My name is Epworth. Epworth Inn.
I know who you are. I see you walk by on Wednesdays and Saturdays as you persevere toward that lofty goal: Shooters. When you, albeit rarely, turn your gaze toward me, I am happy for but a moment. For I realize that I am nothing to you, nothing but a vessel for your post-Shooters excremental urges. Sometimes, you give me hope. You enter my hallowed halls bearing boxes of Papa John’s, and you eat and laugh and talk and I am happy.
And then you hurl in my guest bathroom.
Why? Why, I ask. I can be there for you in so many more ways.
I have heard of that vaunted, multi-purpose sex-chamber—Belltower Residence Hall’s kitchen. How gauche. My kitchen has abetted the glories of fornication since 1894. Even today, I look on with pride as Epworth’s classes of 2015 and 2016 keep the tradition of the kitchen going. Keep it classy, children.
The very mention of “Gilbert-Addoms, second floor,” lets fall a hush amongst the crowd. Enter once the bowels of GA’s second floor and forever be lost. Be that as it may, my wide, empty halls and my basement will swallow you up much like other creaky, isolated, woods-surrounded white houses often do. Come, I welcome you to Duke’s own House of Horrors.
I will not discriminate; whether rich, poor, black, white, man, woman, LGBTQ or straight, you are all welcome (cough, Aycock). Furthermore, my neighbor is cocky enough to deny admittance to persons of cockroach-y and rat-like countenance (disgraceful). Not I. I must concede that such persons are admitted to the first-floor and not a single place else, but they are admitted nonetheless. My roach population, an unparalleled predicament during the first week of August 2012, was soon curbed by my growing rat population. And then there are the 50 or so Epworthy Epworthians.
Fumigation, you say?
Fumigation, you say, and arriveth the entirety of the fire brigade. One need only utter one-half of the appellation ‘fume,’ and so help me, the constabulary, the fire brigade (quite the steamy lot, I must say) and the curious will assault the rotting, wooden giant that is me, Epworth. Twice past have I burned, reduced to a third of my birth’s glory. Once more shall I burn as they tear me down to build another. But I digress. Stripped of my microwave due to its nature as a perilous, fiery instrument, I can no longer feed my children. And they shun me much in the manner that you do.
Let them. For I am privy to the secrets of their cult. Let them shun me, and I will reveal all that I know of my masses, faces pale from never having reveled in Durham’s sun. Nights pass, and my walls cannot silence the sounds of debauchery. Sit in my commons, savor some popcorn and lend your ears to the doings of the rooms around.
As Epworth Inn, it is unbecoming of me to gripe. By virtue of my name, I must act the graceful, welcoming host. Please, come enjoy my uneven floors, walls and ceilings as you would enjoy the wonders of other amusement parks, places that exist for your entertainment. I cannot speak to my children’s opinions of your self-guided tours as you parade around the spectacle that I am. But little do you know, as you enter in awe, that you make a spectacle of yourself as you parade through my hallways.
I am Epworth. You may not believe that I exist. I may not exist. You have never, ever met a single soul from Epworth. I am the house, the myth, the legend. And so, I humbly offer my services as destination for K-ville’s 2014 scavenger hunt—let’s mind-f*** those lily-livered Crazies.
Pi Praveen is a Trinity freshman. Her column runs every other Friday.
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