It is with great pride that I claim relationships with the sandbar piano (at which I have wept more times than I’ve clipped my toenails over the course of my life), that third plateau on the way up the Towers/CCB stairs (on which I spent a solid two minutes every morning my sophomore year, waving politely to passerbys, praying that I would not vomit on them), and the sneaky trail that connects Peppers to the HAWC (on which I was more prone to slipping and falling than a newly born deer ice-skating on a giant cube of butter).
While there are many nooks and crannies on campus that mean different things to different people, the one that meant the most to a lot of people was the HAWC. This haven existed as a late night escape to many and was just raunchy enough to make it seem like an extension of your dorm rooms, not a destination at some fancy restaurant like Applebees. You could smell the indifference of the recently post-adolescent HAWC worker from the AMB.
Once you got in the door, you had a plethora of things to roll your eyes at: the huge bearded guy loudly banging on the piano upstairs, the pervasive smell of a hot-pocket that you were certain was first tested as a WMD or the only working TV on campus and its endearing proximity to the epicenter of on-campus indoor sports.
There was a sense of camaraderie in this place. There was no guilt for wanting a full meal at 1:52 a.m., because the frozen brick food you were purchasing would, after being cooked in the Microwave of Indiscernible Power would certainly either give you diarrhea or make sure you wouldn’t taste a meal for a week by burning the entire surface area of your tongue. You didn’t care that they only stocked three of the worst salads because, in the end, you knew that you probably should have planned ahead and gone to the Caf or, heaven forbid, gone grocery shopping. You knew that everyone had a communal understanding that this place was for the weak, and you LOVED IT. WELCOME HOME.
Well, it happened again. You went away for the summer, only to return home and find out that your once quirky and homely mother has received implants and can’t hug you anymore. The HAWC betrayed us. Here is a list of my grievances:
No. 1 From the moment you (attempt to) walk into the new building, you can tell you are unwanted. Upon any brief human touch, both of the “handicap accessible” doors open outward, leaving you with a forehead bruise and brief glance of embarrassed confusion as you walk up the stairs.
No. 2 What was once an escape from acquaintances that you spent 12 hours avoiding is now a collection of people from every social circle with which you have ever associated yourself.
No. 3 That building needs a piano. Please.
No. 4 The bathrooms used to be far away, creating a soothing and healthy disassociation between “this” and “that.” Now you must receive permission and excusal from 20 people (already uneasy about standing so close to it) to even get to the door.
No. 5 With a selection that looks like the west half of a Trader Joes, it would be nice if they had at least one edible flavor of chip. I always get excited when they find another human to govern the mini Ralph’s (usually meaning I can get something edible in less than two hours), but, for some reason, they only carry “jerky,” “salad,” and “chip” flavored chips. I didn’t even know they made “Sushi Chex-Mix.”
6. The food presentation is sketch. If they’re going to serve me four completely frozen pieces of ravioli smothered in week-old alfredo, why try to disguise it with a black, semi-presentational plastic plate and a sprig of parsley? They really need to take off those Chef Boyardee costumes and admit that they’re just microwaving the food (just like we used to).
7. If they have another diet soda shortage, I’m transferring. I drank a regular Pepsi out of panic last week and woke up in a ditch near PCH.
I’m not saying I need the old HAWC back. The new generation can have their new, fake and fancy mom. Heck, my teddy-bear Benjamin never even saw the old one. I would simply like to pay tribute to a place that welcomed all, bruised none, and burnt some. May we never forget.
