To Throw a Wrench

Instead of throwing wrenches this week, I am throwing in the towel. It's my last contribution as a college opinion columnist and, according to Sunnie tradition, I must explain my moniker in this farewell ode. So here is the tale of Throw a Wrench In It, a circuitous saga in which you will laugh out loud four times and cry five.

Every Saturday my best friend Maggie and I used to cruise through the Taco Bell drive-thru and then, with sweating sodas in hand, depart for the shade of the gas station. It's not that we needed gas, because we cruised the drive-thru on our bikes. Nor did we care for the gas station atmosphere, automotive as it was. Maggie had a bit of a crush on the gas station attendant, whose name was Carlos but everyone called Junior (pronounced Hoon-yer).

In retrospect Junior was a nice boy, but at the time I perceived him as a daunting older man. Seventeen years old, with perfectly gelled hair and a killer smile, Junior was most importantly a "skater" at a time when the Stone Temple Pilots actually sold albums.

I would have preferred to avoid the gas station, because Junior had a tongue-tying, self-conscious effect on me. In fact, a lot of people had a tongue-tying effect on me in the sixth grade. Especially older boys.

Maggie was different. After we picked the appropriate parking space for our Huffy 10-speeds and lowered our kickstands, Maggie confidently walked past the mini-mart and diesel pumps, straight to Junior. She made sparklingly cool conversation, "What's up?", "That sucks" and "When do you get outta this place?" I interjected an occasional, "Man" and "No way."

Junior always seemed engaged. I attributed this to Maggie's bold courage and calm social collectedness. She was my working model for confidence -- one that I tried to emulate in years to come.

Most of all, Maggie taught me the importance of taking social risks. I would rather have read Seventeen magazine in the Wal-Mart, but she forced me to tackle the challenge of talking to Junior. And it was fulfilling. Without small successful interactions like that, I would never be as confident or self-assured as I am today.

One Saturday Maggie and I rolled up to the gas station, but Junior was not in his regular spot next to the window-washing tub. We loitered around the mini-mart, bought a gratuitous bag of Sun Chips, and finally the guy at the counter told us that Junior quit.

I was at a loss for words. But Maggie, standing with a hand on her hip, had the most brilliant response. "This really throws a wrench in things," she sarcastically growled. It was the first time I had heard that phrase, and it was the funniest thing I ever heard. At that point I knew Maggie wasn't heartbroken -- she even poked fun at our loser-ish Saturday ritual. Now we had to find another diversion, which became rollerblading and occasionally driving her mother's car around the block.

And that's how I got my column title, Throw a Wrench In It. To throw a wrench is to interfere with or to sabotage an operation. The picture is one of throwing a wrench into the gears of an operating piece of machinery. The whole works grind to a stop. It's a fitting title for a column -- a space where you can challenge what is wrong in a supposedly well-oiled society. But that's not the primary reason why I picked it as my column title.

To me, Throw a Wrench In It is a tribute to all of the people who have shaped me into the person I am today, adding their nurture to my nature. If it weren't for Maggie's bold examples and cutting humor, I may still be the shy girl I was in sixth grade. I may not have embraced the social challenge of writing a weekly column, Throw a Wrench In It.

This place, Cornell, has also helped me reach this stage, not only by bringing us all together, but also by providing the late nights of procrastination when I bonded with Jeremy, Lauren, Jed and Amanda on my freshman floor. Or the freezing February when I bunkered down in my sorority house with 30 other girls. Collegetown Bagels on sunny Sundays, The Regent's Lounge post-wines, Collegetown porches in the early-evenings, and the Terrace, where I spent many-a-lunch-hour with Julie and Mao.

This column is a tribute to the people who've touched me, this place and also this time. Because never again will I have the opportunity to Throw a Wrench In It, my uninhibited weekly blabbing. Never again will I be able to meet all of my friends at Mama T's after the bars and dissect the drama of the night. Never again will I hear the chimes and get a little sentimental as I hustle to the library. I can do similar things, but not exactly the same.

It's been a stirring, blissful, stressful, and rewarding four years. Next year when my younger sister comes to Cornell as a freshman, I only hope she can find the people and places, niches and communities, social challenges and comforting havens that I have encountered here. Throw a Wrench In It was a big part of that experience for me, serving as both a challenge and a refuge during my life on the hill.

Archived article by Andrea Forker