The Shadow Scholar
Page 5
“We appreciate your patience while holding. Please continue to hold for just a little longer so that your call receives the time and attention it deserves.”
“Answer the fucking phone!” I shout into the dark Muzakal nothingness.
“Thank you for holding. Please stay on the line. We will be with you very shortly.”
Twelve and a half minutes and, suddenly, a human being on the other end.
“Hello.” She already sounds pissed off. She’s pissed.
“Hi. I’m conducting an independent study, and I’m hoping you can help me out. I just have a few questions about revenue from Parking and Transportation.”
“Mm-hmm. Hold, please.”
“Ummm.”
Back to the robot lady.
“We appreciate your patience. Please be assured that your call will receive the time and attention it deserves when we return to the line.”
The human being comes back after five minutes and offers me an e-mail address, one of those generic administrative e-mail addresses with an abbreviated job title but no name.
“Is there a name of somebody that I might address it to?”
“No. But e-mail that address and it will get to the right person.”
Of course. I had forgotten. It was a rule of thumb at Rutgers that you never got anything done in fewer than three tries. And if you couldn’t get it done in three, you’d never get it done and that was that. I took down the e-mail address along with her assurance that somebody would actually respond to me.
I wrote the following e-mail:
To Whom It May Concern:
I’m a Rutgers Alumnus and I’m conducting an independent study for a book about the costs of college for today’s student. I was hoping that you could answer a few basic questions about Parking and Transportation policies and revenues at the university. Please provide me with whatever information is available. Your assistance is most appreciated.
I thank you in advance for your prompt and thoughtful responses.
Thanks so much and I will look forward to hearing from you.
Very Truly Yours,
Dave Tomar
What is your position/title at Rutgers Parking and Transportation?
What are some of the projects that the revenues collected from parking tickets are used for at the university?
Could you tell me about some specific projects conducted or completed using parking ticket revenue? Please include dates, project costs and any other details that might be relevant.
How much revenue has PATS [Parking and Transportation Services] collected from paid parking tickets for each of the following years?
2010?
2009?
2008?
2007?
2006?
2005?
What are some of the projects that the revenues collected from university-issued parking permits are used for at the university?
How much revenue has PATS collected from student/faculty-purchased parking permits for each of the following years?
2010?
2009?
2008?
2007?
2006?
2005?
How many employees does PATS employ?
In years past, it was possible to negotiate a reduced settlement of large balances in unpaid fines. Recent investigation indicates this is no longer true. Has this reduced settlement policy changed and if so, why?
Student Facebook pages report consistent incidences of “double-ticketing” or even “triple-ticketing,” in which students have received multiple tickets simultaneously for a single offense such as an expired meter. What is PATS’ policy on double-ticketing and triple-ticketing?
Thanks again for your thoughtful responses.
Three days later, I followed up, forwarding my original e-mail and adding this message:
At your nearest opportunity, please reply to confirm that you have received this correspondence.
Thanks so much,
Dave Tomar
I was surprised to receive the following message within the hour:
Dave Tomar,
This has been received but we are in our busy season already so this will take a little while to get back to you. You have requested a lot of information that is not readily available.
Sincerely,
[name excised] AICP/PP–Director
Rutgers University–Dept. of Transportation Services
Administration and Public Safety Division
55 Commercial Avenue, New Brunswick, NJ 08901
Well, some of the information is readily available, anyway. Here are the revenues and revenue increases produced by Rutgers Parking and Transportation Services as presented in the university’s 2010 annual financial report:
There’s not a lot of context here. We don’t know, because they wouldn’t tell me, how much money the school spends on making parking available, or how that figure compares to its budget for anything else. All I can really do with this information is observe that $7 million is a fuckload of money and that, for some reason that I’m sure has nothing to do with the school’s alleged financial problems, students were victimized by Parking and Transportation at a rate that increased by 23.9 percent between 2005 and the end of 2009. Have students simply become more irresponsible with their cars, or is there a concerted initiative on the part of PATS to increase the school’s revenues by fleecing its students? According to the 2010 financial report, the university recorded a revenue from parking that was $1,927,000 greater than that reported for the collection of loan payments from students and employees.
Now I had even more questions for the AICP/PP–director.
I replied immediately.
Mr. [name excised]
Thanks so much for your reply. Any information that you are able to locate would be most appreciated. Can I expect that you will be my primary contact for this?
I will await a response at your convenience.
Dave
Technically, that was my third attempt. I’ll let you know when I hear from them.
I never got any answers when I was there. Why should it be any different now? I should have my head examined for even attempting to jump back into it. I made it out in four years, which at Rutgers is like getting out early for good behavior.
That is because there is a pattern at Rutgers that is perhaps even more insidious than the bureaucratic misery, the constant administrative bungling, and even the parking gestapo. This is the unabashed lie that Rutgers is a “four-year college.” I was a communication major for one reason and one reason only: It cost less. As soon as I realized I was getting ripped off at my college, I did everything in my power to graduate as fast as possible without spending an extra cent. I sat down with my adviser in my sophomore year, and course by course we laid out everything that I would need to do to graduate on time. And I did it. No summer courses, no winter-break courses, and four years on the nose. I was one of the lucky ones, and in a shrinking minority, both at Rutgers and elsewhere.
A 2009 article in USA Today quoted the conservative think tank American Enterprise Institute as reporting that “nationally, four-year colleges graduated an average of just 53% of entering students within six years, and ‘rates below 50%, 40% and even 30% are distressingly easy to find.’ ”3
I think I know why this happens. And it is no accident.
At Rutgers, you never knew what it was going to be. But you knew that at any given moment, the RU Screw could swoop in and derail your progress.
The kinds of technicalities exemplifying the RU Screw were amazing and rampant during my time at Rutgers, and they often overshadowed the simple need to focus on one’s studies.
The school was huge and seemed to have fairly modest standards for the types of students that it would admit. But try getting into a class that you desperately needed to stay on track in your major, and suddenly it was like trying to sneak into a country club through the service entrance.
And really, I hate to sound paranoid, but I’l
l never forget this moment.
I had finally done it. I was graduating. I had two more finals to go, but my grades were all pretty solid. My credits were all in order. I had already RSVP’d a xerox of my butt to the graduation party committee. Time to go.
Then I got a phone call from a woman at the Office of the Registrar.
“Is this David Tomar?”
Oh crap.
“Yes.”
“Hi. David. We’ve been reviewing your file…”
“Yeah? And?”
“Yes. We’ve been reviewing your file, and though you are slated to graduate, it appears that you are three credits shy of completion of your major.”
“Bullcrap! I have 123 credits!”
“Yes. I understand that, but you are three credits shy of completion of your communication major.”
“Impossible! That’s not possible!”
“Mr. Tomar, there’s no need to shout!”
“Absolutely there’s a need to shout! Don’t tell me, two days before I graduate, that I’m three credits shy! I’ve been following the same course agenda for three years. I made it with my adviser. I did everything I was supposed to do, and I never failed a class!”
“What it appears happened, if you’ll just calm down, what it appears has happened is that one of the required 300-level courses in your major was moved to a different course category, so that one of the humanities that you took no longer counts as a humanities prerequisite. So you’ll need to review the course catalog and pick an appropriate course to compensate.”
“The hell I will! You call me now? Right now? And you tell me that a course I took two years ago, in the time since I completed it, is no longer a prerequisite in my major? And you think that makes sense? You think that’s OK?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll still be allowed to walk in graduation. You’ll just need to take this course during a summer session.”
“Allowed? I graduated. It’s my right, lady. There’s no way, there’s no way this is for real! Where were you two years ago? Forget that. This can’t even be legal. You can’t retroactively change that shit up on me and come at me looking for more money. If you want more of my money, go talk to the people at Parking. They’ve got all of it. But this is crap, and I will call a lawyer if I have to.”
“Sir. There’s no reason to lose your temper.”
“Oh, it’s lost. After all the crap I’ve put up with at this school, I’m finally done. And I did everything I had to. I will not be screwed by this university again. You have no right. How can you call me up like this, not even apologize, and start telling me that I have to put my whole life on hold because of a clerical error?”
“Well, sir, you can just review the course catalog…”
“Don’t tell me to review the catalog. You review it. Review a law book. You can’t do this to me. I mean, what is this?”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, what the hell is this? Is this a conspiracy? Are you conspiring to keep me from graduating? Is this a scam?” I know I sounded paranoid, but I couldn’t think of any other explanation. I was yelling and spitting, and I figured I probably sounded pretty crazy. But I couldn’t help it. I kept going. “Answer me! What are you trying to do to me? Is-this-a-scam!?”
“Hmm. I’m so sorry. It appears that we made a mistake.”
“Huh?”
“Yes. Actually, I’m looking now, and we have made a mistake. Your credits will all apply to your major.”
“So, wait. So, now I am going to graduate?”
“Yes. Everything is in order. Sorry for the confusion. Thank you for your time.”
Click.
I was mystified. It wouldn’t even be the last clerical error of the school’s that I dealt with. I didn’t go to graduation, so they actually sent me the wrong degree in the mail. I called and told them, and they just issued me another one. Now I have two. If I’d had any doubts before, now I knew for sure that it really was just a piece of paper, an insanely expensive piece of paper. Still, if anybody asks, I’m a double major. Believe me, I’ve earned it.
4
The Quarter-Life Crisis
Just out of school, I was angry. I guess a lot of kids are, really. I had always had this Holden Caulfield–ish suspicion that everything was bullshit. I basically figured that the world is filled with frauds, and many of them are so worried about being figured out that they’ll never stop to scrutinize you. I realized I could fake my way through anything.
Such was the nature of the world into which I had been thrust. The Bush administration was a travesty. The wars were a disgrace. The corporate scandals were outrageous. And here I was, like so many students, hurled into adulthood like a screaming, naked infant with a terrible debt-to-income ratio.
I moved back to my parents’ house in South Jersey. This, of course, made me want to kill myself. I didn’t even unpack my stuff from college. I just kept my boxes all stacked up and unlabeled in the garage. I no longer had a car. It was summer in the suburbs, and I was trapped. You couldn’t walk around my neighborhood if you weren’t a middle-aged mother in swooshy nylon jogging pants. A sweaty young man with long hair and a beard wandering the sidewalks of my parents’ neighborhood? You could see anxious suburbanites peering through curtains at you, trying to decide if you warranted pity or a call to the cops.
I couldn’t really go anywhere. I found a folding chair in the garage, brought it up to my room, and worked on my sister’s old, hissing desktop PC. My student loan repayment began immediately. Again, I thought about faking my own death. This time, I got as far as a vaguely formed plan involving a wheat thresher and amannequin that I would steal from Macy’s. I was going to start over again in Canada with a big wooly coat and a brand-new name. Let the plastic shards of mannequin worry about student loan debt.
I told my parents about my plan. My father, rational thinker that he was, suggested that a med school cadaver might be more convincing. I respect my parents. They believe in tough love. They would lend a hand here or there, but my relative desperation was my own problem. They cared enough to let my body occupy the room they aspired to make into an office and storage place for luggage. I had my friends over for marathon weed-smoking sessions just down the hall from them. We would open the windows, towel the door, and turn my bedroom into an Allman Brothers concert.
I would stay out late, come home, accidentally wake the dog, and disrupt the quiet state of the house. There is zero living compatibility between a college graduate and his parents. They had a nice lifestyle to which they were entitled, and I had a seedy lifestyle that could not realistically be pursued under their roof. I had to get out. Problem was, I was the only one of my local friends who had finished school in four years. Some were heading on to graduate school. Some were preparing for super-senior status, awarded to those who needed at least one more year (sometimes two or three) to finish their chosen course of study. Some were still toiling with summer courses and inching toward completion.
All I could do was send out my thin résumé with my worthless degree(s) and my nonsense transcript to anybody who would read it. In the meantime, I was firing out writing of any kind. I was writing album reviews. I was producing humor pieces on relevant cultural issues. I continued to write my weekly political humor column for the Outside World. And for a salary of “exposure,” I gave my writing to anybody who would post it.
I was also turning out as many papers as I could in the dead of summer. Pickings were slim. There are summer courses, schools on trimester schedules, and multi-semester research projects. You might have five to ten assignments to choose from at any one time. Any of the desirable ones, I was learning, go fast during the slow season. Desirable assignments are papers related to organizational theory, human resources, sociological theory, philosophy, history, political science, psychology, or any of those other fields where you can substitute fancy words for research and get away with it. Assignments requiring financial analysis, graphing, computer programming, or comprehensive
scientific elaboration tend not to go as fast. So sometimes you simply have to take on a terrible, lengthy, and painful assignment just to keep the bucks coming in.
And it was my only source of income, so I knuckled down and wrote some shit that I was less than qualified to write: stuff about genetic coding, the behavior of certain proteins in the body’s immune system, and euclidean geometric theories; detailed logistical evaluations of health care legislation and deconstructions of the language used in Beowulf. (Just for the record on this last one: Stop making kids learn Beowulf. Beowulf makes me feel like I’m retrieving an account of history as scrawled by twelve different ancient nationalities on a series of crumpled-up cocktail napkins and ATM receipts. I’m not saying it’s culturally irrelevant. I’m saying it’s an exercise in sadism.)
I admit, I took on many bits of work that, in the wee hours of the night, I would come to regret. But there is no way out. Once you’ve taken the assignment, it’s yours and it must be completed. With every piece of work I completed, I squirreled away another few dollars for my eventual escape.
So this was the summer after graduation, filled with all the promise and anticipation of waiting in line to use a public toilet.
It wasn’t until my buddy Mickey finished his summer semester that I finally had a real job prospect. Mickey was a few years younger, not yet graduated and only home for the summer. But his cousin had a stake in a family-owned business called Crackerjack Cleaning Company that specialized in industrial cleaning supplies. His cousin’s partner, Mr. Lewis, was a guy who had spent a year in the can for white-collar crimes. He swore that he had been set up by the government, and quite frankly, I actually believed him, even though he was a habitual bullshitter.
Mickey would pick me up, and we’d drive across the bridge into Pennsylvania, then past Philly, through strip mall country, and into Conshohocken. We packaged products, shipped orders, and fielded angry customer complaints. I used about 1 percent of my brain while I was there, most of it on finishing the daily crossword puzzle during bathroom breaks.
I continued to write papers on the side, often piecing assignments together during the course of a workday, popping onto the computer whenever Mr. Lewis wasn’t looking and punching out a few sentences. Still, I implored my new boss to use my writing skills. I told him that this was truly where my abilities would best be put to use.