An incident at Santa Clara Hall

Saturday, 31 January 2004

We were just moving from Hokona to Santa Clara, an all girls dorm. Patrolling with Travis, my supervisor, 12-3am shift. Travis was from Southern New Mexico as I recall which is all but Texas.

Travis was the new head security aide. I had applied for the job at the same time he had. I had a couple years experience. He had one semester. I had the strongest possible recommendation of the most tenured head SA. He had nothing. He got the job. The man who gave him the job, Dave (maybe Dallas but I can’t remember; soft-spoken platinum blond guy), happened to be in the same Christian group of friends. I think they were all in the CCC (Campus Crusade for Christ) but I’m not sure. I happened to have a reputation as a Satanist thanks specifically to a bass player by the name of Dale something or other who was probably more interested in poking my girlfriend than protecting her immortal soul from the devil when he started the stories.

Anyway.

We were walking past Santa Clara Hall when we saw three big fellas hanging around the side of the building in the shadows. I said, “Let’s go talk with them.”

Travis said something along the lines of, “Nah, better not. Let’s call the campus cops.”

I said, “Ah, don’t worry. Let’s go.” And traipsed off without a care in the world.

After a step or two Travis fell back. I didn’t know it because looking to your companion for support makes you look like you’re scared. It was three big guys and I was neither scared nor wanted to appear so. I didn’t know I was alone till I got to them—Travis about 25 yards behind me under the nearest streetlight.

It was obviously three football players from the UNM team. They all outweighed me by 50lbs; they all happened to be black. Ah, Travis, now I finally get it!

When I walked up to them, one picked up a broken leg of a Road Closed sign. An equalizer, as the kids say, though any witness would put the odds against me without the help.

I said, “Evening, guys.” They responded amicably.

I said, “What’s a big guy like you need a stick for?” He threw it down, bashfully smiling.

We chatted a moment. I said something like, “Look, I gotta get y’all to leave, you know. It’s my job.”

And we parted company as perfect gentlemen with, “Have a good one,” and so on.

When I got back to Travis he was on his handheld radio. I guess he was trying to hash out whether it was a 10-whatever or a 10-whatsits with the campus cops’ switchboard temp in time to save my life.

That cocksucker showed up for work drunk a week later too. Kept his job though.

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