Crimes against flyer posting
Illustration by Killian Goodale-Porter.
Katie Meeker, Contributing Writer
I wake up to darkness and the faint, acidic smell of celery. I’m bound to a chair that is uncomfortably reminiscent of the horrible desks in Hibbs Hall, and my nose itches against the burlap sack covering my head. The last thing I remember is putting up promotional posters for a club event — how did I get here? And why does it smell like celery?
Suddenly the bag is whipped off my head. I hear a haunting crunch. I open my eyes and find myself face-to-face with the university president’s plastic Ken doll grin, a strip of celery hanging out of the side of his mouth like an unlit cigar.
We’re in a soulless interrogation room with a table between us and a single fluorescent light hanging above. I open my mouth to ask what I am doing here but he shushes me.
“You have been detained by campus police in the interest of maintaining student safety,” he says pleasantly, his uncomfortable smile never leaving his face. “You were spotted violating university policy.”
“Violating university policy? What are you talking about? All I was doing was putting up posters!” I shiver violently. Maybe I really am in Hibbs Hall — it’s absolutely freezing.
His lips quirk maliciously, his smile more gum than teeth. He leans back and throws a massive packet of papers onto the interrogation table. It groans under the papers’ weight.
“You violated multiple tenets of the university’s interim policy on Campus Expression and Space Utilization. We take threats like these very seriously.” He takes a breath of cold air and with a sort of suppressed glee — he continues, “Therefore, you shall henceforth be banned from all campus property and be leveled with criminal charges for trespassing.”
I gape at him. “You can’t be serious! What policy did I violate? I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
He shushes me again and pats me on the head. He turns back to the mountain of paper and flips to a page, pointing at its contents accusingly. “Section C of the policy lays it out clearly.”
I read the page. I blink and read it again. I look up at him — why is he so shiny? — and exclaim, “You’re sending me to jail for putting up my posters with tape?”
“Section C1B states that materials may be affixed only using tacks or push pins. Poster putty, tape or staples must not be used.” He looks at me almost sympathetically, the last of his celery stalk disappearing under his gnashing teeth.
“Why my poster?” I ask, baffled. “There’s tons of posters up that don’t fit those requirements. Why me?”
He sniffs with distaste. “You put cats on your posters. I don’t like cats. For all I know, you could be purposefully exposing students to the woke agenda through subtle imaging and sending them down the crazy cat lady pipeline. What’s next, domestic terrorism?”
The President checks his watch and sighs, shooting me a plastic grin as he pushes his chair back.
“Not that this hasn’t been lovely, but I must go attend to more important matters — local properties aren’t going to buy themselves, you know.” He stands up and pulls out his phone, tongue clicking in irritation. “Our current budget doesn’t allow for private transportation, so I’ll be calling a RamSafe to take you to the police station. Lucky for you, it looks like it’s a slow day today, so it should be here in only 45 minutes!”
The President looks at me for a moment and wistfully says, “You know, I used to have goons who could drag you to the bus stop, but I had to let them go so we could build the new science building. I miss those guys. I think I’ll fire some more humanities faculty so I can hire them back.”
He comes around to the back of my chair and grabs the backrest, intending to drag me to my doom, but I am not going without a fight.
I strike and spring into action, throwing myself with all my might out of his grasp. I slam into the interrogation table and send a flurry of policy papers floating through the air.
The President lets out a screech and throws his phone into the air in surprise, knocking the light to the ground. He grabs my arm, skin the texture of chapstick, and pulls me away from the table, but the fire from the broken lamp has already begun to spread.
Heat fills the freezing room. I turn to look at the President in horror as he starts to gurgle.
“What have you done?” he cries as he begins to melt, resembling a dripping candle more than a man. “I can’t go back to the wax museum, I can’t! Not again!” The sprinklers turn on, but it’s too late.
I scoot away as his gooey suit jacket begins to stick to my shoes and free myself from my bindings, the scorching air making the rope brittle. I look down at the President, a puddle at my feet.
He’ll be fine. They’ll fix him back up at the museum and then he’ll be back on the streets, chewing his celery stalk like nothing happened.
The RamSafe will be here in 45 minutes. Those speed demons will arrive to help him out soon. Safety is the university’s number one priority, after all.
I leave VCU’s smoldering free speech policy behind and step into a dimly lit, freezing-cold hallway. It smells like artificiality and dust. I smile. My initial assumption was right — the classrooms in Hibbs Hall really do double as holding cells!
Editor’s note: The views expressed in this article do not necessarily represent those of the Commonwealth Times.
