By: Sasha Rubick, SFU Student
It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday, cloudy, and campus is deserted. The commuter students fled home yesterday, and the Burnaby campus residents are hunkered down in their concrete boxes. I’m headed home to my dorm, veering left on the walkway. As I look up, I realize that every overhead light fixture has a spider on it. Yikes. Out of the shadows, a wild Gen Xer appears. He’s wearing a windbreaker and has the self-assured vibe of someone who bought a house when the cost of living was cheaper.
“Hey kid,” he says. He sounds like the median voter that politicians always talk about. “How do I get to the Lorne Davies complex?”
I go into fight-or-flight immediately . . . and freeze.
I’ve been at SFU for three years. I downloaded SFU Snap. I know this campus like the back of my hand. Directions, though — yeah, no. The only way to navigate SFU Burnaby is to get lost 30 times during your first semester.
But this poor 50-year-old retiree is asking for help, so I’ll have to do my best.
“You’re going to want to write this down,” I warn.
“Here’s the deal. SFU is renting out space to the ‘Kill Everyone With Fire and Death and Knives’ conference tonight because we’re a little too short on funds to be discerning. Instead of going through the AQ, you’re going to go through Saywell. The second that you go up the stairs to Saywell, you’ll be hit with a wave of disappointment so intense that you’ll question if you’ve just received an F on a midterm. Yes, you. Yes, I understand you’re not a student — UGH, just follow along, will ‘ya? Then you’re going to turn . . .”
It takes me half a minute to remember left from right, even when I make L’s with my thumbs and index fingers.
“Turn right, out of the first door you see, and then make another right. You’re going to keep going straight until you see two things. On your right, there will be a pack of first years in knockoff Stüssy hoodies. They’ll be drinking beers on the roof of the RCB. On your left, there are three hooded members of the Revolutionary Communist Party (RCP) wheatpasting posters onto the wall. Right, RCB; left, RCP. Got it?
“That’s where you’ll turn left. On the fifth step or so, a trapdoor will kick out under your feet, and you’ll fall into a glowing portal. You’ll rematerialize in the depths of the Shrum Science Center, which is like a liminal space. Ignore the shelf of taxidermied birds. Once you reach the standee for The Peak with newspapers from 2015, you’ll know you’re in the right place.
“If you wait there for a couple minutes, one of the only security guards on campus should be patrolling the Shrum Science Center at about that time. He’ll bring you to Lorne Davies from there — you might even be able to make it to your daughter’s volleyball game. Did you catch all that?”
The man shakes his head, looking healthily traumatized and slightly impressed that I knew about his daughter. (Of course I know her. We got lost in the underground tunnels on the way to BPK 110 in first year. It took twelve packs of Hubba Bubba and a rubber chicken to escape).
“Shoot,” I say. “It might be faster for me to walk you there.”
