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Wednesday morning, a student at Brown University began the day with understandably high hopes. As an Ivy League student, a lacrosse player, and the owner of a brand-new pair of cargo shorts, Brett Lombardo had every reason to expect a continuous shower of approval and attention from those around him. But during a trip to the mailroom after Microeconomics in Solomon 001, a blunt blow to Brett's ego sent him spiraling into the depths of insecurity.
According to a friend of Brett's, who asked to remain anonymous, Brett was expecting a lot from this particular trip, talking it up after class: "Would he ignore an invitation to an ethnic dance show? Did his father finally send his monthly allowance? Was it yet time for the latest issue of FHM, or would he even hold a coveted blue card in his hands? Brett really laid it all out there on Wednesday." Observers on the main green recounted that "his eyes twinkled behind his Oakleys, ostensibly thinking of all that potentially lay ahead of him." One might imagine that nothing seemed impossible to this young man as he entered the mailroom, holding the door open behind him so it would not slam in the face of the sandaled girl half-running toward him with an overstuffed L.L. Bean backpack. He grimaced as she tripped on a flagstone, her iced latte slipping from her hand and draining into the cracks in the pavement.
Taylor Lilthe, Brett's unit-mate unseen since freshman year, was surprised that Brett noticed him on his way down the hall. Taylor recounts: "[Brett] said 'Taylor, man, what's up? How you been?' I looked up from my career services announcement and shuffled my Converse All-Stars as I replied, 'Oh, hi, uh. dude. I've been okay, you?' Then Brett said, 'Can't complain, you know? Hey, I gotta run - take it easy, bro.' I casually said 'For sure,' and strolled away with my attention apparently on the paper in my hand, yet still preoccupied with my own perennial virginity."
According to all in the mailroom at the time, Brett walked like a man with every expectation that the good times would just keep rolling. The shadows peeking through the window of his box had never yet failed to indicate the presence of something there, and Brett knew the combination by heart. C, just past L, he thought as he dialed it in. Catching the eyes of some tanned girls in sundresses near the trash bins, Brett flashed them a smile as he reached for the contents of his mailbox. His broad hand grasped at nothing but the solid wood sides of his box; Brett's heart dropped into his stomach. He reached deeper, desperate for something to grab onto, but alas, the world had failed him. He withdrew empty-handed to the jeers of all in sight. Closing his box with mute obliteration, Brett hung his head, calling upon the entirety of his will to stifle a flood of tears. On his way to the exit with nowhere to go, Brett struggled to push through a conga-line of men holding blue cards and could not continue, falling trampled beneath their feet.
