Mark Tufo - Alive in a Dead World

Mike and Paul had been written up no less than five times in their first month on the floor. Six meant an automatic meeting with the dean and potential disciplinary actions, up to and including, expulsion. Mike and Paul had on more than one occasion caught Gert outside their door listening to see if he could get that elusive sixth offense.

“Is he there?” Mike asked Paul as Paul had snuck up to the door and quickly opened it, trying to once again catch him.

“No, but he was here recently. I can almost hear the echo of his goosestep as he went down the hallway.”

“Good one,” Mike had said. “We need to do something about him. We’ve been good for a few days now, but how much longer do you think we can last?”

“Not long, I’m already itching for another fiesta.”

“That’s what I’m saying. We need to get rid of the party Nazi.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to wait until next semester and move off this floor?”

“You think we’ll make it that far? And then we have to admit that he wins. And that sure doesn’t sound like the guy that threw perhaps the largest spitball ever conceived at Mrs. Weinstedder back in the sixth grade.”

“You sure do know how to flatter a guy. What’s your plan?”

“You think he’s in his room?”

“The only time he isn’t is either when’s he’s at class or writing a student advisory slip.”

“Alright, we’ve got to be careful. He’s got the other freshmen on this floor so wound tight, they might rat us out if they catch us.”

“You sure about all this, Mike?” Paul asked with some concern.

“I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than skulking into the night.”

“I agree,” Paul said, feeling himself quite possibly being peer-pressured. There’s something to be said for skulking , Paul thought.

“Alright, I’m going to need your help with this one.”

Paul nodded and noted Mike taking a stack of pennies from their shared coin jar.

“When we get to Hurtie Gert’s door, you need to press on the top corner as hard as you can.”

“Which corner?” Paul asked.

“Valid question, the one above the doorknob.”

“What’s that going to do?”

“It’s going to give me the room I need to shove these pennies in.”

“You know our fingerprints are all over those things.”

“So? No way, do you think he’d get these dusted?”

“Who knows?”

“We don’t have our fingerprints on file, do we?”

“I don’t think so, but I’d rather not take the chance.”

Mike wiped all the coins on his shirt and then put a sock over his hand to grasp the coins.

“That doesn’t look suspicious at all.”

“Come on, let’s get this done.”

Mike kept his sock-clad hand in his pocket to allay any prying questions, should they arise. The twenty-five-foot walk to Gert’s door was uneventful. The only noise was when some unlucky student had dropped his chemistry book on his foot and cried out in alarm and pain. Paul and Mike had frozen, thinking Gert would come busting out of his door to quiet the offending student. He didn’t do that, but he had yelled for the clumsy scholar to shut up.

“He’s a very caring individual,” Mike had said, turning back towards Paul.

The door had groaned slightly as Paul pressed on the top corner.

“Harder,” Mike had intoned, looking at the gap being formed from the pressure.

The gap had finally widened to a liking for Mike as he pulled the pennies from his pocket and placed about seven of them in a stack against the bowed door and the frame.

“Let go,” Mike said.

“There was a brief second where the corner of Mike’s sock got pinched in the door. Paul thought it had been Mike’s finger and was waiting for the resultant scream that would most assuredly get them kicked out of school. Mike quickly pulled the sock out and bolted for their room, Paul hurriedly followed. They had no sooner shut their door when someone down the hallway had opened theirs.

“That was fucking close,” Mike laughed.

“Now what?” Paul asked, not sure what was going to happen. All he could think was that Gert might be mildly surprised with the clatter of change and would be seven cents richer for their effort.

“We wait.”

“This seemed funnier when we were talking about what we were going to do.”

“Wait, buddy, it gets better.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t too long of a wait before Gert decided it was time to go to the cafeteria and get some food. At first, there was nothing and then came the struggles of someone beating on their door. If it had been anybody else besides Gert, they would have received a violation. Nearly every door on the floor opened to see who had the balls to make that much noise.

Gert was beating on his door with closed fists, swearing in his native tongue of German.

“I always wondered how to say that,” said a pretty, little brunette named Debbie, who Paul remembered was taking German as her language of choice. “Interesting.”

“Someone needs to call the Fire Department! I am locked in my room!”

“He can’t get out?” Paul asked, turning back to a laughing Mike.

“No man! The pennies wedge the lock up against the slide; he can’t even turn the handle.”

“That’s brilliant, man.”

The ranting, cussing and general screams of fear continued for a full two minutes longer until a junior who had seen the prank before recognized it for what it was. He told Gert to move from the door. He then pressed against the corner of the door, and the pennies fell to the floor.

“What the hell is going on!?” Gert screamed as he came through the door.

Most of the meek freshman retreated back into their rooms.

“Was this you?” Gert asked the junior who had helped.

“Screw you, man, I just helped you. I should have left you in there.” And then he walked away.

The hallway was clear, save a few students, who decided this might be a good time to go get some food. Gert honed in on Paul and Mike like an eagle to a mouse.

Mike quickly pulled Paul in and shut the door.

“Do you think he knows?” Paul asked, smiling.

“I’m sure we’re on a short list.”

“Kind of like Spindler?” He was the boys’ old high school principal, who followed them around relentlessly, at least, until his car mysteriously burst into flames.

“Kind of like that, but by the time we’re done, we’ll make all that look like child’s play.”

For two weeks, Mike and Paul had harassed Gert to no end. On a particularly eventful evening, Paul gained illegal entry into Gert’s dorm room via a credit card and some precision maneuvering. Paul had hooked up Gert’s Bose stereo system to a timer set to go off in the wee hours of the morning. At precisely three-thirty-eight am on the morning of Tuesday the eleventh of October, “Runnin’ with the Devil” by Van Halen ripped through the night like a fire truck through a sleepy village.

“Fitting song,” Mike told Paul as they sat at their doorway. They were careful to only open their door when they heard the rest of the floor doing the same.

The music and Gert’s resultant cursing had been heard on the floor below and above. Despite Gert’s protestations, he had received his first written warning since he had started school four years previous.

“How much more of this do you think he can take?” Paul asked Mike after they had seen a hangdog expression on Gert as he exited the student lounge.

“I guess we’ll see,” Mike had answered. “The good thing is he’s been too paranoid to write anybody up.”

“He doesn’t look like he’s slept in days,” Paul said. “I’d almost feel bad if he wasn’t such a prick.”