As the orange October sun began to set across the flat pale concrete of Claremont McKenna College, long early evening shadows and an eerie silence cloaked the muted campus. Beneath the autumn glow, Tristan Paul, CMC ‘21 arrived at his room in Green. Following a fruitful day of afternoon classes and 4 pm beer pong, he was ready for a Man Nap™ before dinner.
Prior to reaching his bed, Tristan caught the silhouette of a dashing figure in the corner of his right eye. The lights were off, he was still feeling the buzz that comes from sucking at beer pong, so he mistook his own reflection for someone else in his room.
At first, he thought it might be his roommate.
“Matt, bro, is that you?”
Tristan turned to his instincts. Now, a lofty Sophomore, he knew too well the muscle memory drilled into every CMCer by week five: when seeing someone who looks even moderately powerful, introduce yourself (name, where you’re from, why you love PPE, what genre of hedge fund your father manages, what protein shake you think goes best with a cold Natty, how many golf tournaments your caddy has driven you around in, Supreme or Diplo, and Accenture Mammi or Deloitte Daddi). So that’s what Tristan did. A swift pivot of the feet, a flick of the wrist and–
He went in for a Power Shake (a handshake meant to exert dominance by squeezing just hard enough to make the ~beta~ feel pain). There was one big problem with Tristan’s plan, mirrors don’t shake hands. Tristan slammed his hand full-force into the mirror, and it definitively won the power shake. The mirror remained intact, Tristan’s dignity did not.
No word as of late on how he’s doing. According to the family, that was his Spikeball hand.