all the leaves were brown

Well, Friday night was my last in the Jones House Dormitory, officially bringing my employment at the Sooner Housing Center to a close.

Glancing at the clock I noticed (and felt) my shift was almost over. By habit I carry out the usual 4:55 a.m. routine. I feel the duty book in my hand for the last time, fill in the appropriate numbers and offer my signature at the bottom of the page, cementing my name among all those late-night voyagers who came before me (some who might read these very words).

Reverently, the concession-style window is shut with a clank, the key turned to lock it in place. At 5:01 a.m. May 14 the door squeaks closed and I lock it from the outside. Slowly, I remove the key from my ring, the one that makes me special, that gives me access to many doors at the Jones House, and slide it under the door pausing briefly before releasing it.

However, the real difficulty comes not in the relief of duty, but the empty rooms of residents.

As I now sit writing from the comfort of the Stu Headquarters, I can't help but long for the funny smelling, poorly furnished and community-bathroom equipped dormitory.

I pick up my rolled rug and shoulder a bag containing the last of my belongings. Kneeling briefly to look under the bed I talk to myself, not an uncommon occurrence for us humans when we move.
"Is that all," I ask myself, the sound of my voice echoing a little in the empty concrete space.
Seeing nothing but freshman-ripened carpet and a few pieces of insignificant debris, I come to my feet again and stand in the threshold.
At approximately 2:45 in the afternoon of May 14 I close the solid door of 205 behind me. The familiar click lets me know the door has locked automatically upon closing (a bittersweet doorknob feature when showering).

I walk past 204, nothing, 202, nothing, no one. I'm down the stairs and out in the sunshine. My engine starts and I put the car in reverse, gazing idly at the four-story building from whence I just came.

I back up, put it in drive, go forward, turn right, go past the cafeteria, the bike rack where my seat got stolen. I come to the stop sign and turn left out of the parking lot, losing the dorm in my mirror. The clock reads 3 p.m.

Thus, my dorm experience came to a close. For most this experience came as a freshman, highlighting your first year of college. For me, the dorm experience came later-I got it as a junior. While some of you might say differently, and my academic profile speak against it, in some ways, this year, my third at OU, my fifth and sixth semesters respectively, was indeed kind of like my freshman year in college.

Thanks George H. for telling me about the dorm job on that September evening in 2004 at RUF. I think I'm a different man because of it.