COLUMN: Steve, the RA gamer
I have a confession, one I have been hiding for some time. You may judge, but there is no sense in hiding the truth any longer.
I have often dreamt of actually being the lead role in “Charles in Charge.”
There, of course, are the obvious reasons — I’d get a decent actor’s salary, an increasingly catchy theme song named after me and, heck, who wouldn’t want to look like Scott Baio?
My main motive for this longing goal of mine mainly stems from my appreciation of the oft-experienced antics that can ensue when a young man is hired on to care over a household full of those respectfully within range of his own age — also my reasoning for lobbying that “Daddy Day Care” should have starred Keenan and Kel, don’t even notion that it wouldn’t have been entertaining.
This is why I may have been so adamantly excited when I took on a job as a resident assistant for university housing this school year.
My responsibilities were simple — see to the safety of 72 residents, most of them freshman, put on monthly activities, post numerous bulletin boards, learn and enforce living policies, interact with each resident regularly, fill out paperwork for all frequent actions, confirm key numbers, instruct them in how to act in the event of a SARS breakout and, oh yes, make a conscious effort to positively influence the very mind and livelihood of each student so they see the world in a completely different way and thus feel inspired to think freely, “express” themselves and want to make the world, in all of its known anxiety, a better place. Also some light typing.
It wasn’t long in my new job that I learned two things. First, it takes more than just an aggressively worded letter to get “Keenan and Kel” on Netflix, and second, my first year as an RA may not be as entertaining and antic-laden as I had hoped. Most residents felt it in their better interest to spend free time at burrito joints and cooped in their rooms watching “Vampire Diaries.” Feel free to flog me for saying that last part. For all I knew every day would end with a long-winded sigh.
That was until “Witness” happened.
I left my apartment door one night to see a mass amount of residents chattering in the lounge and passing out cards. They would then give back the cards, sprint ever-so swiftly to the basement and begin a rousing round of the newly favorite game called Witness.
What were the rules? No clue. I only knew one thing about the game.
It was loud — friggin’ loud.
All I could hear were the sultry sounds of heavy sprints, shrieking screams and what I could have sworn was a ‘50s-era ghost, all ending with everyone limping upstairs, drenched in sweat and smiling from ear to ear. This stuff was night games on Five Hour Energy.
Over time, the numbers grew and so did the cards, which I later learned each had a specific job for each player. The more cards that were needed, the more creative they got. I would hear people screaming, “Don’t kill him, he’s the lawyer! You want to kill the dentist!” One time I found a white bottle on the lounge table and upon inquiring of it, was told — I’m not even a little bit kidding, “Oh, that’s for our newest card, the wood gluer.”
They have played spastically every night since, and not a day has gone by that someone hasn’t invited me to play. Each time I decline, they get more persuasive — even desperate. It’s like their city of gold, getting the man in charge, the “Steve in Charge,” if I may, to join in their new jovial revolution.
One evening, Tyler, who I’ll call one of the “founding witnesses,” approached me with an index card and said, smiling, “I think you’ll like our newest character.”
I looked at it and was surprisingly aghast at its label.
“Steve, the RA.”
Yes, I had joined the throng of the witness, murderer, lawyer, dentist, wood gluer and possibly even the stoop kid, without even playing a single round. I felt a drop of accomplishment, peaceful affection due to my residents’ thoughtfulness, but mostly a smooth roll of laughter at their newest product of ever-growing shenanigans.
I didn’t even need soft background music and well-founded act break to realize that, without so much as lifting a finger, my life as an RA had become its own fast-paced sitcom. I had finally made it, and I had my residents to thank.
Someday, I’ll finally gather courage and play the swiftly growing monstrosity of a game with my residents, but only on a few conditions: I must be my own character, they need still be finished by quiet hours — fines impended — and, of course, it will be filmed in front of a live studio audience.
– Steve Schwartzman is a junior majoring in speech communication. His column runs every Wednesday. Emails can be sent to him at steve.schwartzman@aggiemail.usu.edu