The Lazy Attempted Suicide of Larry Korn
"I'm a sophisticated sex robot, sent back in time to change the future for one lucky lady."
Spoiler alert: No one actually dies, or even comes close. Before I begin, I want to add one disclaimer: This is a story about a subject that is normally taboo. If you can’t handle a story touching on suicide, stop now.
Towards the end of my first year in the college dorms, one of my neighbors decided to kill himself. Well... sort of.
The Beginning
Let’s set the stage, shall we? The star of this particular show was a chap I’ll call Larry. We shared a suite (the fancy term for three dorm rooms that shared a bathroom) during freshman year at Duke. Larry was a little untraditional, which is a nice way of saying he lagged behind others as far as academic achievements. The reason he was there was fencing (swordplay, not manual labor). While Duke usually didn't freely admit athletes from non-revenue sports, Larry was apparently a prodigy. Word had it that the coach of the fencing team got one “freebie” each year (i.e., a guy who would be otherwise ineligible). Larry was that guy.
I don’t know much about fencing, but Larry seemed like he would be cut out for it: he a scrappy, diminutive guy who bore a striking resemblance to the guy who played “The Shermanator” in the American Pie movies.
Towards the end of my first year in the college dorms, one of my neighbors decided to kill himself. Well... sort of.
The Beginning
Let’s set the stage, shall we? The star of this particular show was a chap I’ll call Larry. We shared a suite (the fancy term for three dorm rooms that shared a bathroom) during freshman year at Duke. Larry was a little untraditional, which is a nice way of saying he lagged behind others as far as academic achievements. The reason he was there was fencing (swordplay, not manual labor). While Duke usually didn't freely admit athletes from non-revenue sports, Larry was apparently a prodigy. Word had it that the coach of the fencing team got one “freebie” each year (i.e., a guy who would be otherwise ineligible). Larry was that guy.
I don’t know much about fencing, but Larry seemed like he would be cut out for it: he a scrappy, diminutive guy who bore a striking resemblance to the guy who played “The Shermanator” in the American Pie movies.
Inigo Montoya tells it like it is.
Larry and I met on moving-in day and failed to hit it off. This was probably my fault: after learning his interests, I’d asked Larry if there was any chance that Olympic fencing rules could be modified to allow participants to carry a shield. Larry’s response to my innovation of his sports was, shall we say… cold. After that, we never interacted much. Still, we were polite, all the way up until the bitter end.
The Decline
From virtually the start of classes, Larry struggled with adapting to college life. He managed to rattle through first semester, but during the spring he really began to unravel. He became broody and reclusive; his roommate described a man who slept all day and would barely speak. His personal habits also degenerated - on two occasions I caught Larry urinating directly into the hallway trash can rather than walking the twelve extra feet to the bathroom.
Things reached their nadir as finals approached. By this point Larry had completely lost his circadian rhythm. He roamed the halls at random hours and fed exclusively on delivered pizza (from Domino’s, in retrospect an obvious symptom of self-loathing). From what those of us around him could discern, Larry's attendance of classes had long ago ceased.
At some point around this time period, Larry must have realized he was in a hole that was too deep to escape. Barring a miracle, he was going to fail all his classes, lose his scholarship to a top ten university, and otherwise entering a downward spiral that ended with him spending his adulthood working in a drive-thru liquor store. Using his last vestiges of self-preservation instincts, Larry devised a plan to save himself from imminent failure.
The strategy he would employ would attempt to exploit a loophole in university rules. This deep into the semester, there was normally no way to drop a class in order to escape a bad grade. However, Duke had a medical exemption policy in place: you could erase an entire semester’s worth of bad grades from your record if you were forced to withdraw for significant medical reasons. After playing this card, you could return next semester with a clean slate. Equally important, this medical exemption could be granted at any time, even during finals week. For Larry, this clause represented a get-out-of-jail-free-card that would allow him to keep his scholarship.
The Decline
From virtually the start of classes, Larry struggled with adapting to college life. He managed to rattle through first semester, but during the spring he really began to unravel. He became broody and reclusive; his roommate described a man who slept all day and would barely speak. His personal habits also degenerated - on two occasions I caught Larry urinating directly into the hallway trash can rather than walking the twelve extra feet to the bathroom.
Things reached their nadir as finals approached. By this point Larry had completely lost his circadian rhythm. He roamed the halls at random hours and fed exclusively on delivered pizza (from Domino’s, in retrospect an obvious symptom of self-loathing). From what those of us around him could discern, Larry's attendance of classes had long ago ceased.
At some point around this time period, Larry must have realized he was in a hole that was too deep to escape. Barring a miracle, he was going to fail all his classes, lose his scholarship to a top ten university, and otherwise entering a downward spiral that ended with him spending his adulthood working in a drive-thru liquor store. Using his last vestiges of self-preservation instincts, Larry devised a plan to save himself from imminent failure.
The strategy he would employ would attempt to exploit a loophole in university rules. This deep into the semester, there was normally no way to drop a class in order to escape a bad grade. However, Duke had a medical exemption policy in place: you could erase an entire semester’s worth of bad grades from your record if you were forced to withdraw for significant medical reasons. After playing this card, you could return next semester with a clean slate. Equally important, this medical exemption could be granted at any time, even during finals week. For Larry, this clause represented a get-out-of-jail-free-card that would allow him to keep his scholarship.
If you’re thinking to yourself that this rule sounds like it’s made for guys in Larry’s exact situation, you’re probably right. All Larry needed to do was to drag his ass to the student health clinic and mumble something about being depressed. However, the week before finals was not the time to leave anything to chance. Dodging a slate of Fs at this juncture would require a grand, spectacular gesture, something like a halfhearted (uninspired) suicide attempt.
Larry In Crisis
Here’s how it went down: the night before finals began, Larry initiated his end game by proceeding to get piss drunk. He then barricaded himself in his room and sent a text message to a female friend who lived one floor below informing her that he was planning on killing himself with sleeping pills. Word spread and, within minutes, the dorm’s resident advisor (RA) was notified. Our advisor was Chauncey, a grad student who studied something ecumenical in the divinity school.
We lived on an upper floor, in a suite of rooms converted from old faculty apartments. Larry’s room was at the end of a long, narrow hallway, with my room’s entryway perpendicular. All told, only a few feet separated our doors, giving me a front row seat for the coming show.
It was 1 AM at this point, early evening by college standards. I was in my room, doggedly nibbling away at a term paper due in seven hours, when a frantic thudding rang out from the hallway. I leaned out my door and observed Chauncey banging furiously on Larry’s door.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Larry’s in crisis,” Chauncey confided. “He says he’s going to hurt himself.”
From inside, Larry moaned, "I just want it to end!"
I nodded sarcastically to Chauncey and made the jerk-off hand gesture, assuming that he knew what Larry was trying. "Did he have to pick tonight for this?"
"What do you mean?" Chauncey asked.
“Everyone has work to do and he decide to making his play now," I explained. "You know, the old control/alt/delete maneuver?”
Chauncey misinterpreted my explanation of Larry's behavior as confirmation that my suitemate was indeed suicidal. “Larry!” he cried into the locked door. “Larry!!! Do not kill yourself! I’m asking you as a personal favor!”
From inside, Larry turned on the stereo in response, drowning out Chauncey’s pleas. “You call the cops?” I asked, raising my voice so I could be heard over Enya. I wasn't going to call out Larry for committing, but I needed peace and quiet ASAP.
Chauncey shook his head absently, resuming his negotiations with the closed door. Like many clergy, our resident advisor had apparently confused himself with a trained therapist. I watched as he engaged in his one-sided negotiation. “You have so many reasons to live and love in God’s kingdom,” he cajoled. “Jesus will love you no matter what happens. Just don’t hurt yourself!” The only answer was a high ululating wail from the other side of the door, as Larry launched into a fit of genuine anguish.
“Dude,” I said to Chauncey, “on the off chance he's serious, lay off the ‘God’s kingdom’ afterlife stuff, huh?” To his credit, Chauncey bagged the proselytizing and called the cops.
Campus police arrived a few minutes later. With the campus in full-blown finals study mode for finals, Larry’s personal Waterloo was the only game in town right now. Officers flooded the hallway, with a few spilling into my room. There was even had a negotiator, a low-rent version of Samuel L Jackson, who alternately threatened and coddled a still-histrionic Larry.
The situation quickly turned into a sit-and-wait affair, with several cops basically standing around my room. All the commotion did not agree with my preferred writing style. Focusing on delineating the cultural significance of the Circus Maximus in Roman culture was difficult enough without a constant cacophony of radio traffic interspersed with Larry’s inexhaustible feminine weeping. Things came to a head when I looked over from my computer to find two of the campus cops rummaging through my mini-fridge.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I yelled at them. ”Those are reserved for real policemen.” Chastised, the campus cops gave me a withering look but retreated into the hall. “I’m counting those diet cokes,” I called after them.
Larry In Crisis
Here’s how it went down: the night before finals began, Larry initiated his end game by proceeding to get piss drunk. He then barricaded himself in his room and sent a text message to a female friend who lived one floor below informing her that he was planning on killing himself with sleeping pills. Word spread and, within minutes, the dorm’s resident advisor (RA) was notified. Our advisor was Chauncey, a grad student who studied something ecumenical in the divinity school.
We lived on an upper floor, in a suite of rooms converted from old faculty apartments. Larry’s room was at the end of a long, narrow hallway, with my room’s entryway perpendicular. All told, only a few feet separated our doors, giving me a front row seat for the coming show.
It was 1 AM at this point, early evening by college standards. I was in my room, doggedly nibbling away at a term paper due in seven hours, when a frantic thudding rang out from the hallway. I leaned out my door and observed Chauncey banging furiously on Larry’s door.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Larry’s in crisis,” Chauncey confided. “He says he’s going to hurt himself.”
From inside, Larry moaned, "I just want it to end!"
I nodded sarcastically to Chauncey and made the jerk-off hand gesture, assuming that he knew what Larry was trying. "Did he have to pick tonight for this?"
"What do you mean?" Chauncey asked.
“Everyone has work to do and he decide to making his play now," I explained. "You know, the old control/alt/delete maneuver?”
Chauncey misinterpreted my explanation of Larry's behavior as confirmation that my suitemate was indeed suicidal. “Larry!” he cried into the locked door. “Larry!!! Do not kill yourself! I’m asking you as a personal favor!”
From inside, Larry turned on the stereo in response, drowning out Chauncey’s pleas. “You call the cops?” I asked, raising my voice so I could be heard over Enya. I wasn't going to call out Larry for committing, but I needed peace and quiet ASAP.
Chauncey shook his head absently, resuming his negotiations with the closed door. Like many clergy, our resident advisor had apparently confused himself with a trained therapist. I watched as he engaged in his one-sided negotiation. “You have so many reasons to live and love in God’s kingdom,” he cajoled. “Jesus will love you no matter what happens. Just don’t hurt yourself!” The only answer was a high ululating wail from the other side of the door, as Larry launched into a fit of genuine anguish.
“Dude,” I said to Chauncey, “on the off chance he's serious, lay off the ‘God’s kingdom’ afterlife stuff, huh?” To his credit, Chauncey bagged the proselytizing and called the cops.
Campus police arrived a few minutes later. With the campus in full-blown finals study mode for finals, Larry’s personal Waterloo was the only game in town right now. Officers flooded the hallway, with a few spilling into my room. There was even had a negotiator, a low-rent version of Samuel L Jackson, who alternately threatened and coddled a still-histrionic Larry.
The situation quickly turned into a sit-and-wait affair, with several cops basically standing around my room. All the commotion did not agree with my preferred writing style. Focusing on delineating the cultural significance of the Circus Maximus in Roman culture was difficult enough without a constant cacophony of radio traffic interspersed with Larry’s inexhaustible feminine weeping. Things came to a head when I looked over from my computer to find two of the campus cops rummaging through my mini-fridge.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I yelled at them. ”Those are reserved for real policemen.” Chastised, the campus cops gave me a withering look but retreated into the hall. “I’m counting those diet cokes,” I called after them.
Technical layout of the scene.
Distracted, and with the situation at an impasse, I decided to order food delivery. “Want any Chinese food?” I asked at the two officers lingering near my door. One appeared interested and makes a sound that could have been the beginning of “from where?” before his partner declined firmly for them both.
With my order placed, I headed out into the hall to check on the situation. Larry had apparently stopped communicating entirely, although an occasional warbling sob could be heard through the door. The responding officers were now joined by Duke’s version of a SWAT team, who had taken up tactical positions in nearby doorways. A crowd of onlookers had gathered behind a cordon at the far end of the hallway. By virtue of my room’s location, I was smack dab in the middle of the action. The negotiator and several SWAT members were clustered together midway down the hall, speaking in low voices. I nudged my way into the huddle.
“Who are you?” asked the negotiator.
“I live here,” I said offhandedly. “Listen guys, is there any way we can move this along?”
“We’re developing an entry strategy,” volunteered one of the SWAT guys. Samuel L. Jackson looked nonplussed at my inclusion in the strategy session, but didn’t say anything.
“He’s just one skinny little guy,” I pointed out. “And he’s obviously hammered drunk - all you have to do is cart him off. What, you think he’s gonna be in there waiting to stab you with an epee?”
“Wait,” the negotiator interrupted, “he’s armed?”
I shrugged. “He’s on the fencing team. But those sword-things they use are dulled, and you have guns and bulletproof vests.”
One of the team members turned away and announced into his radio, “All units be advised, subject is armed with multiple swords; believed capable of applying deadly force.”
Perhaps as a reward for my diligence, the negotiator let me in on a little tidbit of information: “The main problem's that locked door. It's the single point of entry - if we can’t go in fast, operational safety will be compromised.”
“Why don’t you just knock it down?” I asked.
“We… err, don’t have that equipment on site,” Samuel L Jackson replied uncomfortably.
At this point I was just worried enough that campus cops would accidentally kill Larry to be genuinely helpful. “Here’s a thought,” I ventured. “Why don’t you get the room key from maintenance?”
An oddly familiar look passed over the negotiator’s face before it went blank. “We’re investigating several possibilities,” he said neutrally. “Why don’t you head back in your room and let us work?”
I shrugged and walked around the corner, but paused immediately once I was out of sight. What I was waiting for happened three seconds later: I heard the click of a walkie-talkie, followed by Samuel L Jackson’s gruff voice requesting “someone in facilities to get up here with a key for [Larry’s room number].” I was now unofficially solving the problems of the independent, deputized police force of a major university.
The Final Delivery
Fifteen minutes later, the key showed up. The negotiator tried one more unsuccessful attempt at rousing Larry (for whom the only evidence of self-harm was the terrible playlist he was still blasting on his stereo). When Larry didn't respond, Sam Jackson shrugged and turns to his men, making a ‘saddle up’ gesture to them with his right hand. About eight guys from campus SWAT drew their weapons and began to queue up, awaiting the order to go in. Samuel L Jackson stepped aside and nodded towards the door. The SWAT guys surge forward quietly. In the lead, one of them has a standard-issue room key, which he slips into the lock with the dexterity of a cat burglar. Before turning the key, he takes a final look back to make sure his boys are ready to roll.
As he pauses, there’s a disturbance at the end of the hallway. A Chinese man with a plastic sack of food is being held back by one of the officers at the cordon, and a heated conversation is underway.
Not really expecting it to work, I yelled down the hall, “It’s OK, he’s with me.”
Amazingly, they let the delivery guy through. There’s really no way to adequately describe the visual here: The SWAT guys are frozen in place, backed up halfway down the hall. As he reaches the rear echelon of officers, the delivery man starts forcing his way through, braying ‘’Scuse me! ‘Scuse me!” in broken English as he shouldered aside one storm trooper after another. I conclude that this dude must really have seen some shit in his line of work.
He reached my door and consulted his receipt. “You No-wahhh?”
“Right here,” I confirmed, holding up a ‘one minute’ finger at Samuel L Jackson and the SWAT guys.
We recapitulated the familiar exchange of food and signatures, the transaction safeguarded by the dozen constables looking on. The deliveryman scrutinized my illegible signature. “You tip on card!” he announced. He reversed course, weaving his way between the same officers he’d passed coming in. As the delivery guy walked out, I noticed the officer who'd let him in was the same one who was interested in ordering Chinese food earlier.
There was a moment of silence as Larry's most recent song ("I Saw The Sign" by Ace of Base) concluded. In the brief silence, I yelled out, “Larry, you want some dragon noodles?”
There was no response, then another song began ("Truly Madly Deeply" by Savage Garden). “Gave it a shot,” I announced, shrugging at Samuel L Jackson.
SLJ ignored me. “Do it,” he barked at his men. As I turned away and tore into the still-steaming noodles, the officers rushed into Larry’s domicile. As the entered, Larry (at least I assume it was Larry) emitted a particularly girly wail, followed immediately by gruff voices crying out variations of “watch out for the swords!” After a few minutes, Larry was led out in restraints, draped in a grimy blanket and smelling like a gin factory. The foul odor failed to deter a very overstimulated Chauncey, who emerged from an alcove and tearfully embraced Larry as he repeated, “Let Christ heal your heart – the journey begins now.”
“Still with the Jesus stuff, Chauncey?” I called out, shaking my head.
As they were clearing out, one of the cops told everyone what happened when they went in: Larry had been lying on the floor, wearing only a pair of tighty-whities. In one hand, he held an empty bottle of house vodka; in the other he wielded a blunted saber, which he was using as a tool to adjust his stereo volume as the cops came crashing in (hence the "watch out for the sword" comments). At some point in the festivities, he’d soiled himself, leading me to believe the wails we heard stemmed from painful chafing rather than emotional angst.
Postscript
Fortunately, there's a fairly happy conclusion to this one. Larry's efforts were not in vain; he was awarded a full do-over in exchange for spending a few days in the hospital on suicide watch. While he never returned to Duke, a little internet stalking reveals that Larry did get back into school closer to home and now lives a fairly normal life with a successful business career. While I'm sure he'd be happy to forget this low point in his life, I'd like to point out something that often gets lost in the shufle of the story: Larry's plan worked. The entire scheme was a glorious eleventh-hour buzzer-beater that remains, to this day, the greatest real-life example of Deus Ex Machina I've ever witnessed. By sharing it with you, I hope to remind you that, while we may chuckle at Larry's peccadilloes, a crazy plan isn't necessarily a bad plan.
With my order placed, I headed out into the hall to check on the situation. Larry had apparently stopped communicating entirely, although an occasional warbling sob could be heard through the door. The responding officers were now joined by Duke’s version of a SWAT team, who had taken up tactical positions in nearby doorways. A crowd of onlookers had gathered behind a cordon at the far end of the hallway. By virtue of my room’s location, I was smack dab in the middle of the action. The negotiator and several SWAT members were clustered together midway down the hall, speaking in low voices. I nudged my way into the huddle.
“Who are you?” asked the negotiator.
“I live here,” I said offhandedly. “Listen guys, is there any way we can move this along?”
“We’re developing an entry strategy,” volunteered one of the SWAT guys. Samuel L. Jackson looked nonplussed at my inclusion in the strategy session, but didn’t say anything.
“He’s just one skinny little guy,” I pointed out. “And he’s obviously hammered drunk - all you have to do is cart him off. What, you think he’s gonna be in there waiting to stab you with an epee?”
“Wait,” the negotiator interrupted, “he’s armed?”
I shrugged. “He’s on the fencing team. But those sword-things they use are dulled, and you have guns and bulletproof vests.”
One of the team members turned away and announced into his radio, “All units be advised, subject is armed with multiple swords; believed capable of applying deadly force.”
Perhaps as a reward for my diligence, the negotiator let me in on a little tidbit of information: “The main problem's that locked door. It's the single point of entry - if we can’t go in fast, operational safety will be compromised.”
“Why don’t you just knock it down?” I asked.
“We… err, don’t have that equipment on site,” Samuel L Jackson replied uncomfortably.
At this point I was just worried enough that campus cops would accidentally kill Larry to be genuinely helpful. “Here’s a thought,” I ventured. “Why don’t you get the room key from maintenance?”
An oddly familiar look passed over the negotiator’s face before it went blank. “We’re investigating several possibilities,” he said neutrally. “Why don’t you head back in your room and let us work?”
I shrugged and walked around the corner, but paused immediately once I was out of sight. What I was waiting for happened three seconds later: I heard the click of a walkie-talkie, followed by Samuel L Jackson’s gruff voice requesting “someone in facilities to get up here with a key for [Larry’s room number].” I was now unofficially solving the problems of the independent, deputized police force of a major university.
The Final Delivery
Fifteen minutes later, the key showed up. The negotiator tried one more unsuccessful attempt at rousing Larry (for whom the only evidence of self-harm was the terrible playlist he was still blasting on his stereo). When Larry didn't respond, Sam Jackson shrugged and turns to his men, making a ‘saddle up’ gesture to them with his right hand. About eight guys from campus SWAT drew their weapons and began to queue up, awaiting the order to go in. Samuel L Jackson stepped aside and nodded towards the door. The SWAT guys surge forward quietly. In the lead, one of them has a standard-issue room key, which he slips into the lock with the dexterity of a cat burglar. Before turning the key, he takes a final look back to make sure his boys are ready to roll.
As he pauses, there’s a disturbance at the end of the hallway. A Chinese man with a plastic sack of food is being held back by one of the officers at the cordon, and a heated conversation is underway.
Not really expecting it to work, I yelled down the hall, “It’s OK, he’s with me.”
Amazingly, they let the delivery guy through. There’s really no way to adequately describe the visual here: The SWAT guys are frozen in place, backed up halfway down the hall. As he reaches the rear echelon of officers, the delivery man starts forcing his way through, braying ‘’Scuse me! ‘Scuse me!” in broken English as he shouldered aside one storm trooper after another. I conclude that this dude must really have seen some shit in his line of work.
He reached my door and consulted his receipt. “You No-wahhh?”
“Right here,” I confirmed, holding up a ‘one minute’ finger at Samuel L Jackson and the SWAT guys.
We recapitulated the familiar exchange of food and signatures, the transaction safeguarded by the dozen constables looking on. The deliveryman scrutinized my illegible signature. “You tip on card!” he announced. He reversed course, weaving his way between the same officers he’d passed coming in. As the delivery guy walked out, I noticed the officer who'd let him in was the same one who was interested in ordering Chinese food earlier.
There was a moment of silence as Larry's most recent song ("I Saw The Sign" by Ace of Base) concluded. In the brief silence, I yelled out, “Larry, you want some dragon noodles?”
There was no response, then another song began ("Truly Madly Deeply" by Savage Garden). “Gave it a shot,” I announced, shrugging at Samuel L Jackson.
SLJ ignored me. “Do it,” he barked at his men. As I turned away and tore into the still-steaming noodles, the officers rushed into Larry’s domicile. As the entered, Larry (at least I assume it was Larry) emitted a particularly girly wail, followed immediately by gruff voices crying out variations of “watch out for the swords!” After a few minutes, Larry was led out in restraints, draped in a grimy blanket and smelling like a gin factory. The foul odor failed to deter a very overstimulated Chauncey, who emerged from an alcove and tearfully embraced Larry as he repeated, “Let Christ heal your heart – the journey begins now.”
“Still with the Jesus stuff, Chauncey?” I called out, shaking my head.
As they were clearing out, one of the cops told everyone what happened when they went in: Larry had been lying on the floor, wearing only a pair of tighty-whities. In one hand, he held an empty bottle of house vodka; in the other he wielded a blunted saber, which he was using as a tool to adjust his stereo volume as the cops came crashing in (hence the "watch out for the sword" comments). At some point in the festivities, he’d soiled himself, leading me to believe the wails we heard stemmed from painful chafing rather than emotional angst.
Postscript
Fortunately, there's a fairly happy conclusion to this one. Larry's efforts were not in vain; he was awarded a full do-over in exchange for spending a few days in the hospital on suicide watch. While he never returned to Duke, a little internet stalking reveals that Larry did get back into school closer to home and now lives a fairly normal life with a successful business career. While I'm sure he'd be happy to forget this low point in his life, I'd like to point out something that often gets lost in the shufle of the story: Larry's plan worked. The entire scheme was a glorious eleventh-hour buzzer-beater that remains, to this day, the greatest real-life example of Deus Ex Machina I've ever witnessed. By sharing it with you, I hope to remind you that, while we may chuckle at Larry's peccadilloes, a crazy plan isn't necessarily a bad plan.