Late one evening, when I was living in Lister Hall (the third or fourth year), most of the denizens of our floor, Main Kelsey, were gathered in the lounge, watching a horror movie.
I wasn't one of them. I was in my room, probably playing a computer game or perhaps using my 1200 baud modem to read one of Edmonton's electronic BBSes - perhaps the USS Bonaventure, or Freedom. Perhaps I was even finishing some coursework. Whatever I happened to be doing, I was chugging down a Coke, and when I finished, I left my room, empty can in hand.
A large plastic trash can served as the floor's recycling bin. I saunted down the hall, not noticing how eerily quiet it was, nor how rapt was the attention of my friends upon the pale, glowing orb that was the television. No one noticed my unconsciously stealthy approach.
Without a thought, I tossed my empty soda can into the nearly full recycling bin - and the clatter of crashing cans was so loud, or perhaps so unexpected, that everyone in the lounge leapt upwards, shrieking as one, male and female alike, united in terror. My eyebrows popped up as I took a startled step backward, and everyone turned toward me, some holding their chests, others rolling their eyes in a mix of exasperation and relief. "Jesus CHRIST, Earl!" was a common refrain.
"Sorry," I muttered, retreating to my room. I never did ask which movie they were watching.