I was walking down the street with a couple friends and a fresh box of Cottage Inn pizza in hand when a group of guys started yelling at us to give them some pizza. Figuring they were the typical freshman wannabe hot-shots with nothing better to do on a Thursday night, we ignored them.
To catch a pizza thief
A couple steps later, though, I heard commotion behind me, and someone across the street shouted, “That guy just stole their pizza!” Sure enough, one of the guys had grabbed the pizza right out of my friend’s hand and was sprinting down the street with it.
We figured he would quit the gag and return the goods, but the culprit kept running until he was out of sight. Claiming defeat and still hungry, we ordered another pizza. On the way back from picking it up, we spotted the same group of guys, sans pizza, walking into a house talking about how “awesome” and “hilarious” something was. I ate my ultimately 16-dollar pizza with the bitter knowledge that I’d be retelling the story with sorrow while the thieves would do the same with pride.
Not merely freshmen
It was a Saturday night and I was checking out the mid-winter Church Street party scene with a friend who was visiting from Western Michigan University.
We decided to casually follow/stalk a jovial group of students as they headed into an apartment building, seeking shelter from the cold and assuming the medium-sized group was headed to a medium-sized party. Our assumptions were wrong. We found ourselves in the company of about 15 people in a tiny apartment with an Earth-tone color scheme that smelled of vegetable soup. It took about 30 seconds for everyone to realize that we were suspect, and about 31 seconds for us to realize we needed to hit the pavement.
Opting to head into the indoor pool-smelling abyss that is Rick’s American Cafe, my friend offered up his ID and started into the bumping party. I was up next – but a little too late, I realized I didn’t have my ID. The boyishly good-looking bouncer shook his head. It was time to move on and there was nothing left to do but get food and return home.
We crammed into Backroom Pizza and, as a first-timer in the joint, I unknowingly ordered “anything with vegetables.” They didn’t have it – and apparently never have it – and my request was regaled with taunts of “who is this girl?” My friend kept it cool, answering their quips with “It’s cool, she’s not from around here,” and ordering a couple slices of pepperoni. We headed home, me – a University senior – feeling like quite the outsider and my friend feeling he had found a sense of belonging.