Fenno was elated. The frustrating weeks on the housing market had finally paid off – Fenno had found the perfect place. This year, Fenno was determined to earn his JD living like a Homo Sapiens. He was going to shed the cave-man stigma, attitude and aroma.
The past two years, Fenno had refuted the anti-liberal hypothesis of physical hygiene, had laughed in the face of the right-wing corporate washing machine industry and had even donated two layers of his skin walking barefoot on the NASA-fertilized grass in Harvard Yard.
This year, everything would radically change. Just as HLS suddenly boasted an unused ice-skating rink on its website, Fenno needed to boost his image. He shot a devilish glance at the beautiful chandelier, stroked the wood and ran his fingers around the frame of his favorite painting. With no false modesty, his living room was every lawyer’s fantasy.
The place was fully furnished: aside from high speed internet and security, the interior boasted mahogany, leather and crystal; the room’s temperature was electronically adjustable, the air conditioning high-powered. By contrast, Fenno’s past apartment had resembled a sick joke of a hands-on internship with Guantanamo detainees. Despite cracks in walls doors, spaciously designed for the convenience of the house rodents, the broken window, and the missing heating and air conditioning, if felt like a luxury penthouse compared to his first year at the nuclear shelter devised by “he-who-must-not-be-named” Gropius.
Now this was how he had envisioned life at HLS. Even his future bosses, the lazy spoiled dumb-fucks at the B-School, would have to admit this place impersonated Harvard’s reputation best. Fenno beamed, snuggled into his favorite bean-bag and unfolded a crisp edition of the New York Times. As with every non-legal book under 700 pages, an immediate feeling of guilt crept up. Remembering in disgust that he would at some point have to start writing his 3L paper, or else subsidize the law review’s next $2,000 dinner for take-out Chinese with complementary A+’s at Dean Kagan’s house, Fenno stood up and walked towards his favorite flat screen computer. Reluctant to type in the dim light and feeling slightly dazed, Fenno decided to first get himself a cup, nay, a tank of coffee.
CRACK. Fenno shot upright. Somebody was there. Nobody was invited. Someone was creeping up the stairs. Prepared for everything, Fenno took a heavy book off a shelf, and took poise. The intruder was coming nearer, panting heavily. Fenno closed his eyes, prayed to Tribe, and vowed to commit whatever felony a small minded prosecutor with small genitals and no appreciation of Fenno’s need for a decent standard of living might attempt to twist this into. Nobody was going to take away his newly acquired prestige. He was going to live nobly, or die trying to. WHAM! Fenno sent the intruder tumbling down the stairs. Trembling, he krept towards the motionless body. Kicking it lightly at first, then with some appetite, Fenno recognized the knocked out security guard, on his routine check in Langdell library, his water pistol dangling from his thigh.
Fenno was hunting for a new apartment again.