It was a Monday evening like any other; Jonah Gould was simply going about his routine. The young Annex resident locked his door, closed the curtains, turned Phil Collins’ 1981 smash-hit “In The Air Tonight” to a dull roar, and started some primal “self-care.”
This was all under the fatal assumption that he was the sole occupant of the four-bedroom apartment that night.
“Alright, I’ll be the first to admit: I’m not the quietest fan in the stadium when my goalie’s being pulled [...] if you catch my drift,” confessed Gould. “But I was always under the impression that I was the only fan in the stadium to begin with.”
Gould had it “down to a science.” He memorized his housemates’ schedules: length of lecture, venue, predicted hall congestion outwards. He knew the transit stops, and corresponding routes, closest to the lecture halls. He developed detailed spreadsheets accounting for traffic, the walking time from the nearest stops, and each housemate’s gait and VO2 max.
All of this in the hope that the stars would align perfectly, and he would be left home alone. According to Gould, every Monday from 6:00:00 to 6:35:30pm, all of his roommates attend their lectures in various buildings on the opposite side of campus, allowing him a generous 35 minutes to do whatever he pleases, in absolute solitude. He uses the timeslot to pursue a hobby that our legal team refuses to let us name outright. But Gould implied he preferred to use the time to play the flute - solo.
Last weekend was considered “a taxing one” for Gould. As such, he decided to take advantage of the full 35 minute shot-clock.
With his "anthem" on repeat, Jonah proudly bellowed battle cries “loud enough to pierce through the song’s drum solo.”
Afterwards, the dangerously dehydrated Gould emerged from his cave wearing nothing but a black satin robe, headed to the kitchen to wash his hands. He was expecting an audience of zero. He was mistaken.
All three roomates sat at the kitchen table on their laptops, wearing headphones. But judging by the collective look on their faces, there was no volume of “lo-fi chill beats to study to 24/7” high enough to protect them from the sound of Gould "aiding and abetting his known felon."
Conveying expressions resembling ‘Nam flashbacks, the bystanders were at a lack of words, and put on a thin facade of pretending they didn’t just hear their roommate, “shake hands with the unemployed”, for a solid “half-hour.”
Gould, noticeably sweating, feigned ignorance, inquiring as to why his housemates were playing hooky, and for how long. Their answer was enough to reduce Gould to tears:
“It’s… it’s Reading Week, man. There’s no classes this week.”