The Pink List

The first college I attended, and the only one from which I made any lasting friends, was Kenyon, in Gambier, Ohio. Mine was only the third class which included women, and an odd mix we were, indeed. My girlfriends ran the gamut from the First Runner Up of the Miss Canton Football Hall of Fame--who had never before met a Jew--to the New York City born-and-bred daughter of a famous television show producer. And there we all were, trying to make sense of everything from washing machines to birth control, housed on campus in the new dorms in the middle of the sticks of Ohio.

Our dorms were brick on the outside, cinder blocked within; they couldn't have looked more different than the upperclassmen dorms which were located on the other side of Middle Path. They seemed to reflect both the history and mystery of a small liberal arts college. Our dorms were institutional looking in the worst sense of the word. Most of the rooms housed two students, but there was a sprinkling of single rooms tucked into corners.I wasn't as bothered by the fact that my first roommate made me shudder as I might have been for two reasons: I had known from day one that she was going to be history, and Alice had a single.

Alice was also a freshman who lived on my floor, sharing my bank of bathrooms. She and I were inexorably drawn to each other from day one. We founded the Dead Fathers' Club, we both knew how close to the line we could let the other go before reeling her back from danger. We smoked way too many cigarettes,  especially in her single room, which was a little bit bigger than a shoe box. And once a week, on Friday afternoons, we made it a point to reconnoiter there to draw up The Pink List.

I'm quite sure The Pink List got its start after we took turns listing the various people who had done us wrong the previous week. I hated whoever hurt Alice, and she was as protective about me. Rather than lose track of these  shitheels, we decided to write down their names. We'd recall the actions of each particular offender, look at each other and solemnly say, "We hate him (or her)," and Alice would add the name to the list. The funny thing about it was that once the ritual was completed, we'd pretty much forget about those who had committed the heinous crime. I mean, once the moving hand had writ, we didn't plot revenge, wish the person evil, or, in many cases, even remember how they made the list. Hell, we might even have dinner with them in the cafeteria that night. Composing the list was all we needed to do to expunge the evil juju from our consciousness.

One night, Jimmy ambled into Alice's room--he so totally had a crush on her--and picked up The Pink List, saw his name on it and asked, "What's this?" Alice and I froze, then burst out laughing while responding with the obvious, "It's The Pink List." Jimmy seemed to know better than ask more questions. How did this magical list teach us forgiveness and spiritual cleansing? I don't know and I don't care. The biggest mystery is how the hell Alice ever had anything pink in her room in the first place.