The lights flickered off, then on again
Lights flickered off and on, once, then twice. Closing time at the Robinson Hall History Library.
One blond head was still bowed over a stack of books when the lights flicked off and on again. Reluctantly, the boy shut his book and stuffed it into a book bag. Thrusting his arms into the sleeves of a worn, wool coat, he pulled on equally worn gloves. Straightening up, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the dark window
Tall and thin, with a shock of corn colored blond hair and horn rimmed glasses, he looked younger than his 25 years. It was a good thing too. He didn't really want too many people knowing that he was a "mature student". It had taken a long time to find his way to the ivy-covered campus. After high school, his father had forbade "wasting" his money on anything but a local college.
"You just need to learn trade. Pick a job first, then I'll send you to get some training for it," his father voiced echoed in his head. "Look at me. R & Sons sells more cars than anyone in three counties. You think anyone cares about the letters after myname when they come to buy a car?
The plan had been to prove his father wrong. After high school, he had finished his degree at the local college and attended post-baccalaureate classes at the Ivy League school at night. It wasn't enough to own the biggest dealership in three counties. He wanted to work at the top, to be in charge of the tri-statecorporate headquarters. With an MBA from Harvard, he'd be able to go anywhere.
The young man pulled a brown wool cap out of his pocket and tugged it down over his ears. Portraits of ancient men stared down at him from the second floor balcony that ran around the edge of the room. He made his way down the spiral wrought iron staircase, his footsteps echoing.
"Night, Gracie," he nodded to the student librarian who stood at the door with her own book bag, waiting to lock the door behind him.
The snow crunched beneath his feet. The city lights of Boston gave a faint glow to the sky, as if the sun never really set, especially on nights when it was about to snow.
When the libraries closed, packs of students flooded the Freshman Yard, then disappeared again into their cozy dormitory rooms, warm and dry. Just like closing time at the bars at home… with less stumbling into snowbanks.
The dark shapes of the three hundred year-old buildings loomed up all around him. Ice slicked the broad marble steps, their rounded edges worn down the middle. Even late at night, he could hear music drifting down from dorm room windows, open to let the radiator heat escape.
First, he had applied to Yale, where his greatest hero, George Herbert Walker Bush had attended. Unfortunately, Yale had summarily rejected him. Harvard had accepted him on the basis of what the interviewer deemed a "desire for a diverse student body" with room for "mature students."
"Diverse student body?" he snorted. Wasn't he exactly the kind of student who deserved to be at an Ivy League school? Wasn't he a card-carrying young Republican? Okay, he wasn't that young – but that was his father's fault for forcing him to enroll secretly, earning his way painfully one semester at a time.
Once he had gotten over the fact that he had ended up at the alma mater of that saxophone-toting other president, he had set about earning his MBA as quickly as possible so he could start making the fortune he deserved.
The quickest path to the almighty dollar. That was the idea. Of course, he had to find a way to pay for the classes first. He tried waiting tables and working at the bookstore, but all the jobs took too much time away from his classes. None of them paid enough.
"I need a real job, Charlie," he had said to the student work supervisor. "These student jobs don't cover anything. Don't you have anything else?"
"The pay sucks because all you're doing is sitting around a bookstore on your ass all day," Charlie retorted.
"What about the laundry crew? That pays more."
"We don't usually hire students for the crew. Only townies take the those jobs."
"Come one. I need the money."
Charlie snorted, "I guess you know what you're getting into. But I guarantee you'll hate the job."
He did hate it.
Every night, when the "real" students went to bed, he descended the concrete steps down into the basement laundry. The massive, steaming room housed the laundry facilities for all the faculty housing and adjacent university-affiliated hotel. The noise of the dryers was deafening and a fine coating of damp lint covered every surface.
He signed in. Night shift: Reagan Ronald.
On the first day when he had started the job, he had thought, "A little steamy in here, but not bad." It wasn't the steam that made the job brutal. Every day, hundreds of sheets, pillowcases and bedspreads were washed, dried and folded. Then, the night crew stacked the folded laundry, packed them into enormous cotton bags and piled them onto carts. Packed full, the bags weighed 75 pounds and came up to his chin. And since most of the old dormitories and faculty rooms had no elevators, the huge bags, like dense futons, had to be wrestled up five or six flights of stairs. In winter, he pushed the cart through the muddy slush and carried the bags into the overheated buildings, in and out, all night long.
All the laundry duties were bad, but some were worse than others. Because he was the tallest guy on the night shift, he was always the one stuffing and emptying all the washing machines stacked on the top of the double rows. His arms ached from holding them over his head.
The lower level held the more delicate wool blankets. Those loads didn't need to be changed as often.
The top washers held all the normal wash, all the sheets, pillow cases and towels - hundreds of them. Reagan could never keep up.
"Normals, ready to come out!"
"Normals, ready to go in!"
"Hurry it up, Normal. You're the slowest idiot I've even seen, get your ass in gear!
"Normal!"
All the laundry workers flipped coins for the privilege of choosing not to do the "finishing." The finishing job involved taking out all the pillowcases and all the quilt covers, which had been emptied for washing, and zipping them up again. Of course, the zippers were usually old and broken, and often clipped or cut a finger in the process.
Why are you so damn slow! Every pillowcase and cover needs to be closed. The sheet and blankets are getting ahead of you.
"Ronald! Zip, Zip, Zip!"
He loathed that underground workroom, but he had fallen in love with learning. Finance classes led him to Economics classes, which led him to History and Philosophy. He couldn't get enough. And the only way he could support himself, was to stay in the hated laundry room.
Six years and two degrees later, he was finally one week away from finishing his MBA.
"When I'm finished, you know what job I'm gonna do?" he would start.
"We know," Charlie and the other boys would chime in.
"You've got a job as a consultant, doing research and filing reports in peace and quiet. And you're never going to work with idiots like us again," they chorused. .
"I am never going to do anything remotely like this again," stated Reagan Ronald with as much conviction as he could muster.
One week later, Reagan Ronald, graduated from Harvard University.
Two days later, the Pulse hit.