To anyone outside of Colgate, Monday is Monday. But for Colgate students, it’s Jug Night. Or according to John, it’s time to #slay.
A freshman girl smiled to herself in the mirror. She straightened her hair, coated on an excessive amount of mascara, smeared on a fresh layer of lip-gloss, and slid into her Supergas. “I’m ready,” she said to her roommate. Just as ready to #slay and #blackout, her roommate asked, “But aren’t you forgetting something?”
Dumbfounded at her own stupidity and incompletion, the freshman girl stated glowingly, “My fracket!” She pulled out a grey sweatshirt that was once black from her laundry basket, its special holding place. The shoulder was crusted with pizza sauce and the whole thing felt slightly damp from Fraturday’s beer intake. Each stain was a memory, each hole a tribute. She pulled the fracket into her chest and inhaled. She couldn’t wait to put it on.
After two karaoke performances, three gladiators shots, four trips to chat in the bathroom, and five too many Snapchat stories, the girls decided it was time to go home. All too naïvely, the freshman girl skipped over to the corner where she left her fracket. A tear rolled down her cheek and created a streak in her bronzed face. “It’s gone,” she whispered. Her friend pulled her in for a weepy embrace. “Who would take someone’s fracket? Take my Canada Goose, take my Barbour—but my fracket?” She shook her head in disbelief. She clenched her fists in rage. Her friend pulled out her phone and says, “Well, let’s call Campo and file a missing fracket report. Easy. We’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t worry.” And so they called Campo.
Weeks passed by slower than ever. The freshman girl couldn’t even bring herself to go out anymore. It wasn’t the same. She started a group on campus for those who were suffering like she was, for those whose frackets were stolen too. She found comfort in numbers.
Campo searched every day for three weeks. They did room checks, conducted interviews, and started investigating suspects. People hung up fliers, her friends marched down the streets in protest. The freshman girl tried to move on. But no sweatshirt smelled quite like old punch and vomit, and no sweatshirt had that special worn-in feeling.
And then Campo called. An officer stated with excitement, “Ma’am, we’re pleased to inform you that we’ve been successful in our search. We’ve retrieved your fracket along with the others, and we’re sorry you had to deal with such loss for the time being.”
She was shocked and horrified, betrayed and relieved all at once. But the mourning had abated. The tears would relent; the lost sleep would be restored. Her fracket was safe, and her wardrobe complete.
The Monthly Rag 
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