Iowa State: My First Two Weeks of College (R-rated) or “Wallace Hall, The Residence Hall Sodom and Gomorrah”

I was a bit naive when I went off to college. I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, wasn’t promiscuous. I went thru high school bored to tears by crappy teachers, despising my high school’s administrators–and living for weekends when I’d get to play board games and role-playing games with friends. That’s what got me through a hellish three years.

College was different–and because I was late applying to Iowa State, my housing priority was low–I didn’t get any of my preferences. Instead, I wound up in Wallace Hall…the Towers. That was an interesting semester (before thankfully moving to Foster House in Westgate).

My Towers memories are amusing now to have lived through but nothing I would want to repeat. Homesick, not knowing anyone in the Towers (I knew two people in Friley, one in Westgate), I was very alone. WIthout a distraction that first weekend, who knows, maybe I would’ve cashed it in and gone home, admitting I couldn’t hack it. Hah–wasn’t gonna happen. Fuck Novello.

In ’85, the drinking age was 19 in Iowa–and that meant almost everyone on campus (except me) was legal. Most who were 18 had fake IDs…and parties off-campus or in the Greek system didn’t check anyways. So…I was sitting in the Foster lounge on that first Saturday watching TV when there was a big boom from outside–there was no A/C so all the windows were open…the better to enjoy all the loud stereos from all four of the Towers’ towers. I had no clue what happened–but it was big. There wound up being a lot of flashing lights on Welch Ave–cops, fire trucks, the works. From where Wallace was, I couldn’t see anything other than the strobing lights. I wound up going to bed–and I’d check things out in the morning when I headed over to my friend Jeff’s.

I did that the next morning–I think I was probably the only student awake/moving that early on a weekend morning. I walked up Welch towards Friley and saw what had happened. A fraternity there (Pi Kappa Phi) had had an accident–I’d stayed there when visiting ISU the previous spring as I had a friend who had been a member there…I was not impressed. Anyways, it was an older building and it had a huge balcony on its second floor. I’d been on it–it was creaky…but still sturdy (my opinion). But on that Saturday night, the frat boys threw a party and it was a big one–bigger than permitted and that meant they crammed that balcony with people. And they all started jumping up and down. And then the balcony collapsed, enough damage that the house wound up being vacated–and eventually enough that they suspended the frat and tore the building down. There had been 100-150 people on that balcony…and walking by it, it looked like it had snapped like a graham cracker. Among other things, that sealed my opinion of fraternities. WIth that said, my first thought, seeing the damage, was wondering how many people were killed (it was carnage) and how many were injured. It turned out only one female student was injured–she broke her leg. No one else wound up hurt.

The following weekend, there was another party. This one was on Lancelot, the floor I lived on. Floors in the residence halls were permitted two parties per semester. Students paid dues for the privilege of these parties. I’d never seen anything like them in my life…though I had a clue because every floor of Wallace Hall smelled of stale beer. It was in the carpet, in most of the furniture. In hindsight, I’m shocked Mom didn’t comment on it when moving me in–then again, she was too busy thinking about her oldest child heading off to college and being emotional…moms.

These parties were what you see in movies. Kegs? Sure. Five or six–no problem Anything not finished when the party ended at 2am, well, then, that would work for Sunday during NFL games…not to mention the people who would mix Everclear with Jello. The floor lounge area (with the kegs) would be packed, the music would be loud, and out in the elevators’ area (a floor was shaped like a “H” with the ‘vators in the middle) people would be dancing–music from the lounge 60’ away was still loud there.

I tried to be a ‘good’ college student, but since I didn’t drink, wasn’t 19-21years old, and was part of a school with 1/20th the # of kids as Wallace Hall had living in it (and Towers was a four-building complex), I didn’t fit in at all. In the moment, it was a horrible feeling–everyone wants to fit in with roommates, neighbors, to make new friends. Now–I was just in the wrong place and a few months later, I’d be okay once I moved to Foster. The world wound up working out…but that’s now not then.

Rather than continue to feel isolated and socially awkward with so so so so much beer being consumed…I decided to withdraw to my room (7312), I could read, and wait for everything to end and I could resume ny normal socially-awkward existence. Life doesn’t work that way.

College in 1985 was crowded, residence halls were overflowing with people so I had two roommates in a room meant originally for only two people. One was Mohsin. He was from Pakistan, his dad was a government official, and Mohsin was in the US to have some fun–whether that was eating some pork or consuming alcohol. Mohsin’s proud and joy though was a top-end stereo system and turntable that occupied most of his desk.

The other roomie was Al. Al was from Rockford, Illinois, and he’d just come out of overflow housing (people who didn’t have a room and were on bunkbeds in what were normally common areas). Al wanted to be an engineer. He also wanted to have a good time. Al had a good time. Regularly.

That night, I went back to the room, unlocked it, and walked in on Al and a girl named Sheila. Al was sitting on Mohsin’s desk. Sheila was standing between Al’s legs. I’d never walked in on something like that before. Hmph. Al looked at me and he was far, far, far past the legal alcohol limit. The girl didn’t notice me. So I did what I thought was the decent thing…I backed on out of the room and figured I’d need to look awkward at the party for another hour or so. Sigh.

Mohsin spotted me–knowing I’d intended to go back to our room. He asked what was up–and I told him. Mohsin immediately charged to our room and opened the door, furious. “You ASSHOLE. You’re sitting on my turntable. That’s a thousand-dollar turntable! And she’s leaning on my god-damned leather jacket. That cost me as much as the stereo.”

Al smiled, stood up, came to the door with no pants on, and slammed the door in Mohsin’s face. Mohsin stood for a moment then yelled through the door, “Anything gets on my jacket, you’re paying for the dry cleaning you ASSHOLE.”

The door clicked and the black leather jacket flew in Mohsin’s face. The door closed. Mohsin looked at me and shrugged, “At least my jacket’s okay.”

We went back thirty minutes later–Al and Sheila were gone. They wandered the stairwells the rest of the night, trying to smoke cigarette butts they found on the stairs and landings. Of course, when Al got back on Lancelot around 11am, about a dozen stereos immediately started cranking recordings of ‘Oh, Sheila!’ Al never said anything. Then again, as far as I know he never talked with that Sheila again after that night either.

Welcome to college. Somehow I suspect it’s not much different in 2021 than it was 36 years ago.