It’s exactly 12:57 a.m. on Saturday night. I’m walking down Louther Street, chatting excitedly with friends. As we walk, we pick up every single person we are vaguely acquainted with as we stroll by the town houses. We are tired, we are sweaty, we are starving, and at least one of the girls in our group has to “really, really use the bathroom.” At this exact moment I become fully aware of all of these factors and decide that I am completely and utterly done with the night. But before I can turn around and retreat to my nice warm bed, I see it. It calls to me. A beacon of light in the cold darkness. The quarry. My college experience thus far would not have been complete without my Saturday night trips to the quarry.
Some of you may not understand my love and adoration for this wonderful, magical place. I know there are a lot of you out there thinking to yourself (or publicly ridiculing my opinion amongst your friends as you caf sit), how can this girl seriously think a subpar sandwich shop is great? Hear me out. The quarry is the final party that happens on campus. For those unfortunate souls who are still under 21, it is the Alibis of our evening. It is where you go when you don’t want to go home yet as it is the only thing on campus that truly buzzes with activity after midnight. It’s the perfect place to bump into that person you like, or that weird kid from your English class you are trying to avoid. Social divisions and groups aren’t allowed at the Quarry and the Dickinson student body coexists seamlessly, carrying on with happy conversations. I like to think that the Quarry’s magical allure to college kids on the weekend has something to do with the building’s history as a frat house. I don’t know, maybe KE or PhiDelt did some weird mumbo jumbo hex on the building back when they owned the place. Or it might just be the soft pretzels. I digress.
I practically drag the members of the group I am walking with up the steps to the quarry. I curb my excitement just enough to realize something is off. Why is no one sitting outside? Are they calling numbers through the staticky intercom? I pause for a second, and suddenly it hits me like a pound of bricks. “The touchscreens” I hiss under my breath. Hopefully no one heard me but it’s hard to be sure. I reach toward the shining brass handle, and grip it firmly. I hesitate, and finally muster up the courage to walk inside. I am greeted by the bright, unflattering florescent light. It takes me a moment. What has happened? Why is it so big? Where are all the tables? A flurry of questions and confusion races through my mind.
There are a total of 13 people in the whole quarry. The lack of tables make it seem larger and far less inviting. With one of my friends I make my way over to the touchscreens and hit start. This is ridiculous. Where are the little black pencils that don’t write and are never sharpened? The ordering process has lost all its charm. It takes me a solid ten minutes to order, since I can’t glance over the menu options all at once. I can’t seem to add honey mustard as side for my pretzel. I immediately forget the number of my order. Of course I’m not going to print the receipt to remember it- this is Dickinson and we care about the environment. Was it 145, or 154 or 155? Who is to say?
I look around as I wait for my pretzel. People aren’t jumping from table to table. They aren’t laughing. There is nowhere to sit. The muffins and pastries are out in little paper bags where there used to be a refrigerator. I wait and wait while I try to come to terms with the fact that I will not be getting honey mustard with my pretzel. Finally, what I think was my order number is called. I go over to the register, but alas my honey mustard-less pretzel is not there. It is sitting where the coffee used to be in a red basket. “That’s pretty cool” I remark trying to console myself, realizing it will allow me to hold more food. But when I give one of the amazingly tolerant Quarry workers my ID, he takes that one positive change away from me. I am totally and utterly defeated.
The quarry is not the fun, carefree place it once was, and as a result I am no longer that the fun carefree college student I once was. All hope for my weekend nights is now lost.