A Halloween Odyssey
- Schuyler Daffey
- Oct 29
- 3 min read
The Song of Sigaween.
By Schuyler Daffey
Sing to me, O Muse, of that night of horrors, of the perilous pregames and dastardly downtown frat events endured by our heroine this All Hallows Eve. Sing of the many foes encountered, the vast sums of money spent on tickets, the mystery bruises that bloomed overnight on our heroine’s ankles.
9:47 p.m.: Sing to me, as our heroine heads to the pregame 30 minutes behind schedule. Once there, she realizes that she has a mere 15 minutes to begin imbibing before she must head downtown! She rushes past the hordes amassing at the Trojan Wall—the EC front desk—and enters the pregame only to be confronted by the sight of her CC nemesis, the girl she’s been meaning to get lunch with for 5 weeks, and her NSOP situationship all playing Rage Cage together. Her CC nemesis smirks at her sinisterly and moves to sidle up beside her, no doubt to vaunt his most recent summer on the Hill. She bolts to the kitchen, searching for a shot, or some jungle juice, anything to endure what will undoubtedly be a heinous, severely demoralizing conversation. But alas! Abandoned red solo cups litter every available surface, but only a pathetic trail of noxious red liquid trickles from the spout of the cooler: Jungle juice, jungle juice everywhere, but not a drop to drink!
10:19 p.m.: On the subway barrelling downtown at breakneck speed, which passes in a haze of drunken Ke$ha and disapproving glares from native New Yorkers, our heroine is entirely at the whim of the capricious train conductors, who decide inexplicably to skip the precise station from which our heroine must disembark for Sigaween.
10:32 p.m.: Our heroine is compelled to pour out libations of Pink Whitney and White Claw Surge to the Gods of Sig Ep and Roaree after being stopped by a severe-looking cop, who is not amused by her antics and who, like the one-eyed Cyclops, intends to prevent our heroine from making it to Ithaca (Slate NYC). Thankfully, our polytrope heroine, a woman of many tactics, has planned for this eventuality by tucking several fireball shooters away into her boots.
10:57 p.m.: Sing to me, as our heroine finally emerges from the subterranean subway depths to glimpse New York unveiled before her like a wine-dark sea. She and her friends—dressed, incidentally, as an utterly original concept that has never before been conceived: the kiss, marry, kill trio—stop briefly for a photo op with the New York skyline glistening behind them. These photos will never see the light of day as tomorrow, our heroine will undoubtedly look back and cringe at her costume, which had seemed the night before like the epitome of hotness and taste.
11:35 p.m.: After encountering a grievous line which snakes down several avenues, due to this frat’s overselling of tickets by several thousand, our heroine finally enters the function to the sounds of intense Techno booming over the loudspeaker.
12:46 a.m.: Wearied, her head throbbing, her feet aching savagely, our heroine limps broken, battered, bloodied to West 21st street. She turns the corner and there, gleaming like a beacon in the night, is Slate NYC. Its photobooth, its hallowed slide, and its inexplicable row of arcade games downstairs beckon her inside. As she presents her CUID and enters, a sensation of rightness, of peace—at last—comes over her. And in that beautiful, blissful moment, our heroine has returned to Ithaca.
