The pallets outside Publix are barren, and you feel disappointment every time you drive past Walmart; it’s a strange, unfamiliar feeling amidst the joy and appreciation you feel for the cheap toothpaste and chocolate the superstore provides you. You hear of countless events, pumpkin painting at the Barnes Center or a carving party with mechanical engineers, and every time a deep, burning anger brews up inside you at the thought that pretentious university faculty members are stealing the pumpkins that are rightfully yours.
Spooky season is almost over, and homework, exams and essays have beaten you down and attempted to stop your success. You have fought their mistreatment and spent many sleepless nights going over lab reports and PowerPoints, and you feel as if you deserve a reward for your hard work; just a small, rejuvenating break. Your break of choice? Creating a cute pumpkin decoration for your tiny, humble dorm room. So what’s the problem with that?
There are no pumpkins in Clemson.
Upperclassmen friends with cars have carted you from shopping center to shopping center, creating a large circle around campus and spiraling back and forth. Amazon has crossed your mind, but the delivery time added to the processing time at the mail center will surely result in a rotten pumpkin and disappointed tears. Your only option, you are sure, is to find a fresh pumpkin somewhere near campus.
Easier said than done, you realize as you meander through old country roads and the pristine aisles of superstores. Charlie Brown may have had a Great Pumpkin, but Clemson University only has the Great Pumpkin Shortage of 2018.
Eventually, you come to the realization that there are no pumpkins in Clemson, and you’ll never be able to add a spooky, adorable splash of orange to your already orange-coated room. It is tragic and terrible, and you constantly attempt to overcome your despair with Christmas music and the occasional pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks.
Such items are keeping you company as you walk along the back of Cooper Library only minutes after finishing a common exam. The latte is cold in your already frozen hands (winter’s unexpected arrival in the middle of October was not appreciated), and “Jingle Bells” is a cheerful tune in your ears, slowly driving away your post-exam gloom.
Shadows dance along the edges of the Watt Center and, in the distance, you can hear the chatter of the students walking on Library Bridge. You prefer this secluded, quiet pathway though. Not only is it less crowded, but the large grates usually blow out warm air. The heat is welcome and appreciated, and you are in the middle of the second and warmest grate when a knocking sound halts you in your path.
The third grate, only a few feet in front of you, begins shaking and the knocking sound grows louder; your knees begin to knock together in response. The edge of the grate rises up, just slightly, until a shape can just fit through the gap. It appears to be a hand, shrouded in shadows, and after a second it cocks a finger and beckons, breaking your frozen trance.
“The tunnels,” you whisper, awed and fairly certain you just shit yourself. They are the best and ultimate myth of Clemson, kept awesome by their mystery and legal consequences, and it is clear that these grates act as one of the entrances to the legends. And now, something in the tunnel is telling you to come closer. Your frazzled, exam-addled mind comes to a decision quickly, and it is far from being the correct one.
You pause “Jingle Bells” with thirty seconds left in the song and approach the entrance to the tunnels.
Even as you get closer, the rest of the being remains hidden, invisible in the darkness. The hand remains sticking out of the grate though, and it thoughtlessly drums its fingers on the concrete. Bizarrely, you are reminded of Sharpay from the first “High School Musical” and her manicured, pink nails.
The being then speaks, its voice smoother and not at all as raspy as you were expecting. You’re almost disappointed.
“You want a pumpkin?” it asks, and your pumpkin spice latte grows sour in your mouth.
Yes, you realize; you do want a pumpkin, and no amount of Christmas music nor Starbucks coffee will change that fact. There are no substitutions for pumpkin decorations during Halloween, and if stores around Clemson won’t give you a pumpkin, you’ll get your own goddamn pumpkin.
“Yes, I do,” you say confidently. The hand gives you a thumbs-up, then the grate slowly rises until the gap is big enough for you to fit through. You slurp the rest of your latte, chuck it at a nearby trash can and tighten the straps on your bookbag. Images of round, orange beauties dance in your mind, and with no hesitation, you jump into the tunnels.
You’ll get your beloved pumpkin, but no else will see it nor you ever again.