Are Transfer Students Taking Over?
by Adrian Bonenberger '02

Getting into Yale is hard, but getting into Yale as a transfer student? That’s absurd. These days, though, it seems like these supermen and women are everywhere. Who are they? Why are there two of them in my entryway? And why are they living together? My guess is they’re part of a team, sent here by our enemies.

Thanks to a careless secretary in SSS, I was able to acquire a list of all the new transfers. Some I had known about before; others were new to me, like “Merriwether, Clancy F. III” and “Atkins, Elizabeth.” These were names that conjured pictures of future world leaders, with chiseled good looks hiding both their fanatical drive to succeed, and their cold, calculated ruthlessness. In journalism, it’s not enough to go on vague hunches; you’ve got to back them up with painstaking research. Or random sampling.

Elizabeth’s name is the first on the list; she’s home, but it takes three calls before she picks up. “Look, I told you, not tonight. I’ve got too much work to do.” Unfortunately for Elizabeth, it’s not who she expected, but the Yale Record! She feigns ignorance. “I don’t know who you are, but this place is kicking my ass; if I don’t study I won’t pass my French test.” Of course, she won’t pass her French test, because there is no French test. The whole thing is obviously a lie. I can’t hear her over the dial tone now, and the lady who comes on next is no help at all.

Steve Zlotsky is a lot friendlier. “I thought I wanted a smarter student body, but here everyone’s way more intelligent than me.” I smile to myself at his naiveté, then frown when he explains that he’s failed every assignment he’s gotten. “Originally I was going to double major in History and English, but I just sort of play video games instead. You’re the first person to call me in two weeks,” says Zlotsky. His ignorance is convincing, I’ll give him that much. He probably said more after I accidentally hung up, but I can’t say for sure.

If Steve was friendly, Clancy is downright forthcoming. He too insists he has been studying for a French test. “What else would I be doing?” laughs Clancy, “Spying for the administration?” I gasp as all the facts tumble into place. The unreliable phone system, the sudden popularity of French, my malfunctioning ID card. I laugh cautiously, prompting him to continue. “Our objective,” Clancy chortles, “is to root out subversives. You know—radicals, free thinkers. So far, we’ve established that their base is in the Morse dining hall.” At this point, the devious brilliance of their plan hits me in full and it’s all I can do to muffle my tears of resignation.Choking, I ask what role Elizabeth Atkins plays in all of this. “Atkins?” he muses, “She’s hot.”

I don’t know who sent them, or why they’re doing this, but one thing is clear: we haven’t got a chance. As for me, I’m transferring.