By Elke Calhoun

Another sun sets across the ever-expanding Iowa skies. You rest contentedly on your post, satisfied after another long day of guarding your expanse of asphalt. Three people turned correctly down your avenue. You are satisfied; you have purpose; you are the High Street sign. 

Suddenly, you hear rustle, a bustle. From the bushes emerge three figures swathed in darkness and bright red Grinnell Men’s Basketball merch. You tense in all of your metallic glory. You have been THE HIGH STREET sign throughout living memory (since the 2021 derecho), and you are no fool to what happens to good upstanding signs when sportos come lurking.  

The surprisingly short interlopers cackle as they pull out miscellaneous, ominous, sign torture tools. One rubs his hands togethers and dances, kicking his little legs out in front of him in a most leprechaun-like manner.

“This is frickin’ dope!” They chortle as one as they saw at your base. “This campus will revere us!”

 You try to stay strong, but your post gives way to this menacery.

“Why do they do this to us?” you wonder desperately as they tug you from your lofty heights. “What did helpful signage ever do to Grinnell students?” 

You tumble into their awaiting arms. They laugh at your defeat and lift you high above their shoulders, chanting, “Block Auction” as they march you away from the only home you have ever known.  The world fades to black. You hope you never awake.

You come to, and a crowd is roaring in your ear. You are drenched in a sticky-sweet, pungent liquid (Fireball and Hawkeye, you later learn) and covered in mysterious brown hair clippings. You are dragged upright and come face-to-face with an audience of artistically-attired young adults, laughing sloppily and waving brightly colored numbers in the air.

 A blond man roars, “The next item for bid! THE High Street Sign! HUZZAH! Shots for all!” 

The rabble screams wordlessly, enmasses. A half-dozen identically dressed biyotches run crazedly through the crowd, pouring alcohol from various plastic handles onto the awaiting faces of random audience members. Again, the swarm swells with a cacophony of bloodthirsty hoots and hollers. 

You feel a shiver go down your post sign. You have never seen such debauchery nor such concerning anthropological behaviors. And you seem to be at the center of it all, in the middle of the semicircle as if some item for worship. 

An old man rattles off a series of rapid-fire numbers, too quickly for you to follow, but you sense, somehow, that your fate is in his hands. Your suspicions are confirmed when the crowd riots again and a young man rises to his feet amid raucous felicitations. He approaches then grips your post, raising you above his head. You realize—a stone in your metallic heart—that you will never again guard your beloved High Street. 

You will be mounted on the wall of a crumbling leased home, on Broad Street or perhaps Elm, doomed to an existence without life, death, or purpose—a silent witness to an endless cycle of all-campus parties and a rotating roster of slightly off-kilter Grinnellian boys. You will pray for the new High Street sign and desperately hope that it is spared the dread fate of Block Auction.