The Astounding Summer Adventures of Jenn-in-the Box

The summer job... The rite of passage that introduces the wide-eyed and fancy-free to the hemmed-in drudgery, mind-numbing repetition, quashed ideals, crushed spirit, and slavish inequity that is the adult working world.

My first true taste of it was my summer in The Box.

The Box was a five-foot-by-five-foot-by-ten-foot-high glass and aluminum room which served as the security and information desk for one of the dorms at my college.

This dorm during the summers had an unusual feature. It remained open during summer sessions-- not only for students, but for an array of outside invaders so varied and surreal, on any given day it was like Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Looking Out My Back Door" come to life.

Catering to out-of-town Pittsburgh visitors looking for dirt-cheap lodging, conventions of Charismatic Christians swept in... visiting dignitaries from Europe and the Middle East found shelter here... and international exchange students made themselves at home. Each offered their $8-$20 per night to gain a single Spartan bed with a shared bath and no air-conditioning...

Dorm hotel operations quickly served to level the playing field for high-end guest expectations.

My job during this time was to act as the front desk of the hotel, registering people for rooms, taking money, and listening to them complain that there was no maid service...

That the person who shared their bath smelled a bit...

And that the air-conditioner-- which didn't exist-- seemed to be broken.

This is why I needed to be in a room entirely enclosed in shatterproof glass.

The second aspect of my job was to act as dorm security, ensuring everyone had an ID who came through. So soon I knew all the students-- and what a remarkable mass of humanity it was!

Like the summer student who spent these three months in the same unwashed beige terrycloth bathrobe, boxers, knee socks, and a tweed cabby hat. By week three, the stench was noticeable-- and not improved for the airing it got when he went outside-- presumably to classes-- that way.

He was a popular complaint from the aforementioned guests sharing a bath.

Then there was "Sir Bob" as I called him, from the Creative Anachronism Society. Sir Bob would come downstairs in full knight regalia (he made his own chain mail-- very talented fellow!). He'd bow at The Box in a slight kneeling move on his way out, wish me "Fair morning, M'lady!" ---

("Fair morning, Sir Bob!") ---

And he would go on his way to slay some dragons or, say, class. This routine tended to befuddle any friends visiting me in The Box-- y'know, because they weren't aware I had connections at Court. But after a couple of weeks these things all seemed fairly normal somehow.

There was my newly-made friend, the perpetually confused British exchange student who saw fireflies for the first time and "thought he was going mad." I had to explain the little blinking lights were not, in fact, only in his mind. I also had to explain how our mailboxes worked, given he was afraid to investigate too thoroughly lest he embarrass himself in public...

Yes, this was the sort of Help we gave at the Help Desk.

And then there was Danny DeVito.

Well, okay, he wasn't really Danny DeVito. He was the dorm mailman. But at about five feet tall, and three foot wide, he had all the charm of Danny, right down to his wiry thinning hair, his big cheesy smile, and his love of trying to pick up women half his age and twice his height.

Like me.

Truthfully, this guy had singled me out long before my summer in The Box. On some strange premise that I looked like the pharmacist near his house, (oh yes, what girl doesn't fall for that sort of flattery?) he'd engaged me once in discussion at my own dorm with a bit too much gusto.

And now The Box was right parallel to the dorm post office, where Danny knew all the skinny on my daily activities.

When you spend 12 hour shifts in a five foot box... well... there really isn't anywhere to escape.

And I learned quickly that I had to be perpetually on my guard, because this balding little mailman had very small, very stealthy feet. So if I wasn't paying attention-- like, say, reading during lulls in the surreality and mayhem-- I'd suddenly find the man behind me, touching my shoulders or my hair.

Small pudgy fingers would knead into my shoulders, in a technique more reminiscent of bread making than a neck massage.

"You look tense," he once said.

"Suddenly I am," I recall scowling as I spun around in my chair. "Increasingly."

I was pretty sure my duties didn't involve fending off The Penguin in-between being security, information and hotel ops. But since this was in the early 90s, it wasn't a time where telling the Housing Department that the mailman continually "claimed to have a package for me" would have had a whole lot of effect.

And thus began the beautiful and much appreciated unified front to buffer Jenn-in-the-Box. My friend Austin-- six-foot-tall, strapping and, unbeknownst to Mr. DeVito, a total teddy-bear-- would spend what time he could afford hanging with me in the fishbowl to scare away the predator.

My friend Grace would bring snacks and magazines and camp out when she could.

Even other Desk Attendants off-shift would come by with checkers or Monopoly, just to keep my touchy-feely admirer at bay.

I think I never properly thanked them all for their kindness. So if you're out there reading-- thanks a bunch, gang!

Of course, my being remiss in the thanks department was largely to do with all the multi-tasking that took precedence.

Like having to translate a combination of broken English and mime to determine the diplomat from Kuwait needed me to call him a cab (he gave me a lovely souvenir Kuwaiti pen for my assistance-- in fact, I still have it!)...

Or having to talk a particularly charismatic Charismatic Christian down from the ceiling because she wouldn't be receiving fresh towels and linens each day...

Or helping my friend the confused Englishman understand denominations of American small change...

Or getting a big enough layer of Lysol hovering around the entryway for when Mr. Bathrobe trucked on through...

Even making sure to acknowledge Sir Bob's "'til the morrow, M'lady."

So at the end of the summer, on my very last day, the head of Housing called me into her office.

She said, "I've heard great things about how you handled the desk this summer. From what I understand, you're one of the best desk attendants we've had."

I was both surprised and embarrassed. "Why, thank you."

"I would like to extend the position to you year-round. We don't want to lose someone like you. How do you feel about that?"

In that instant, an entire year of chaos, of IDs, and beige bathrobes, and stench, and diminutive mailmen with pokey fingers, and 12-hour-shifts and walls-- high walls and narrow spaces-- came flooding to me in one choking, anxiety-ridden, heart-pounding, claustrophobic moment...

I cleared my throat as I waited for the blood pulsing in my ears, at my temples, to subside just enough so I could hear myself.

"I really appreciate it," I said with a smile, "but I think I'll have to pass. I feel I need to be able to truly focus on my studies this year."

And somewhere far off in the distance, Braveheart shouted, "FREEDOM!!"

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