Коллаж-стол в кооперативе: как социалистический эксперимент 80-х научил автора ценить личную ответственность

Hail to Marx! Well, the Marx Brothers, at least. The other well-known Marx was a smelly freeloader who abhorred bathing and paying rent. Sorta like the college co-op housemate who stole my beer back in the early 1980s. One of the moochers and pilferers I referenced last week. Moochers and pilferers are one thing in a co-op, but they’re a far more dangerous proposition in the political realm, where power and money are the ultimate end game. As I’ve come to find out, there’s more than a six-pack of Labatt Blue at stake. Lots more. But kids today, am I right? And the folks for whom Woodstock never ended, too. Not only should they have avoided the brown acid, but also the brown, muddy dullness of the “what’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine” schtick so popular and on the rise today. Co-op life gave me a life lesson I’ll never forget. True, one of my housemates was an anomaly cast into the organic granola, hippy wannabe lifestyle of sex, drugs, rock and roll, and so-called sharing is caring. This guy actually liked Reagan, loved Sinatra, and preferred scotch over beer and other youthful party favors. He also helped me understand who the really good guys were in the Cold War, and, more importantly, who the real bad guys were. And he understood economics and human nature. He took me to see Sinatra in the winter of 1982, and I repaid him by taking him to see Eric Clapton and the Fabulous Thunderbirds that spring. Later, after escaping co-op life that summer, I also took him to see Sinatra again in the Windy City, where my girlfriend and I had relocated. For every person like this guy, there were 25 or more content with living in squalor rather than lifting a finger to clean, cook, or otherwise render our environment habitable by early 1980s’ standards. The socialist microcosm of co-op living was affordable, but the downsides were plentiful in an environment that exemplified the tragedy of the commons. Granted, it’s not entirely Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, but it’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Since this fish wrap lands on doorsteps and laptops at breakfast time, I’ll spare readers the details of what a common co-ed bathroom shared by 40 people looked and smelled like when one person skipped the scheduled twice-weekly cleanups. Unfortunately, lotsa people regularly skipped their “Spiro” duty, so named after Nixon’s first vice president. It all resonated with the ant-versus-grasshopper vibe. Eventually, I was given responsibility for editing the MSU Student Housing Corporation’s weekly newsletter and served one term as co-op president. For this last appointment, I was deemed qualified. However, I wasn’t considered a strong choice for party-planning chairperson in another election. I can’t recall the vote tally, but I recall thinking at the time that I was trounced. Funny, I could be trusted to edit newsletters and run weekly house meetings, but not to tap a keg and put together party tapes (for the record, I made great party tapes because I had an extensive music library). The loss still stings, but it shows a certain swath of college kids prioritized presumed party-planning skills above overall leadership abilities. I doubt it’s any different today. Still, it’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness. Walking into the filth we called a kitchen one evening, I decided to clean it despite not being my designated job. As I was washing dishes, the person who was supposed to be cleaning the kitchen wandered in and offered tips on how I could be performing his job more efficiently. When I offered him the dishrag I was using, he demurred. I’m pretty sure, although I can’t prove it, he was the same hombre who swiped my beers. Bruce Edward Walker ([email protected]) is a Morning Sun columnist.