But much more antagonistic are the Cambridge punks, who look like refugees from an Hieronymus Bosch painting, hanging around in the area once occupied by the aforementioned shell-hole. Even their habit of spray painting slogans like "Eat the Unemployed" and "Please kerb your God" on all available non-moving surfaces would be all right, if it were not for one unfortunate trait.
Certain members of their ranks, perhaps eager to prove their manhood in some heavy-metal courtship ritual, have the habit of inviting members of the Harvard community, myself included, to relatively unarmed combat. Seldom a week goes by without some Twisted Sister fan sneering "Lookin' sweet, babycakes," at me, or trying to slamdance me off of the sidewalk.
Maybe it is some particular curse attached to me, but it seems such challenges always come at the worst possible times--like when I am hurrying to turn in my thesis, or walking to lunch with a professor. Why can't someone once try to start something with me when I'm at a team dinner, or cleaning my gun? They must break into University Hall and read my exam schedules and deadlines, for these are the only times they choose to make their attacks.
They also seem to have a keen awareness of my wardrobe, for it is only on that one day each month that filial duty causes me to wear my mother's latest silk and sequine Polo gift that one of them jumps up in my face and demands $10.
HARVARD PEOPLE have developed a variety of defense mechanisms against such verbal and physical attacks, the most popular of which is backing down and saying "It means a lot more to them than it does to us." I don't believe such people as far as they could throw me; I know it means a lot to me to hear my mother's honor abused by a pimply teenage Satanist with hair like a chicken.
To be honest, there is no defense against the Square's punks, lunatics, friendly merchants, and vampires other than the one Harvard gives us--staying in our dorms.
Sometime long ago, deep in these ivy halls, the sages realized what they had assembled here was an army of Napoleons. There was no way they could expect such people to live together in the same Yard and same dormitories unless they found a way to keep them in. They had tried and failed with fences, but now they had a better idea. The next day, they brought in the first shipment of loud, tone-deaf street musicians, and let them loose in front of Johnson Gate.
You see, the terrors of Harvard Square fulfill a vital function for the University, one very much like that played by the swamps and crocodiles around Devil's Island. No matter how badly a prisoner or student may want to escape, five minutes outside the gate will have him screaming to get back in.