Man vs. UMass
by Adam SzajginCollegian Staff
My name is Adam Szajgin. I am the Comics Editor for The Massachusetts Daily Collegian, and a full-time student at the University of Massachusetts. I am afraid of heights and I get cold very easily. Also, I’m not a huge fan of spiders. I have never trained with the British Special Forces, but I was a cub scout for a little while. Once, while playing tennis, I sprained my leg really bad. It hurt a lot. Although it may not sound like it, I assure you, I am almost as bad ass as I am good looking. In the interests of life, liberty and the eternal pursuit of heinous decision making, I agreed to spend a week in the wilderness of UMass foraging for food and fighting for my survival. This is my story. This is Man vs. UMass.
The rules of my quest, as determined by myself and fellow members of the Collegian staff, were quite simple. I would live for a full academic week, from the last Sunday of spring break to my last class on Friday, out in the wilderness of UMass. I would not be allowed to enter my own apartment for any reason, and thus would carry all of my belongings with me through the duration of my exploit.
I could not spend money or engage in monetary exchanges of any kind. To make my task a little bit more difficult, I would not accept charitable donations in the form of food or money from any of the many compassionate students on campus. If I wanted something for free, I would have to negotiate, charm or steal. This condition effectively precluded the prospect of sitting on the ground and begging for change, meals or sexual pleasuring.
I should also point out that I do not have a meal plan. Repeat: no meal plan.
Sunday morning arrived and brought with it an end to a spring break filled with sun and breasts – oh wait, that wasn’t my spring break at all. Let me take that again…
Sunday morning arrived and brought with it an end to a spring break filled with torrential rain and backbreaking manual labor. I drove back to my apartment from my hometown of Beverly, Mass., stopping at The Collegian to do the comics page for the next day, threw all my clean laundry on the floor, and started to pack up my things. When my backpack was full (see list of supplies), I picked up my tent and sleeping bag, gave an affectionate yet manly nod to my roommate, and headed towards campus.
Before I continue, I must briefly explain the choice to bring a tent and sleeping bag. If Bear Grylls makes a fire in the woods to keep warm, everyone applauds his outdoorsy prowess. If I make a fire next to the campus pond to ward off hypothermia, I get arrested and charged with arson. Do you get it now? Ok, back to the adventure. I got to campus around 11:30 p.m. and saw a lovely tent site prospect in the giant field in front of North apartments. I trudged through the muddy grass and plopped near a drainage gully under the “shelter” of a frail little tree. I set up my tent, did 6,000 push-ups, braided my manly chest hair and went to bed. It was a little cold, but nice – this wouldn’t be so bad after all, I thought.
I was wrong. Very, very wrong.
At one in the morning, I was shocked out of sleep by a loud, blaring noise. I sat up as quickly as humanly possible. Jackie Chan has cat-like reflexes, but my muscles are actually made out of millions of tiny cats, so like I said, I sat up fast. It took me a minute to figure out where on Earth I was, and a minute more to figure out that the obnoxious honking noise was a car alarm in the parking lot less than two hundred feet away from me. Survivorman Les Stroud may have to worry about hungry pumas and deadly spiders, but it is common knowledge that car alarms are the most annoying thing on the face of the planet.
Fear not, I am a man of the great outdoors and my body quickly adapted to this bumptious auditory inconvenience. The alarm would freak out for one minute and remain silent for another before repeating the pattern. My sleep-deprived mind deduced the pattern, and I found myself sleeping one minute at a time.
I woke up at six in the morning to find that the bottom of my sleeping bag was covered in snow. Either UMass had been covered in an avalanche, or water had condensed on the inside of my tent, frozen and snowed down upon my feet. A brief glance outside the tent proved the latter to be true. I packed up and headed off in search of food.
I dropped off my tent and sleeping bag in one of the Campus Center lockers without actually paying to lock it. I would leave these items there throughout the week. After numerous failed attempts to catch and eat a duck, I headed to Franklin DC to eat my weight in scrambled eggs with a rather perplexing texture. I will not go into the details of how I found my way into the DC, but let us just say I was slippery like an eel, and I gained entry. I was able to do this throughout the week at every DC on campus at least once. Jason Bourne could learn quite a bit from me.
I ate like a king and stocked up on fruit. My backpack was apples aplenty and bananas bonanza. I felt like a nomadic fruit bat. On the way out, I stopped at the dining services office. I stunned the lady at the desk with my intoxicating pheromones, a hunting technique I learned in Burma, and with a wink and a smile (thus classifying this as charm), I was able to acquire three coupons for free lunch in any DC.
Then I had another important mission to complete. Over break, my cell phone charger had mysteriously stopped working. As of Sunday night, I had one blinking bar of battery, and by morning my cell piece was officially deceased. Before you judge me for bringing a phone with me into the wild of UMass, hear this: I have a very short, very loud Jewish mother. She is much like a mosquito, and when she goes too long without hearing from me, she starts freaking out and calling hospitals. Additionally, I decided it would be best not to tell her about my foray into immersion journalism until after the week had ended, lest she freak out and lecture me for three hours about how I will catch a cold.
Plus, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I still hope that I might actually get a booty call one day. I needed my phone.
I hopped a PVTA bus and headed to the Verizon store on Route 9. I asked the attractive female if they carried the charger I needed. She walked over and pulled one off the wall. Now came the tricky part: how could I get a new phone charger without spending any money?
The girl – I believe her name was Steph – told me I could return the charger within 15 days.
“Well, well, well,” I said. “I’m getting a new phone in 10.”
I proceeded to engage the strumpet in witty banter regarding the price of phone
chargers and all sorts of other things. Also, I told her I liked her shoes. Slowly but surely, I eroded her professional demeanor to reveal a smitten kitten. Wow, I am a pimp.
Eventually, she realized that it was silly to charge me for something I would ultimately return, and she disappeared into the back room. She came back and handed me a second-hand charger; a gift from her to me.
Other than the fact that I was porting my entire life in my backpack, the rest of my day was fairly normal. I went to Spanish class, realized how much I suck at Spanish, went to work and morphed into a puddle like Alex Mack so I could score a meal at Worcester DC.
Night fell and it was once again time to seek shelter for the evening. I set up my tent in between Van Meter and Orchard Hill, pretty much the world capital of hippy lounging. There weren’t many people, and after a few questions, the few tree huggers left me alone. At one point I got hungry, so I sucked on a peppermint tea bag that I had stolen from the DC in an effort to satisfy my cravings. I slept well.
Apparently at around 5:30 a.m., the temperature at UMass drops like 60 degrees because every night I would go to bed and the cold would be bearable, but in the morning I would wake up convulsing and shivering. On this day, I woke up at 6:30 a.m., completely unable to feel my fingers despite the fact that I was wearing gloves.
I though March was supposed to go down on a lamb ¬– or was it out like a lamb? Either way, I was freezing my chops off.
On Tuesday, I went to my nutrition and theater classes; both are as boring in print as they are in reality. As a welcome contrast to the nightly shivers, I continually found myself sweating under the heat of the March sun and the weight of all my possessions. The heat was nice at the time, but its effects would ultimately prove undesirable. At night I retreated from the heart of campus to set up my tent in the meditation garden of the Durfee conservatory. Although it got a bit nippy, it was the warmest night thus far.
At some point during the night, my shelter was visited by some kids engaging in the smoking of mind altering substances. They did not even acknowledge my tent, and as I fell asleep, I listened to their drug-infused banter about most of life being “mad chill.” I do believe they were right.
I awoke on Wednesday morning to the startling and pungent realization that I smelled worse than the backside of a flatulent zebra.
My body had become a hazmat site, and I was in desperate need of a shower. I spent most of the morning and most of my Spanish class contemplating the best place on campus to cleanse my manly assets. Eventually, I decided that I would go to Northeast and shower in Johnson, seeing as that was the part of my body most in need of a good scrubbing.
After Spanish, I snuck into Hampshire DC, ate some pasta, stole six apples, checked out the mad fly honeys, wished the pasta lady a happy birthday and had a warm cup of tea. Then I packed up my junk and headed toward Northeast.
When I arrived at Johnson, I was forced to wait on the stoop for someone who actually belonged there to swipe their card and open the door. Eventually a girl came, and as she held the door for me, her face seemed to suggest that my funky odor was offending her olfactory senses. Regardless, I thanked her and followed her through the doorway. On my way in, I noticed a stack of Daily Collegians. Being the master of survival that I am, I had the foresight to pick up three copies of the Collegian to compensate for the fact that I did not have a towel.
In the bathroom, I checked all the shower stalls for cleanliness and potentially usable resources. The first three stalls proved filthy and useless, but the fourth stall seemed reasonably clean. I mean, there were no signs of poop, so that’s good enough for me. Additionally, in the lower right corner of the stall was a glorious prize: a bar of soap! Now, I know what you’re thinking – picking up a bar of soap off of the ground in a shower and using it is insanely disgusting – well let me just say – actually you’re right. That was gross.
And not only did I use soap that had been tainted by the hairy and potentially bacteria-ridden elbows of a man named Biff, but I was also sans flip-flops.
In an effort to minimize direct contact between my bare feet and the floor, I exercised a move known as the “frightened flamingo” wherein I would stand on one foot for a period of time and then switch to the other foot. However, it was not fully accurate because – as amazing as I am – my knees do not bend backwards.
I emerged from the shower almost completely clean, but if you sniffed closely my armpits still resonated with a hint of the odor that was once my magical symphony of stink. I carefully separated the pages of The Collegians that I had brought in with me and proceeded to cover my naked body with the past day’s headlines. After a quick pat down and a little rub (of the papers, not my package), I removed the sheets one by one.
Although efficient, this technique left my body covered in black streaks and fleeting word segments. On my shoulder you could peruse the news section while sports had transferred onto my pasty guy thigh. Who knew The Collegian actually served a purpose?
When I started to get dressed again, I realized how wrong it felt to have achieved this state of cleanliness only to put on the same rank pair of undies I’d been wearing all week.
This simply would not do.
So, I got dressed commando style, marched my way over to building D of the North Apartments, and headed into the laundry room. The first dryer I checked had some serious prospects, but the clothes were too wet. The next dryer I checked yet again had a nice selection, but they were women’s underpants. While those might be right for my roommate, that’s simply not my thing.
Plus, they were all thongs, and I think the wilderness of UMass demands something with a full back.
The last dryer I checked was just right. I found a pair of regular boxer shorts with a lovely fish pattern. Perfect! Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re calling me a thief and all that jazz, but don’t you worry your little head Deputy Do-gooder, I didn’t steal anything. I left my dirty underpants behind. For the underpants fairy in North that had unknowingly helped me out – it was a fair trade.
I went to my office in The Collegian and did my work for the day, and then I proceeded to the library to get down to my homework. Whilst sitting in the library, amid a flurry of intellects and Ugg Boots, I began to consider where I would set up my tent for the night. Perhaps Garber Field? Nah, I wouldn’t want to wake up to a beating. Suddenly it dawned on me: I should sleep in the library. However, this is Man vs. UMass, and I couldn’t just lie down on a couch and sleep, because that would be both reasonable and convenient. Instead, I conspired to actually set up my tent and sleep on the highest floor of the library I possibly could.
I got up from my work space and scurried to the elevator. I pushed the highest number I saw, 26, but it wouldn’t work. So I settled for 25 and up I went. When the doors opened, I saw a floor entirely populated by a species of student I like to call Homo librarius or “Library Dwellers.” As much as I would have loved to help these people, I was a man on a mission. I found the stairs and marched up to the 26 floor – not technically the highest floor, but 27 and 28 are filled with elevator rigging and heating-related machinery.
Oh snap – the door to the 26th floor was locked. I took a closer look at the locking mechanism and realized it was about as effective as the Bursar’s Office. I removed my trusty pocket knife and, drawing upon my elaborate archive of Samurai skills, I picked the lock. It took me, like … four seconds. I quietly squealed in delight, took a quick look around the empty room, making sure to relish the gorgeous view, and headed back down to the learning commons. After doing a little more work, and a lot more Facebook stalking, I took my stuff and headed to a floor with less traffic to while away the hours before bedtime. I figured the tent and sleeping bag sitting next to me in the highly populated learning commons could threaten my objectives for the evening.
I spent the next three hours on the ninth floor eating old apples that I found in my backpack and thumbing through art books with the indecent hope of finding an artist who only painted naked women. What? Like you wouldn’t do that. At midnight, I returned to the 26th floor, removed my pocket knife and commenced with the B and E. Once again, the integrity of the lock proved easier to compromise than New York Governor Spitzer’s marriage vows. I sent up my tent in the middle of the room, brushed my teeth in the private bathroom, and went to bed with the sincere hope that an angry, peg-legged custodian wouldn’t come in at three in the morning.
But alas, my hopes were dashed.
At two in the morning I awoke from a sleepy stupor to the sound of jingling keys and an opening door. Crap! No, not in my pants. “Crap!” There, that’s better.
A man in a blue shirt approached my tent with a stern look on his face. Let’s keep in mind; I am in my underpants, in a sleeping bag, in a tent that’s in the middle of a very large room on the 26th floor of the library. I quickly sat up and said the first thing that came to mind.
“Well this must look rather awkward.”
“Yes,” he said, “it most certainly does.”
I emerged from my dwelling and explained my situation to the man. We talked a bit and he seemed jolly enough. He asked me for some form of identification. I lied and said I handed in my wallet when I started writing the story. This seemed like a good idea at the time until he told me that because I lacked ID, he would have to call the cops. Shit.
A police officer was already waiting in the lobby when we got off the elevator. I’m pretty sure he was 12 years old and incapable of even growing a beard. The constable asked me my name and what I was doing. I went through my little schpiel while some flabbergasted onlookers listened intently. He radioed in my name to verify that I was in fact a registered UMass student. While we waited for the verdict he lectured me on the ever-increasing prevalence of methamphetamine use by vagrants in the upper tiers of the DuBois. On the inside, I thought, “What the hell is this guy telling me all this for?” On the outside, I smiled, nodded and showed a little skin. You know, just in case that was his type of thing.
The station finally radioed back, making outlandish claims that my SPIRE account was inactive. The dickens you say? I am most surely a student. Look, I have got the debts to prove it. I pleaded with the officer and had the people at the desk look up the seven overdue books in my library account to prove that I was a student. He finally accepted my argument and booted me out of the library.
So I took my stuff and headed over to the statue of Chief Metawampe near the Student Union. I set up my tent, and went to bed. It was 3:15 a.m.
The next morning, I was refreshed and ready to start my day. I had slept well minus the part of the night where I woke because the statue had farted. Then I realized that didn’t make sense because everyone knows that Native Americans don’t fart.
I attended classes and began to come to terms with the fact that my adventure was ending. It had been a harsh journey, but I really wanted to step it up big-time for my last night in the wild.
I decided I would spend my last night in the concrete jungle of Southwest with no tent and no sleeping bag: just me against the elements.
Throughout the day, as I informed people of my decision, they scoffed at the absurdity of my choice. One fellow even called me an “asinine aardvark with poor taste in condiments.” Although I am entirely sure the man was crazy, I am not entirely sure of what he meant. What I did know was that Mr. Loose Marbles and I might have had a few things in common.
When I got hungry, I turned into Sub-Zero from Mortal Combat and froze all of Worcester DC. Everyone was trapped in ice, so I just walked in and took a bunch of food.
At work, I took off most of my clothing in an effort to dry my underthings before a cold night. At low temperatures, even a little sweat can kill. Although the people in my office were slightly frightened by my actions, they knew my nudity was not sexual harassment. This was survival.
Armed only with a backpack, I headed into Southwest at roughly 10:30 p.m. that fateful Thursday night. As I walked under the overpass, I noticed that there was a great deal of wildlife activity in the area. I would have to be as stealthy as possibly.
I also noticed that it was starting to rain.
My first task was to find shelter and a place to sleep. I wandered around scouting out the region before stumbling upon a nice ditch behind a bunch of bushes next to Crampton. The foliage would hide me while the slight overhang would provide some shelter from the elements.
I spent the next four hours wandering around. I read a packet that had been given to me earlier in class that day and I listened to two girls fighting somewhere in the upper floors of Mackimmie. I guess one girl had sugar-shacked up with the other’s BF. LOL!
The two were so loud that at one point it drew police attention. At first this concerned me, but soon they disappeared to drive around really fast and use their sirens to blow through red lights.
At midnight, what had previously been a very delicate sprinkling of rain turned into an absolute downpour. I sought shelter under an overhang near the Pita Pit and although this made me very hungry, it was important to stay as dry as possible.
At 2 a.m., the Southwest festivities began to settle down. I decided it was safe to retreat to my “bed” for the night. I walked back to Crampton, slipped behind some bushes, and prepared. The overhang had protected an area that was roughly two feet wide from the falling water, so I took out a pile of newspapers that I had collected and spread them out on the ground. These would offer insulation from the exothermic effects of the icy cold ground.
I lay on my side, using my backpack as a pillow. While I would have preferred to sleep on my back, this would have excluded the left side of my body from the protection of the overhang and I would have been soaked. I tried to fall asleep, knowing full well that if I tossed or turned, I’d be like a wet T-shirt contest without any of the fun. That night, I fell asleep staring at a wall of rain falling through the glow of a floodlight, set against the towers of Southwest. I was cold and somewhat miserable, but it was actually really nice…
That is, until I woke up at 5:30 in the morning to discover that the rain had turned to snow and the temperature was somewhere around negative 200 degrees. The wind had shifted, thus causing the snow to drift under my protection ledge and drape me in a blanket of ice. Crap again, except this time I wish it was in my pants because that would have been warm. Southwest is a landscape rife with spandex, perhaps I could find a stray pair of leggings to use as a sexy yet practical layer.
I had to start moving and warm up, so I started jogging laps around Southwest. At this time, the football players were getting up to go for their Friday run. They laughed at my slow gait, but they all knew I was the toughest guy out there. I had slept in the snow and rain, in a ditch, in Southwest, using newspapers as a blanket.
I ran until the sun came up and then I headed to the library to do the Spanish homework I had been putting off since Spain conquered Mexico. My hands could barely find the keyboard because they were so numb, and it took forever. A lobster could have typed faster than me.
After class, I picked up all my things in the Campus Center and started walking down North Pleasant St. towards my apartment. When I got in, I found my roommate watching weird anime cartoons. Ah, the life of an indoor cat. Again, our greeting was affectionate yet masculine. I gave him a quick rundown of the night, he laughed at my misfortune, and I went into my bedroom to make sweet love to my bed.
It was over. I had done it. I had beaten UMass.
I learned a great deal throughout the week about myself and about the students of this campus. People were curious about what I was doing, but even when I was sleeping, I never felt unsafe or unwelcome. Although I’ve always known this to be the case, pushing on-campus existence to the edge of insanity cemented that idea in my mind. Even late at night in Southwest, the people I saw were not rabble-rousers, but friends and lovers walking each other home. This campus is a wild place, and everyone’s got their own life to worry about. Between classes, jobs, relationships and waking up next to a poor decision with buckteeth and a lazy eye, we’re all after the same thing. At the end of the day, at the end of the week, we’re all just trying to survive.