others seek fellowships, apply to grad school, and spiff up their resumes, I'm more likely to be found lounging on the grass, stalking the iridescent green bug on my ankle. Recently I ran into a friend carrying an Ann Taylor bag down Nassau Street. The bag was crisp and white and formidable. It radiated competence. And it bore the keys to the kingdom. "This bag," she said dryly, "contains a shirt that says 'Hire me,' pants that say, 'Hire me,' and shoes that say, 'Hire me." It dawned on me: A neat and polished appearance is more likely to lead to employment. Since my ideal job is one where appearances don't count at all, I continued up Nassau with fear clutching my stomach.

It's hard to keep up your courage at Princeton if you don't know where your life is going. But it's harder still if you secretly don't WANT to know. I came here knowing nothing about world history, science, or literature. I was innocent of Aquinas and Dante and hydroboration. I jumped in like a gleeful little kid — and planned like one. With nine months until I'm tipped into the real world, I've wandered through medieval literature, modern dance, Roman history, and orgo . . . I have, sacre bleu, failed to apply myself to the systematic study of anything! And now I'm going to pay.

One of my friends is a superhero. He's an activist and a photographer and an editorial writer, a premed and a marathoner and an informed citizen and a good dresser. He once aspired to be the surgeon general. The last time I thought about my career, wisps of plans shimmering across my mind in cirrus vagueness, I saw myself as a tailor. Then engineer guilt, quiescent for so many years, bubbled up and urged me to embrace the Quantitative. Another, niggling voice reminded me of my obligation to save the world. In range and scope of ambition, I haven't changed since I was five; and in many ways I am still five. I still like dolls, I brought my comforter emblazoned with pink elephants to school, and my idea of efficient time management is spending an hour in Firestone tracking down "The Wizard of Oz" in Latin. (That's "Magus Mirabilis in Oz," to the curious). I keep anticipating the transformation into the sharp, sophisticated, goal-oriented 20 year-old I know I should be. And it keeps not happening.

This summer I visited my high school counselor for a diagnosis. Mr. Rosegold listened patiently to my woes. I told him that in my time at Princeton, my knowledge had increased but little, while my ignorance had increased in leaps and bounds. I asked him, as I had four years before, what to do with my life.

He drew his knees to his chest (he always sat in the oddest positions), and, looking more elfin than sage, regarded me with twinkling eye. "Take some time off," he said. "Go find yourself. My first semester in college, my professor of Far Eastern Philosophy told me: "Your graaaaaaades are an illuuuuuuuuusion." Before long I was out of there. I worked on a dock and in a chromium factory, and for a while I was a tree surgeon. I didn't go back for years."

Tree surgeon . . . there's another one for my list! I'll give the surgeon general a run for his money. However, all this thought of the future is making me incredibly sleepy. I think I'll crawl under the bed and forget about it for awhile. Club Scarlet calls.