The fact is simple: Jogues is not an ideal assignment for a RA at Fairfield University. It’s labyrinthine in nature. Its halls are narrow, winding and for the most part, devoid of pedestrians.
Those who do walk its corridors lumber more like the Minotaur than they stride like Theseus, and this is especially the case if one of them has imbibed a few. For those who must regulate the rogues of Jogues, it can be an unpleasant task. Anyone pulling on the bright red polo shirt of an RA in the most southwestern residence hall easily follows themselves up with an exasperated sigh.
Chris Staysniak, the senior RA in Jogues, has the solution to this: he wears a suit and tie instead. Add in a pair of RAF aviators and the brown-and-black beard stubble covering his narrow face, and his overall appearance doesn’t look all too different from an Israeli Don Johnson.
“It’s hard for things to get boring when you look this great,” he said.
Patrolling the hallways on a Friday night with a similarly-garbed Chris Mannion — they refer to their duty session as “Fancy Friday” — Staysniak takes his cues on authority from primetime television cop dramas. He kicks open the swing doors of each floor’s respective lounges and subjects the confused, residents he encounters to pat-downs.
“Sorry, guys. We have to do this with everybody,” he said, trying and failing to conceal a grin. “It’s the rules.”
The residents don’t run. In fact, they line up, even the ones who don’t know him. Standing at 6’1” and weighing in at 140 pounds, he’s not exactly a menacing figure. Some of the locals even go so far as to stick a single arm behind their backs, as if they have something worth concealing.
“What’s with the suits?” asks a resident wearing his baseball cap to the side. “Are you guys late for Prez Ball?”
“It’s more of a date for the two of us than anything else,” Staysniak said, gesturing to Mannion.
They get the same question on the next floor.
“I’m just trying to be cool, like you guys,” said Staysniak, “Have you heard anything from the other cool people?”
Following the same question on yet another floor, Staysniak looks down at himself.
“Hey, I am wearing a suit!” he exclaimed. “How did this happen!?”
He does this sort of thing a lot. Zach Tesoriero, 19, explains the first time he met his friend and orientation leader.
“My orientation group came across Staysniak … he was acting way too excited while throwing around a Frisbee by himself … he was giving 165 percent effort, and it just picked up the group’s energy so much,” said Tesoriero. “It had to, because otherwise he would have looked like an idiot.”
His wit doesn’t just show up out of the blue. A history major who finished his junior year with a 4.0, his duty shift gives him an intellectual authority over his residents. He’s as much their jester as he is their feudal lord. He likens his relationship to them as much.
“I’m here to make sure they have fun and don’t do anything catastrophic,” he said, sitting in his room. Music can be heard in the background as the clock nears midnight.
“It can be difficult sometimes,” he adds. “I mean, it’s Fairfield. There’s a lot of privilege around here and sometimes people around here act like they aren’t 100 percent aware of what life without consequences can be like.”
Now there are people singing along. Off-key.
Staysniak steps out into the hall. Each door in the wing was individualized by Staysniak with a Homer Simpson quote. The one on his own door reads, ‘You couldn’t fool your own mother on the foolingest day of your life with an electrified fooling machine.’ The one on the door before him, ‘I’m not an easily-impressed guy. Hey, look! A blue car!’
“I’m going to give them 10 minutes before I go on my next round. If they haven’t quieted down by then, I’ll break it up,” he said.
Ten minutes later, they’re quiet.
In nearly two months on the job, Staysniak has only written-up two people, and one of those guys had passed-out face-first in his own vomit. His leniency is greatest strength — or weakness, it depends who one asks. Mary McGrath, 21, another RA in the same residence hall, thinks more of the former than the latter.
“He genuinely cares about his residents … I’m so glad he’s my boss,” she says. “He’s got to be one of the best, most enthusiastic, most caring people I’ve ever met.”
His radio crackles.
“Hey people, it’s Tara. Let’s get a check-in … Jogues?”
“This is Chris, Tara. Just livin’ the dream.”
“Oh. Glad to hear it.”
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