A ROLLING STONE
The Secret Life of Mrs.C.
By The Phantom
Undercover Guy
The mailroom. For some of us,
it's our only connection with
home. For others, it's the social
spot of Guilco; a place to be seen
and to see others. And, for a
select few, it's a place to pick up
trash. But whatever our reasons
for venturing down into the dark
depths of Founders basement to
these endless banks of usually
empty metal boxes, we've all
come to depend on Queen of the
Mailroom, Mrs. C., always cheer
ful, always helpful, and always
there when we need her. Or is
she? Look closely one day and
you'll notice that you never see
her before 10:00 or after 5:00.
And, just what goes on when the
plywood window closes at 1:00
and stays that way until 2:00.
What about weekends. We all
know that we get our mail on
Saturday, but has anyone actual
ly seen Mrs. C on a Saturday?
Why is this? This reporter, in a
daring undercover assignment,
has discovered the secret life of
Mrs. C. What follows here is fact;
sometimes touching and
sometimes shocking, but always
revealing.
It began one Friday morning.
Hidden in a mailbag provided by
the Guilfraudulent, I sat behind a
stack of Time magazines and
waited. Suddenly, the door slam
med open and in strode Mrs. C.
She glanced around quickly and
pulled a small portable radio and
spoke into it.
"C. to control," she said.
"Go ahead, C.," came back the
instantly recognizable voice of
Bob White.
"Security file /197-FT," she
replied. "Three illegally parked
cars in the Bryan fire lane, and
there's an unpetitioned party in
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the Pines tonight."
"Thanks C.," came back Bob's
voice. "Over and out."
It was unbelievable. Mrs. C.
was an undercover Guilco securi
ty guard. There was more
though. She switched frequencies
and again spoke into the radio.
"C. to bookstore," she said.
"Bookstore here," came back
the voice of proprietor Dee
Desantos.
"President Marcos called last
night," she said. "The campaign
is going badly and he needs more
finances. He wants you to jack up
the prices some more, about
150%."
"Roger C., was the answer.
"Over and out."
The next day this reporter pur
chased a five subject spiral
notebook in the Guilford College
Bookstore for $7.49 (tax included)
and, along with hundreds of other
Guilco students, unknowingly
helped prop up a crooked govern
ment in the Philippines.
Suddenly there was a knock on
the door. A swarthy man stepped
in, carrying a large package.
"That the stuff," asked Mrs. C.
"Yeah," the man replied with a
heavy accent. "Real quality too.
Worth over a cool million out on
the street."
"Chuck it over by that
mailbag," she said. "I got the
dough in my car. C'mon."
They both left and I jumped out
of the mailbag. What was she up
to now? I opened the carton and
found it crammed with an all-too
familiar looking leafy green
plant. Mrs. C. was trafficking
black market Communist
rutabagas. But to who? Before I
could answer, footsteps sounded
outside. I dove back into the
mailbag and Mrs. C. walked up
with Doug Gilmer. Doug handed
her an envelope stuffed with cash
and his eyes lit up when he saw
the rutabagas.
"Ooh baby," he whistled. "This
is gonna make me a rich man."
"Freeze, sucker!" shouted
Mrs. C., whipping out a pistol and
a badge. "VEA (Vegetable En
forcement Agency), you're under
arrest." Two police officers step
ped in, handcuffed Doug and led
him away.
By this time, students were
starting to check their mail and
Mrs. C. opened the window and
said hello to everybody and sold
them stamps. If they only knew.
Eventually 1:00 rolled around
and Mrs. C. shut down for lunch.
Before she left, though, she
unlocked a back door and shouted
something into the room. A ragg
ed man in chains stepped out. She
undid his chains, leaving one at
tached to his leg and the other to
a water pipe.
"O.K. buster," she said, "I'm
going to lunch and you better
have all of these Wall St. Journals
in the boxes by the time I get
back or there's gonna be hell to
pay."
She left and as I sat there wat
ching this guy, I got the strange
feeling that I had seen him
somewhere before. Then it hit
me. I stepped out of the bag and
said "Aren't you Ken Schwab?"
He looked up at me, very slow
ly, and said "Yes."
"I thought you were in South
Carolina," I said.
He sighed. "That's what
they're saying," he said. "In fact,
they haven't the slightest idea
where I am. The truth is I stumbl
ed upon Mrs. C.'s activities here
and she hasn't let me leave. I
need your help. Tell everybody
what Mrs. C. is really like and get
me out of here."
"Who would believe me," I ask
ed.
C
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Page 4
Guilfraudulent -
Photo by Rolf Orsuffh
April i, 1986
4