PRIVILEGES

‘This is not what you think this is,’ welcomes us Y.J., shoveling tomato-paste out of what might be a knee pad.
‘So what is this?’
‘It’s Y.J. and Freddy trying to make pizza,’ calls Schneider from his computer.
‘What’s that, Schneid?’ Asks Polo, the student supervisor, pointing at the fleshed-out figure on the screen.
‘My cyber hooker,’ he introduces. ‘Very hot.’
‘I also need one,’ I say, walk over and shut his visual. ‘Your computer privileges are out of order for three days.’
‘What the –‘
‘D’you want her to put a picture of your bent schlong on your MySpace account,’ continues Freddy, forking a string of cheese two feet long.
‘You will do no such thing,’ says Prince Schneider.
‘So do not debase other humans by ogling their privates.’
‘They put it there on purpose,’ he says vehemently, squeezing under my arm to reach for the power button. ‘This is not degrading. These people expose themselves because they are proud and beautiful people.’
I have no counter-attack except, ‘These people are crackheads. Now lay off.’
Something sizzles, and I spin around to see a flame sear in the microwave.
‘Whoa!’ roars Y.J. and snatches a flour-coated cup of water.
‘Polo!’ I shriek, and he pounces on Y.J.
‘You people need to rearrange your ass-skulls,’ suggests a soaked Freddy, ‘We was just making freaking pizza.’
‘Your pizza-making privileges join my computer ones in hell,’ says Schneider, sulking by the keyboard listlessly.

Polo and I climb upstairs to inspect room hygiene. ‘Schneider is one smartass,’ I note. When out of alumni earshot, I may utter the a-word.
‘Highly intelligent,’ agrees Polo. By the way, this nickname is a twist on the fact that his mother’s Polish, his real name is Herbert or something.
I am actually confused. I would not like anyone to watch naked humans parading globally, especially in the dorm kitchen; but on the other hand, this is such a small issue compared with what we must deal with daily. Let them play their cyber-hookers, see if I care. But I must care, since I am program director.

‘Polo,’ I say, and he looks up from a row of toothbrushes stuck in the couch fluff, fabric slits spewing foam. ‘I can’t be bothered.’
‘With what? Arguing with President Schneids?’
‘No, I can tackle him, and will, later.’ Tomorrow, we will discuss respect and prospect and all that jazz. ‘This hierarchy of troubleshooting. I used to get pissed when people focus on minor issues with the same weight they give more crucial ones. I can’t stand doing so myself.’
‘Poor girl,’ smiles Polo, and offers me a seat on the ripped sofa. I don’t want to know what they hide in there, keep your police k9s at bay. ‘I was also thinking this on my first term here. I turned to Benny’ – who then had some of my current chores – ‘and he told me he figured that by keeping a structured system, you maintain all the dilemmas at a controllable range.’
I squint. ‘This sounds like the Taliban lipstick prohibition to prevent promiscuity.’
‘On the contrary. See, these kids need structure. Claim to hate, but there is nothing they’d rather have than a couple of nasty rules - to know somebody is holding their world for them. When you give importance to their troubles, at whichever level, they will adjust to the system and function competently. The focus is not on control, but the sense of order, and care.’
Ping! ‘A bit like why I drug-test them every so often, not because I mistrust them, but because they need to know that we will test them.’
Polo smiles, then pulls out an empty pickle can from underneath his butt. ‘Damn, where are all those promised sofa donations? Girl, you just need to practice two things: tact, and perspective. And you seem to keep these in good track.’
Gee, thanks.

Right then the microwave sent a mighty bang upstairs. Freddy could be heard shrieking: ‘I swear this ain’t pizza again! Shit! This is my freaking burger!’
At least we won’t need to kosher another micro.