The Transfer Student

I've finally made it.

It's August 27th, humid and sweltering 90 degrees, and after the 5-hour drive from La Crosse, I'm about ready to get my sophomore year of college underway.

This isn't my first rodeo, so to speak. I did try attending a more local community college last year, but I soon realized that it wasn't the exact "college experience" that I was looking for.

What I mean to say was it was a dry campus: no booze whatsoever, no bars, and about as much of a nightlife as my grandma's bingo nights. More than anything, I'm looking forward to enjoying the weekends in a real, honest-to-god college dormitory. Drinking, spending time with people my age, maybe bringing some people back to my dorm room? So many fantasies that I can now play out without my parents watching over my shoulder.

First thing's first, though, I've got to get through move in and unload this car that's fit to burst with all my shit. As I pull into the circle drive outside of Watterson Towers, I notice there are three possible lanes I could take.

The far left is staffed by a guy around my age, thin, dark black hair. He's greeting every car with a huge smile and tons of enthusiasm.

The center lane is staffed by a college-aged girl, petite, resting bitch face (although I probably shouldn't hold that against her, no way would I want to be out here in this heat either). She looks like she's about ready to be done with this for good.

The right lane is a woman in her mid-thirties, who I'm assuming is an employee of the University. She's got a walkie talkie and a yellow construction vest. Occasionally, she says something into the walkie. She's probably in charge of the move-in process.