When Diane von Austinburg and I were attending the You of Tee college place (actually, only Diane was attending. I was just paying tuition and hanging around) we met while working on the college newspaper, The Daily Texan. The Texan was a pretty hilarious place, a den of dopers and bowling enthusiasts. Almost the only thing I learned while in school there was how to spell the word “corduroy” and how to lay out a publication, both courtesy of the Texan rather than any so-called class.
Laying out the paper was always a late night affair, dragged out by repeated trips to a nearby alley to smoke astonishing quantities of mediocre dope. One of those late, late nights, a friend and I were alerted to what our other friend Lara claimed was the side splitting graffiti in the women’s bathroom. We immediately went to investigate, but I felt it didn’t live up to its reputation, so we left. As we stepped out the door, we came face to face with two of the campus cops.
Believe me, they did not look like this.
UT’s cops were humorless jerks who lacked the personal magnetism to make it into ROTC and were bitter because of it. They did not approve of druggy hippies, and certainly not two faggy ones emerging giggling out of the ladies toilet.
After we stared at each other, equally aghast, for what seemed eternity-ish like, they remembered whatever training they had slept through and asked what we thought we were doing. Fortunately I was devious enough to lie, firmly, and claim Lara had sent us in because she had heard some guy in there and was frightened. I know, brilliant, huh?
There were a tense few moments; I don’t know if they were evaluating the likelihood of how truthful I was being or if they were just trying to mentally sound out the big words I had used. Then in another flash of inspiration (two in a row! Score!) I announced I had to get back to work. “I have a paper to get out,” I said grandly and walked off. The cops must have just shrugged and went off for doughnuts. We never saw them again.
I should have been scared; God knows my academic standing was already so shaky it wouldn’t have taken much to get tossed out on my skinny ass. Although, really, I’m still not sure walking in the wrong restroom is a crime. Nevertheless, I wasn’t freaked out, I was as thrilled with my bad self as if I had pulled a heist over Interpol rather than fast-talking a couple of mentally impaired goons.
Anyway, the next year I really was kicked out of school, but for abysmally poor grades and not for any ladies room shenanigans. Still, I’m glad I don’t have a rap sheet that notes “Restroom trespassing.” How mortifying would that be?