Can I Get a Sign-in?

By Lily Ouellet and Marianna Jocas

Affirmative:

I need to pee. But no matter how much I fiddle with this towel, it only seems more likely to fall. It’s not mine, of course—but this ghastly hot pink was all she had. The cinched band at the top makes it incredibly unwieldy, which is why I’ve had to style it as sort of a toga. A far cry from my typical business casual: the beige two-piece suit, matching leather satchel, and my film camera slung just so. 

(But don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those men. I wear business casual everyday because it looks good. Not because I can practically see red ballet flats orbiting me the moment I walk onto Barnard’s campus. Not because it gets me signed in to their dorms. Certainly not because it gets me into situations exactly like this.)

I close her door and slip out, careful to avoid notice. She asked me to keep my exit discreet, but clarified she’s not embarrassed of me. Just embarrassed to be seen with me. But I now have bigger problems than my obligatory obscurity.

Before me stretches a labyrinth worthy of Daedalus himself, snaking across campus like the ancient puzzle it is. The Barnard Quad was created only to test the resolve of sensitive men such as myself. Its rugs squelch; the walls rise and fold at impossible angles; black mold crawls along the walls and peeks out from the vents. The whole structure manages to breathe, I’m sure of it, even without centralized cooling. Only to mock me in my terrycloth armor.

But the gender-neutral bathroom is out there, tucked away in the depths of this mystic sprawl. So I take a breath, and walk forward into the absurd. 

I begin slowly—it can’t be that far, can it? But the doors begin to multiply, and I start to sweat. The towel-toga situation is growing dire, as is the hum of my biological urgency. Desperately, I crawl around the corner, and there it is: a line. 

It curls around the hallway, the students standing still and grim, all dressed to the nines (as I would usually be). They’re waiting to enter a small, gray door. Some clutch folders, others hold tri-fold boards, and the man at the end has a papier-mâché bust of Zora Neale Hurston. A bathroom line. Thank god. I join it, hovering my hands around where the towel-toga has now slipped. We slowly inch forward, one somber student at a time disappearing into the bathroom. 

Eventually, I reach the front. The man in front of me exits with tears glistening his cheeks, whispering angrily about “fiscal streamlining.” Haha same. If I don’t “streamline” soon, I’m gonna have to buy her a new towel. Aha.

As I swing open the door, I hear voices. Temporarily blinded by an ethereal glow, I open my eyes to reveal a singular meeting table stretching the room. It’s empty except for two figures at the head, lit like deities by two fluorescent clip-on lamps, that are flanked by undistinguishable undergraduates who hold clipboards like weapons. Although neither president—Rosenbury nor Shipman—care to meet my eye, these students are happy to bore deeply into my soul.

“Next,” Shipman calls. Her blazer is the same dull peach as the walls. 

I step forward. The two presidents look up in perfect sync, like animatronics. They are expecting something. From … me. “Um …” I’m able to choke out. “The bathroom … ?” 

This seems to work. They pause, and Rosenbury flips through a stack of papers until she lands on one titled Campus Urination Infrastructure: Risks and Opportunities. 

“Budget?” Shipman whispers. 

“Fourty million,” says Rosenbury. A crease of worry materializes on her forehead. “And you know I have that cruise …”

Shipman peers at me over her glasses. “CUT!” She declares flatly. 

“What? I was just looking for the—”

“We wish you the best in your post-graduate efforts,” Shipman interrupts, waving me away with a flick of her wrist. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do. Next!” 

The undergraduates push me back into the hallway, and I stumble, blinking hard. I half expect a toilet to rise out of the floor as some final act of mercy, but the only sound is the door closing.

I move past the line, now doubled, in a haze. I wander the hallways in what might have been another circle, only to forget my original destination. I shed the towel-toga somewhere. Finally, I see a door I recognize, the same as all the others except for her name, and I jangle the knob. 

“You didn’t let anyone see you, right?” She asks me. 

“No, no. Don’t worry about it,” I say, crawling back into bed. 

Illustration by Isabelle Oh

Negative:

There are three rules about sneaking into the EC dorms. You have to be pretty. You have to be charismatic. And you have to be smart. The security guards are getting paid to scroll through YouTube shorts while simultaneously entertaining Bee Movie (2007) on a different screen, which is to say there are ways to evade the sign-in process—that is, the ritualistic and humiliating declaration that tonight, you may very well just be two legs with a barnard.edu email.   

I can’t boast about my success rate in the relationship realm, but I’ve certainly earned my Silver Star for valor in everything-but-commitment combat. The situation I’m with right now isn’t responding to his messages, but if I execute my plan right, I won’t have to stand in this detention center for long. 

Another girl is waiting here as well. She sits on the black leather casting couch, donning the classic mini-skirt and green Amazon corset combo. It feels like we are associates in some dignity strip-tease, and I’m pretending to read the campus publications splayed on the windowsill. It’s nice that the magazines know to put their work in the EC waiting area; it feels like a charity event of sorts, giving brain food to those poor girls on Friday nights. 

While I’m embarrassed about our dual wait-of-shame, I’m consoled by the fact that I  can bypass this chastity checkpoint and she can’t. Because she will have to give her BCID to the security guard. The physical emblem of her college identity, which never leaves her person, will be forfeited in the pursuit of a hookup… the irony writes itself.

“Hey,” a low voice interrupts. And couch girl smirks and walks to greet a man so egregiously attractive that I’m starting to think there are hidden cameras broadcasting my plight over a laugh track. I’m also realizing that where she might’ve otherwise been embarrassed about sitting on the couch, tonight, she was equipped with a secret arsenal that placed her in a position of power: this man. I’m almost jealous that her BCID is getting handed over for him. This reminds me of how women taking their husbands’ last name is deemed debasing until they get a hot boyfriend, and then suddenly it’s a flattering recognition of love and commitment. I may be Freudian slipping here, and admitting to the fact that the man I’m seeing would make my sign-in process degrading. But now that my cellmate has fled with Mr. Wonderful, I can start my descent into the EC halls. 

Here’s where the rules come in. The female guards are more reliable: All you need to do is compliment their nails, and truthfully, it’s a wager on whether you can be honest with them or not. If she’s older and will be disappointed about the fact that you’re still chasing after a below-par guy who complains about having to wear a condom, then don’t be honest. With her, the trick is to say that you are a Type One diabetic and really need to pee. She’ll start talking about her granddaughter, who is diabetic, and how you two look alike (you don’t). You’ll thank her profusely and then dash to the suite.

Depending on the hour of the night, regardless of gender or age, just say you forgot your ID and they’ll let you right in. 

Luckily for me, my favorite girl is on duty tonight. She wears hot pink lipstick and has a piercing in the center of her tongue. I’m always honest with her about my intentions. I put down my magazine and saunter over to the desk. We engage in our usual meet and greet, and then I begin:   

“So, it’s my boyfriend and I’s three-year anniversary. I have a surprise for him in my bag, but if he signs me in, I’m scared he’ll see it …” I sigh, “Like, what should I do, you know?” 

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t completely honest with her. 

She smiles and says, “Omg, yes girl, I get it.” Last night, she tried to surprise her fiancé with his favorite meal for dinner, but the surprise got ruined because he saw her grocery list on the counter. I knew this because she was talking on FaceTime at full volume. “And I would just hate to have that happen to someone else. I’ll just let you in, love.”

Inside the elevator, my excitement kicks in, and my libido increases with every floor I pass. I finally get to his suite, and I text him that I’m outside, like a cold DoorDash order. When you think about it, my waiting 45 minutes, psychologically mimicking the security guard’s personal life, and destroying her perception of my honesty is worth it in the end. I’m eager to see his reaction to my ability to sneak in, saving him the energy of … well, I guess of taking the elevator. And responding to my messages. I reapply my lipstick and spray some perfume on. 

My heart is palpitating. He opens the door. When I move to step inside though, he hesitates, and his face starts to take on a strange expression, squinting as though he’s blinded by some merciless light. He’s looking for something to say. Finally, he utters something brilliant: 

“Your hair doesn’t look right today,” he says, “I don’t think I’m used to it.” 

I chuckle and nod. He’s such a funny guy. “Right, haha,” I say to the man who has a freshly shaven head.