Phobia Embraces Tech, Zoom Bombs History Department

Phobia Embraces Tech, Zoom Bombs History Department

Bryce Murray ‘20 Staff Writer

Call me Neo. I, Phobia, transcended this ghoulish realm and entered the virtual.

The firewalls of myCC shook before my barbaric yawp and crashed. I was the 404 error code, the loading circle to YouTube lectures, the email attachment of unsupported file type.

Yet, enthralled with power, I stumbled upon a sight whose memory forces me to curl into a fetal position and whisper “the horror”: the history department Zoom meeting.

It was a dark and stormy night, and the distant chatter from classic baseball games could be heard through the microphone of Mr. Rumberger.

“Alright,” Mr. Peck began, “I just wanted to start out by saying…”

“Hey, Mr. Peck. Nice thighs.” They had added the wrong Dan Anderson, and he had posted the link to his story.

Dozens of students started to join in. Nick Augustine: “Ay, who tryna play Mr. Casey’s Crazy Carts?”

Gavin Nafso: “Hey, guys, it’s beastmode90. Smash that like button and join notif gang.” Bashar Jawich: “GEEEEEEEEEEE!” Mr. Wilson: “Craig, do something!” Mr. McMichael: “Give me time. Geewhiz! They keep coming!” Blaine Marks: “Do you think I’m more of a ketchup or a mustard kind of guy?” Diego Fernandez: “Neither. You’re sriracha. You’ve got that spicy side.” Blaine Marks: “I think I’m more of a mustard guy.” Kevin Downs: “Where am I?” I was thrilled. Mr. Magni was mumbling “13” over and over like it was a Hail Mary. Someone had broken into tongues. As if exorcising a spirit, another yelled with great authority, “Go Magic!”

“BRRRING!” A cacophony erupted from Mr. Herman.

“Pew, pew. Brring! Pew, pew, pew. Badump.

Wa-wa.”

All else was quiet on the western front. The bells from Mr. Herman’s pinball machine were a testament to his mastery. He knew when to press every nook and cranny, and how — a gentle tug on a ball launch now, a quick tap at the flipper button. He drew music from that hunk of rusted steel and carcinogenic paint. He was the Paganini of pinball.

Students and staff alike wept. So enthralled at just the noise, they forgot why they had joined the Zoom call.

Mr. Herman’s black icon, it ate at all of us — a lust for an image of the man at his machine. We imagined beyond the empty allure.

Even now, weeks after we eventually did pull ourselves from his sirens’ song, we search for it — in the darkness after first dreams, in a distant tintinnabulation.