KIRLAND: A Dexter daydream

I walk by the Dexter Park apartment complex for the first time ever. As a proud inhabitant of Allston, I normally don’t ever head far enough south on Pleasant Street to gaze upon the wonder that is Dexter. I find myself slowing to a halt and realize that my mouth and eyes are watering. Normally, I would blame the bitter Boston cold for these occurrences, but I realize the tears and saliva spewing from my face have nothing to do with the weather.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my humble abode on Glenville Avenue, but seeing where the rich and powerful live (in terms of the Boston University social ladder) makes me break down. I start daydreaming about what it would be like to live in a place that costs me four figures a month. Do they furnish the place for you? Is there a bellman? How about complimentary soaps and lotions? Do maids come everyday at 11 a.m., softly tap on the door and politely whisper, ‘house cleaning?’

I love my apartment, but sometimes I think it would be nice to have walls that have been painted in the past five years, wood floors that were stained intentionally or have a kitchen straight out of an MTV ‘Cribs’ episode. Heck, a garage with a valet that I could afford would be fabulous. I have nowhere to park my ride. First, because the only open parking spots in Allston are, in fact, in Brighton. Second, my ‘ride’ is the T, and I doubt anyone would let me park that.

Yes, sometimes I think it would be very nice to live in the other world at BU. The world where you wake up to the soft tap of a woman saying, ‘house cleaning,’ head out to your car and roll up to the School of Management in your Range Rover singing ‘Whatever You Like’ along with T.I. The world where the marble steps at SMG are symbolic of the small step college is before inheriting a Fortune 500 company. The world where there is a Starbucks 100 feet from your brand new classroom.

Ah, I can almost smell the Grande hazelnut Mocachockafrapatino. Excellent. I don’t even like coffee. But this daydream smells too good, so I’ll drink the coffee. It keeps me awake until I leave SMG, hop back in the Rover, pump the Girl Talk on my iPod, and head back to Dexter.

After I get out of my shower (a glass one with a gold faucet that is worth more than some apartments in Allston) and get dressed in some fancy threads (that my mom didn’t pick out, but paid for) I am ready to pregame. I go to open my functional, non-smelly Dexter fridge to grab a cold one, and hey! Instead of Natural Ice and Keystone Lights, I am blinded by a powerful greenish glow. I see the broken reflection of my grin on the 24 Heinekens. Delighted, I decide to take a couple shots of Grey Goose with the crew before we leave.

We are finally out, and I set my coat (with the furry stuff on the hood) at my table at our hangout, Mantra. That Grey Goose must be working, because I can’t stop my body from twitching to the beats of DJ Fosheezie and his awesome techno mix. This guy’s the next best thing to Girl Talk. I find myself dancing (quite skillfully) with some cute girl, or excuse me,’ ‘fine’ biddy. Problem is she wants a drink. I go to the bar, get two Red Bull and vodkas and drop $40. Oh well. I drink up, keep dancing, and thank God for that credit card with no limit. No worries. I think all those shots of Grey Goose, Heinekens, and now Red Bull and Vodkas have gotten to me. The last thing I remember is break dancing . . .

Instead of waking up in my emperor-size bed in Dexter, I awake in the body of some crying loser with a watery mouth. The Dexter valet guy is staring at me like I am one of the homeless people back outside of the apartment building I actually live in. I better head back. It’s Friday and some buddies are coming over to play some Keystone Light-sponsored beer pong. We might make it out to a stupid party on Ashford, but probably not. I doubt anyone came by and whispered, ‘house cleaning,’ so I’d better head back and tidy up a bit.

I press next on my iPod Shuffle. ‘Live Your Life,’ by T.I. and Rihanna blares out of my earphones. I clean the tearstains under my eyes and wipe the saliva from my mouth. For some reason my spit tastes like a Grande hazelnut Mocachockafrapatino . . . yuck. I crack a smile as I walk away from Dexter. I never liked coffee anyway.