Like a Bat Out of Hell

MANY OF God's creatures are built for speed: The lean and hungry cheetah. The soaring spine-tailed swift. And let us not forget the turbo-charged Ferrari 380 GTS. But fast as they are, not one of these will able to touch my heels the moment that $64,000 piece of parchment touches my palms. Like a bat out of hell, Alyshiba out of the gate or Larry Bird out of the back court, I will be out of Harvard so fast it will make your head swim and your crops wilt.

I haven't always felt this way about Harvard. Around the end of my junior year a few things became clear to me, however, making me doubt that I in fact had found my own little plot of heaven.

IN THE FIRST place, Harvard students are too serious about themselves. I suppose it's natural that when you group 6000 young prima donnas that they learn to thrive in an atmosphere of self-congratulation lethal to normal humans, losing their tolerance for anything that threatens their self-image. Me, I was born with a bad attitude. I can't take anything seriously for long, particularly myself--causing consternation and bewilderment in those around me.

Secondly, though many stress the superiority of Harvard to the world "out there," it's worse in one very obvious sense. In the capitalist jungle, all personal differences tend to be overridden by the market; if you can make a boodle, the world will huddle at your feet.

At Harvard, there is no similar currency of esteem. The primary social values are the ability to party hard and generate small talk. Harvard is what the world would look like if Miss Manners and Bianca Jagger ran the universe together: the final clubs, Hasty Pudding, and Signet kanoodling together at the top and the other social organizations aping their cliquish ways down the line.

LOOKING BACK, my fondest memories are for the times when I tweaked Harvard authorities, out of self-interest, stupidity, or at the behest of the "imp of the perverse" that whispers in all our ears from time to time.

A partial list of Things I Should Never Have Done That I Am Damn Glad I Did Anyway:

1. Trashing My Room Freshman Year. Committed to one of `Canaday Hell's' psycho singles because I had the temerity to ask for a private bedroom, I vented my displeasure on that closet-sized space at the end of the year. Despite destroying the walls and the door with a scuba knife--don't ask--I still was never charged for the damage, thanks to a quick-thinking friend who distracted the super when he was inspecting the rooms. To my knowledge, Canaday D-33 still bears the scars of my sojourn there.

2. Publishing a False and Misleading Romantic History. Last year I wrote a piece called Experimental Romance for the What Is to Be Done. This tongue-in-cheek essay investigated "Why I don't date Harvard women," sending up the old "There is no romance at Harvard" chestnut.

A year after I wrote that piece, I got to read a virtual rewrite of that essay, now entitled "They Flee from Me," in a Lampoon parody of the What. To add insult to injury, a good friend of mind unwittingly complimented me for writing the Lampoon's parody, saying it was the best piece I had ever written. One freshman girl even took the parody so seriously she called me up to complain about it.

3. Sneakin' into the 350th Ball. After I failed to get in on the first round of ball tickets last fall, I did what any good American would do and took matters into my own hands. An afternoon of hunting down the matching paper in the copy shops in Cambridge, a few dollars at Gnomon copy, a little cut and paste, and Voila! 40 tickets to Harvard's 350th ball produced for less than the price of a single ticket. Add the drinks I stole from the bar, and I must have cost Archie Epps at least $800.

4. Never Turning Anything in on Time. Alright, I did turn in a few things on time freshman year, but I learned that I work best under unnecessary pressure. The trick, of course, was to do this and not get taken down a few grades for the privilege. It got so bad that I turned in my thesis late (half an hour), not because I had to, but because I wanted to. My finest moment, however, was turning in a 30-page paper three weeks late and three days after the semester ended. Copped an A, too.

Such is the litany of sins which made my time at Harvard more bearable. Of course, if put under oath, I deny everything. Lies, all lies. But just in case, I'll be out of here before they can double-check.