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residents of the dorm ate together at an assigned time. Being as spring break had commenced the week before, the dorm was essentially a ghost town. That fact, coupled with the old architectural bones of the building, lent it a decidedly spooky vibe.
    The newer-looking key opened up the first door on the right, which led to my new suite. Crawford followed closely behind me carrying my biggest suitcase; he let out a low, depressed-sounding whistle when I gave him a view of my new digs.
    I leaned in and discovered my suite was basically a long, narrow room with hardwood floors and one window next to a twin-sized bed. The suite part, I surmised, was the small living area to the left of the bedroom that contained a desk, an old musty chair, and a bookshelf, and that was separated from the bedroom by rather nice French doors. A bathroom was next to the bedroom, and while I’m a fan of period detail, the subway tile that encased the shower looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed in what I guessed was the 1940s. I looked at Crawford and said, “Get me some Comet.”
    “You’re not even in the door,” he said. “Let’s go in and see what else you need before I go to the store.”
    “Besides a blowtorch to burn this place down?” I asked, sitting dejectedly on the bed. A puff of dust flew up around me and I shivered in revulsion.
    “Is there a laundry area in this building?” he asked, pulling me up off the bed and placing me in the doorway between the bedroom and living room. He pulled the bedding off and threw it onto the floor. “I don’t want you sleeping on Wayne Brookwell’s dirty sheets,” he said.
    “That’s Wayne Butthole, to you.” I leaned on the doorjamb. “Forevermore, he’s Wayne Butthole.” I crossed my arms, and continued my visual reconnaissance of the area. “I hate him.”
    “Laundry?” Crawford repeated.
    “No idea,” I said. “I assume it’s in the basement but I can’t be sure.” Although I had parked outside of this building for the better part of a decade, I had never been inside, save for the lobby. The building was five stories high, with men housed on all but one floor, a floor that had been reserved for the overflow of female students in any given year. But Siena was still known as the men’s dorm and had been since I was a student here, years previous. It looked pretty much the same as I remembered it—ornate, varnished moldings; marble floors; heavy mahogany doors stained a dark, cherry brown. It smelled of Pledge and floor polish and decades’ worth of smelly gym socks and young adult hormones.
    Crawford picked up the pile of dirty bedding and started down the hall, his sneakers making a squish-squish noise as he proceeded. I went back into the bedroom and sat down on the denuded bed, surveying my surroundings. I couldn’t imagine spending one night here, never mind five weeks, but that was my lot and I had to suck it up. I don’t want to suck it up! I wanted to yell, but I made an attempt at maturity and swallowed whatever feelings I had. The one thing I couldn’t ignore was my bladder, which obviously was past the point of no return. I got up and went into the bathroom, looking around as I did my business, taking in the rust stains in the porcelain pedestal sink, and the dirty ring around the tub. There were a few squares of toilet paper left on the roll and I made a mental note to tell Crawford to get toilet paper, too.
    When I flushed the toilet, a torrent of water, toilet paper, and various other bits of flotsam and jetsam that had been residing in the toilet since the Mesozoic Age came spewing up at me from the filthy bowl, and I put my hands over my face to protect myself, a little too late. The front of my shirt and my jeans were instantly soaked, and water poured onto the tile floor and puddled around my feet. I spat a few times, wondering exactly what I had almost ingested. I grabbed a less-than-clean towel from the towel bar and wiped off