Spamboy

Everything was loaded in my truck Kilgore. I returned to my vacant apartment to perform one last survey and ensure that I didn’t forget anything before hitting the road to Austin, my next in a long string of hometowns. Just as I thought, nothing remained — except for my time capsule.

A petty cash box purchased from Office Depot, I had spent the past several years collecting the flotsam I intended to bury the day I finally moved out of Bruce Hall for good. Each item represented both my current time and place in the world:

• One of my laminated ID cards from the North Texas Premiere Soccer League, within which my team The Mama’s Boys competed
• The operating manual to my first computer, a Intel 386SX with added math co-processor
• Various photographs of family and friends, all of which I hoped I would remember
• A VHS video cassette featuring a Kenmore advertising campaign, a separate contribution from my ex-girlfriend and fellow creative Margo
• Tassles from both my high school and college graduation mortarboards
• A small tin of Spam, my calling card
• A black spiral-bound journal filled with sentiments from cover-to-cover

One by one, I added the items to the box, never pausing to consider their symbolism. After all, I had stared at these trinkets for over a thousand days, ever since I decided to create a time capsule on April 9, 1997, the day that the population of Bruce Hall buried a time capsule in commemoration of its 50th anniversary. With so much time cohabitating with such trinkets, they held no more intrigue. However, the last item in the list forced me to pause and ponder its contents.

In my hands was the black journal, whose insides I never once saw. For the past three years, I carried the journal everywhere I went, asking everyone I met to write whatever they wanted inside. I promised them I would not read the journal until I opened my time capsule a quarter of a century later. Contributors were not bound by my self-imposed trust, and in fact I encouraged them to read it. Sometimes, the journal would disappear for days, as my friends took the time to read it cover-to-cover. On occasion, I would hear a report that some daring things had been written inside. I know that some of the authors were girls I liked at the time, and for years I wondered if they used my journal to confess any romantic sentiments.

My mind returned to the present and the journal before me. Right before I was to hide the book for decades, I was tempted one final time to sneak a peek. Doing so would spoil the wonderful treasure I created and the joy I would feel when rediscovering it,. This chance to preserve a slice of my youth was too precious. With a grin, inside the box went the book. I gently closed the lid, turned the lock, and slipped the tiny key into my pocket, where it sits to this day mingling with my other keys.

Nearby was a stack of white vinyl stickers, each adorned with the green University of North Texas logo. Leftover as spirit giveaways from years of attending student housing conferences, I peeled the backing off each and adhered them to the outside of the time capsule, layering them like shingles on a roof. Soon enough, the entire box was uniform in outward appearance and quite well-sealed against the elements. The only feature exposed was the clear plastic window behind which I slipped the following note:

Ahoy, fellow spelunker!

This is my time capsule that was buried during the ancient 20th century. It is intended to remain closed until April 9, 2022, twenty-file years after I first began to amass its contents. Please do not remove or open this time capsule, as I plan to return that Spring day to retrieve my belongings. So if you are reading this, please put it back where you found it — and consider yourself invited to that day’s opening festivities. I look forward to meeting you then.

As ever,

Matthew

My time capsule was complete. Now came time to secret it deep within the bowels of Bruce.

Because I had already turned in the master key, the prime regalia of my recently-vacated job as hall director, I orrowed the submaster key from the key box downstairs. It would prove good enough to get me where I needed to go. Soon enough, I was on my hands and knees, crawling in dark passages, hiding my treasure in a dark, dank location known only to myself and Jim, in case I am personally unable to return 22 years from now.

I emerged from the expedition with caked dust on my shoulders and the musty smell lingering within my nostrils. It was a melancholy scent, as the fact I could smell it meant all of my work, my purpose, at Bruce Hall was now complete. It was time to leave Denton behind, and along with it the bittersweet memories of the past year spent trying to ride things out.

I returned to the key box both the submaster and my apartment key. Then I headed out the back door, hopped in Kilgore, and drove away to my new life.

Man, I wanted a tattoo something fierce!

Everyone else in art school had one except for me. Perpetual indecisiveness, coupled with a fear of making a wrong decision that I couldn’t erase, kept me from settling on a design. I would visit tattoo parlors across the state, browse around books of amazing art, then walk away. I attempted to use my own artistic talents, but my creativity dried up like an empty ink well. Nothing but 100% assurance that I was making the right choice would ever make my tattoo a reality.

Some of my inked neighbors at Bruce Hall offered some advice: Find some black-and-white drawings that I like, tape them up around my bathroom mirror, then look at them each day, morning and night. Then, if several weeks passed and I was still fascinated by what I saw, signs were favorable that I wouldn’t be disappointed with having one of the images as a permanent tattoo.

Their advice was great, but many months passed without any results. Weeks of seeing the drawings around my mirror began to annoy me, and soon they were all in the trash. My skin remained tabula rosa.

It was around this time I met Wade. Wade was a “dude”, a skinny stick topped with a shaggy mop of blonde hair. He had a habit of walking around in various states of nudity — most days, it meant only being shirtless, although there were times when his exposed bits brushed up against a misdemeanor.

Upstairs, Wade was a couple cans short of a six-pack. Catching him in any complicated loop of thought or questioning would cause him to pause and stare into space, a sign that his mind was in the middle of performing a reboot. He was that unique blend of personality whose silliness could make you enjoy your job as his resident assistant, but who kept reminding you of that job as he constantly broke the rules.

One day, in my room two doors down, I could hear amazingly powerful music coming from Wade’s room. I grabbing my resident assistant badge and clipboard then headed down the hall to do my duty. Wade opened up the door and performed the routine actions of turning down the stereo, apologizing for the noise, and handing me his ID, all without me having to ask.

From the waist up, Wade was his usual naked self except for one accessory. On his left nipple hung a gleaming ring of surgical steel. I had written him up just the week before and it wasn’t there. “Dude, where did that come from?”, I said.

In his surfer drawl, he said, “Man, it’s brand-new! Got it at a party last night! Doesn’t it kick ass?!”

I had to admit, yes. Yes, it did.

In February 1947, Bruce Hall opened its doors for the first time, becoming the largest female dormitory in the Southwest. It kept that distinction for many years thanks to its eleven wings and over four hundred co-eds. Bruce remained a single-sex facility well into the 1970s, and until that time it was administered by a series of dorm mothers known only by the feared moniker of “Ma Bruce.”

Each incarnation of “Ma Bruce” was there to enforce the strict and sometimes unfair morals which society demanded of women. These included obedience, respect for authority, and above all, no hanky-panky with men anywhere in the building. Violations guaranteed a trip to the dreaded Dean of Women, who legend says was called many things but never merciful. Most people did what they could to avoid and possibility of working up this chain of command.

In these early years, there lived in Bruce a resident named Wanda that ended up getting into significant trouble during the 1950s. She became pregnant during the era when legalized abortion wasn’t an option in Texas. Ashamed of her condition and not wanting anyone (including “Ma Bruce”) to find out, she hid the truth for as long as possible. Soon, she couldn’t get away with simple concealment, so she began hiding out in the A-wing attic.

This attic, perched atop the A300 wing, was accessible via a short steel door barely tall enough for a petite girl to walk through. Wanda practiced her secret routine for months, until finally came her labor. Locking herself inside the attic, she shuffled along a narrow catwalk, through a web of pipes and wires, until she reached the far end of that cavernous space. At the far end of the attic where she stood, a round window let in pale light reflecting off of the nearby chemistry building. And it was there that she died.

How Wanda died is speculation. Some believe that she died during childbirth, while others say that she passed away from despair. Those with a vivid imagination are sure that she suffered from complications from a self-administered abortion. Regardless, her spirit remains in the A-wing attic to this day, and anyone that honestly believes can experience her.

Over the years, students walking along the north side of Bruce Hall could spot that same round window at the eastern end of the A-wing attic. And many of them are sure that someone stood inside that window staring down at them. They remark that although the details are hard to discern, the person’s shilloutte was unmistakable. It was that of a young woman.

In 1997, Bruce Hall celebrated its 50th anniversary and a week-long celebration was held to commemorate the event. One of the festivities was the creation and dedication of a time capsule large enough that every resident could enshrine one item each. It measured one foot wide and six feet long, and there was much ado the day it was to be buried — dozens of university officials were in attendance to witness its dedication and the placement of an elaborate marble marker. Various reporters and photographers from the city and campus newspapers chronicled the spectacle.

One by one, a line of residents strode forth to the open capsule and each laid a single personal item within its gaping opening. I was a part of this procession, and it soon became my turn to contribute something special. I added my hermetically-sealed tin o’ Spam.

The campus newspaper, either being the rare wit or too bored to print much else of interest, picked up on my actions and in the next day’s edition referred to me as “the Spamboy.” Everyone, including my best friends and fellow staff members, started calling me by this instead of my real name. And like my namesake sitting out overnight on a porcelain dish, it stuck.

The time capsule is due to be cracked open April 9th, 2022, twenty-five years after it was buried. So, if on April 10th you hear something about an unexplained plague of super-roto-avian-bird-flesh-eating-SARS ravaging the greater North Texas area, you don’t know me.

That tin of Spam my mother gave me, aye I remembered it, brother. So I kept it on my shelf in my dorm room, and that tin of meat accompanied me as I moved in and out of the building each academic year.

In 1996, I still possessed the can the year I was hired as a resident assistant in Bruce Hall. Because of its decades-old architecture, each door frame projected out far enough to provide a narrow shelf above each portal. So as a joke, I propped the Spam up top and displayed it like some sodium-nitrate mezuzah for all to see.

One day, I returned home to find that the can was missing. It is entirely possible that I was angrier than Sméagol right after Bilbo burgled his bling. The next day, the can had returned to its perch, albeit in less-than-pristine condition. It was scratched and dented, with its azure sides puffing outwards as if inflated like a balloon.

I quizzed my residents to see if anyone could solve this mystery, and finally they confessed — they used it to play hallway soccer, and the game ended when a hard kick sent it flying into a wall. But what they told me next was quite queer: when the can hit the wall, it produced a sound described as a loud sucking pop. The walls then instantly puffed out like a car airbag going off. If one shook the can, the insides would rattle like a can of Guinness. They freaked out, put the can back where they found it, and vowed to never speak of it again (so much for the vow). I kept the can where it was until I decided what to do with it next.

After awhile, the can started to leak, producing a flow which oozed forth like sap from a tree. Except, replace “sap from a tree” with “never-ending flow of pork-based glycerin.”

I couldn’t bear to part with the Spam. After all, it was like family to me, and haven’t we all had a grandparent or four that is old & leaky yet still beloved? In an effort to stem the nitrate tide, I sealed the whole tin inside a Ziploc bag. Some time passed and the baggie itself began to ooze. I placed the whole mess within a new Ziploc, and this sequence repeated itself twice more until my tin was safely tucked into four baggies much like Chinese stacking dolls. Except, replace “Chinese stacking dolls” with “four degrees of wrong.”

Years ago, I had gone off to school at a college within half-an-hour of my hometown. This allowed me to visit my parents often enough to use their washer and dryer each week. Sometimes my mother would help me with my laundry, which then allowed her to sneak me care packages of cookies and cash without my father knowing.

One night in 1993, I had just completed one of these visits. I returned to my dorm room at Bruce Hall, unpacked my laundry, and discovered at the bottom a care package of different sorts. There on the floor of the basket was an old, faded tin of Spam, so old that if one wished to open it they would need to detach a turnkey and peel the can open along its sides. Slapped on the front of the can was a bold blurb, “Open this can and instantly win $1000″ — the contest rules printed on the back indicated that “mail-in entries can be submitted until September 1986.” Doing the math suggested that this can was at least 7 years old.

A Post-It note from my mother and pasted on the can read only, “Hey, remember me?”

I had to think about that one for awhile.

Bruce Hall is the oldest dormitory at the University of North Texas. Opened in February 1947 as a residence hall, it has persisted in its original function longer than any other dorm, including numerous ones that were built afterwards. It stands out from many of its neighbors, with its pitched roof, elaborate stonework, and hardwood flooring. And ghosts.

The building houses a small elevator, originally intended for freight but overused and abused as a public lift. The misuse of this elevator caused it to be shut down and sealed in the early 1970s. Its closing spawned one of the hall’s alluring legends — that three students died when the cab plummeted from the top floor into the basement, and that their spirits haunt the basement to this day. Even though the ghost story wasn’t true, it did not stop people from spreading it for many decades to come.

Many years passed, and along came…well, me. And except for a two-semester gap, I spent my entire college life living at Bruce Hall. I began as a resident, soon stumbled into hall association, and was later hired as a resident assistant. Amazingly enough, I tricked them into hiring me as the assistant hall director.

Before each semester, a massive amount of prep work is needed to get Bruce Hall into operational shape. And somehow, even though we had cleaned out the storage rooms just one year earlier, they would swell with the accumulated crap of the past twelve months.

So one fall, I enlisted the help of my resident assistants Tyler, Bill, Keith, and Dustin to clean out the storeroom that used to house the elevator machinery. Much of the day was spent tossing old boxes, sweeping mounds of dust, and (as boys are inclined to do) playing grab-ass.

At one point, I was standing in the doorway when a stocky middle-aged man walked past me. I didn’t see his face, but he was wearing an mechanic’s jumpsuit. Judging by the way he was surveying the area, I could tell he was looking for something.

I offered to assist. “Excuse me, sir? Can I help you?” The man turned to face me, and I immediately notice that his jumpsuit had a patch reading “United Elevator Repair Co.”

“Yes, sir, I got a call to fix an elevator at Bruce Hall,” he said with a chipper tone.

For the briefest of seconds, I was speechless. I was fully aware of the elevator’s past, as I was the amateur historian that researched it. I say, “Sir…the elevator hasn’t been working for nearly 30 years!”

The gentleman revealed only the slightest disappointment, but he politely responded, “Oh. Well, musta’ been a mistake,” turned around, and left down the hallway leading to the back door.

Why was someone here to fix an elevator that had been out of commission for decades?, I asked myself. I followed the man in order to get more information.

The repairman reached the end of the hall and disappeared around the corner. I rounded the same corner myself, went out the back door, and…nothing. He was gone. Now, he couldn’t have gone anywhere else but out that door! Since there’s nothing behind Bruce Hall besides an ocean of parking lots, he could not have been able to disappear anywhere without some sort of evidence.

Keep in mind that no one but me would have called in a work order for Bruce Hall. I walked back inside, went to the front desk, called our maintenance department, and asked our administrative assistant Bonnie about the mystery man. She confirmed that no work order had been called in. Bonnie asked what repair company he was from; I told her, and she exclaimed, “United Elevator Repair Company? The housing department hasn’t used them for nearly 20 years!”