Shame from Innocence: The Curse of the Stigma

The cinder-block-sized, first-generation cell phone rang disturbing the quiet concentration of the fifth floor of the Indiana University library. My friend, Eric, picked it up from the table we shared as we studied. “Yeah,” he said as everyone on the floor listened agitatedly to only Eric’s side of the conversation. “I told you not to call me on this line…What!…That can’t happen…Get the shit back, and kill him!” With that, Eric slammed the foot-long phone back down on the table, and returned to his economics book as though nothing had happened. I tried to stifle my laughter as I, too, put my head back down and pretended to study. The rest of the students on the fifth floor whispered anxiously amongst themselves, and stared in our direction in disbelief.

A few minutes later, all eyes were still on us as Eric and I put the toy phone in a backpack and headed to the basement cafeteria for a pizza. That phone had exactly one function — if you pushed the right button, it would ring a few seconds later. That’s it, and boy did we have fun with that $3 plastic replica.

We had studied for about seventeen minutes, had a pizza during a hard-earned break, and mutually agreed that we’d accomplished enough at the library for one night. We hustled back to our fraternity house just in time to watch Melrose Place with our other four best friends.