Some NYU Stories

There are a couple things that happened within my first week at NYU that should have clued me in for the absolute trainwreck that was to be my first year of college.

Coincidentally, they both happened in elevators.

1. The Xavier Incident

It was a couple days into NYU and my eyes were still shrouded in that first-week optimism, the kind where the orientation counselor tells you that the kid who just announced he’s majoring in Folklore (not the T Swift album) will become “a friend for life.”

One night, I was waiting for the elevator to head up to my dorm, standing next to the translucent glass case of unlimited condoms, scrolling my phone.
To my right was a heavyset Asian guy, eyes locked on the condoms.

Suddenly, he shuffled awkwardly and plucked out a gold Magnum. He slipped it into his pocket like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
He turned to me and said, “Hey, you never know.”

I laughed, put away my phone. His openness weirdly calmed me down. The elevator doors opened.

Inside were a 6’8” light-skinned dude and an extremely pale blonde girl who couldn’t have been taller than 4’10”. They were pressed into the corner.

“Wassup, I’m Caleb. You guys also freshmen?”

The absurdly tiny girl looked at me like I just killed Christ.
Gratefully, the tall guy responded: “Yo, I’m Xavier. Yeah, I’m a freshman.”

Xavier’s eyes scanned me up and down, finally landing on my Star of David necklace.

“You sure you’re a freshman?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like you should be working at TD Bank. Let me guess, business major?”

I was halfway to a comeback when the doors opened and he and the girl stepped out.

I’m not saying Xavier was an anti-Semite, but… fuck you, Xavier.

2. The Acid Guy

A couple days later, I found myself across from another kid in the elevator. Blonde middle part, aggressively puffing on a mango vape.“Yo, you wanna see something funny?” he asked. I was still burned from Xavier, but I was curious.

“Sure”, I said.

“Yeah, just gotta grab something from the front desk first.”

We rode down. In the lobby, he suddenly said, “Shit, I forgot something in my room, we gotta go back up.”

We did. Then we went down again. Then back up. This happened four or five times, punctuated by: “Trust me, it’s gonna be so funny.”

I started to notice he was sweating. Not just sweating, but buckets of sweat. He looked like coked-up Ray Liotta at the end of Goodfellas.

Finally, I told him I was going to my room.
He looked almost sad. “Okay.”

I got to my floor, turned the key and there he was again.

“Wait, so you really don’t wanna see something funny?”

“No. I want to go to my fucking room.”

He backed toward the elevator. Just before the doors shut, he called out:

“By the way, sorry if I was being weird. I just took a tab of acid in Washington Square Park.”

Obviously.

Epilogue

The Xavier story, antisemitic or not, was a preview of the antisemitism I’d see explode post–October 7.

The acid guy was more reflective of my year overall. Hazy, glazed over, and very, very confused.

I could get into my frat era, but I don’t want to implicate anyone. In hindsight, I mostly laugh about it.

Grabbing a shitty slice from the 24-hour diner post-lineup with the boys was borderline euphoric.

Shoutout Porky.

Still, I look at photos of myself from that time and barely recognize the pale, skinny kid with Jeremy Allen White hair and eyes that were dead, cold and lifeless.

I couldn’t tell you a single thing about my first week at Reichman.

Which might just mean doing college in Israel was the smartest move I’ve ever made.

I don’t know, but I think one guy in these pictures is way happier. Might just be because it was Purim.