A vermin's journey through Yale bureaucracy

One morning, upon awaking from unsettling dreams, V. found him self transformed into a monstrous vermin. He lay on his hard, armor-like back, peering down upon his many frail legs and vaulted brown belly. "What's happened to me?" he wondered. "Just how much did I drink last night?" But it was no dream, and so V. decided to visit Yale University Health Services (YUHS) to investigate his condition.

Arriving at YUHS, he checked in with the secretary who advised him to take a seat with the others. At first, V. struggled to sit upright, eventually resolving to crawl beneath the coffee table. He thought about reading a magazine, but decided against it, not because his tiny limbs weren't up to the task but because the magazines all dated back to 1993. After a half hour or so, a short-haired woman emerged and directed him to the back room. He hopped up onto the examining table, and she flipped through some papers. "So," she said, "what seems to be the problem?"

"Well," he said with a slight chirping beneath his normal voice, "as you may have noticed, I woke up this morning to find myself changed into a giant cockroach." "And you've never exhibited these symptoms before?"

"No, never."

She flipped through her papers again. "Well, why don't we start with a pregnancy test?" The pregnancy test came back negative. "Well, I admit, I've never seen anything quite like this. Maybe we can try a medication." She wrote out a prescription for "20 Magic Green Pills." "So," she continued, "I want you to take this for the next two weeks and see if the problem persists. You might also think about seeing the people in mental hygiene, since it sounds like you're having some self-esteem issues. Otherwise, just let me know how it goes and I'll keep the doctor updated on your condition." "I thought that you were the doctor," V. replied.

"No, I'm a resident nurse."

"Do I ever get to see a doctor?"

"I'm sorry, the doctor only sees the most severe cases." She put her hand on his hard shell. "Don't worry, these things usually clear up on their own. I mean, it could be anything—stress, allergies, cold, flu, mono, syphilis, diet—maybe that's it. Are you eating enough?"

"Maybe not," he said. He was, after all on the 10-meal plan, which, while not entirely economically sound, still made more monetary sense than any other option. But, since his health was at stake, he crawled over to 246 Church St., that castle, the core of all Yale bureaucracy, home to Financial Services, the Student Employment Office, the ID Center, the Registrar, and Yale Dining Services (YDS).

When he finally reached the YDS office, however, V. was dismayed to learn that he was two days too late to change his meal plan. Still, he pleaded, "Can't you make an exception? There were no signs or emails or anything about the deadline."

The thin man behind the desk hesitated and said, "Well, I made an exception for some people yesterday, but two days late..."

"Why would you set a deadline if you were going to ignore it for some and not others?" The chirping in V.'s voice quickened with his agitation. "They all had valid reasons to warrant an exception," he explained.

"But I have a valid reason, too. You see, I woke up this morning to find myself transformed into a giant insect, and I'm afraid the problem may be dietary." "No," he said. V. sighed.

A long silence passed. Suddenly, the thin man leaned awkwardly across his desk and whispered, "Look, if you really want help, you should talk to the people upstairs at A.C.R.O.N.Y.M." "ACRONYM. What does that even stand for?"

"Oh, I don't know, the Association of something something Yale something. It's just very important that you speak to them. Your future could depend on it."

On his advice, V. left YDS and took the elevator to the top floor of 246 Church St. Sure enough, there it was at the end of a long hallway: ACRONYM. Gripping the knob in his mandibles, V. opened the door and entered.

All around the room, from floor to the ceiling, wall to wall, rose file cabinet after file cabinet. In a state of awe and confusion, V. walked further and further, only to realize he was trampling over countless files and forms strewn across the floor. On his hard stomach, V. could easily read it all—registration forms, applications, insurance papers, each labeled with a social security number. Every piece of paper that decided and defined a student's life at Yale was here, locked away in this single room, all of it blurring together.

Suddenly, a frail old man emerged from a larger stack of papers. His only job, it seemed, was to move files from one file cabinet to another. V. watched as the old man dropped a file to the floor without realizing it. "It could be anyone's file," V. thought, "even mine."

In sudden horror, V. tried to call out to him, but he could only release a terrible chirping, a shrill shriek of agony, as he realized he would never be human again.

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