Jim Mitchell received the phone call at the beginning of the school year. A frustrated mother was upset about her freshman daughter's room.
Mitchell listened to her concern and pledged to watch over the new student. When he hung up, he went back to work -- not as a counselor, not as an adviser, but as the mechanic for the Studebaker Complex.
"I've always enjoyed working with the students and the staff," Mitchell said. "It makes you stay younger to see freshmen come in and see their shining faces and see them mature. I've really loved it."
But now, after 30 years at Ball State, Mitchell has retired. On Friday, about 50 of his co-workers, friends and students honored him in his second home, Studebaker West.
Mitchell didn't want to retire, he said, but his health would have otherwise forced him into long term disability.
Mitchell has worked in the building since 1979, longer than any current worker, and nobody knows the building better, co-workers said.
"I think he knows more about the building than anyone," said co-worker Sharon Wyne. "That's the truth."
"There will be a big learning curve for somebody else," said Bob Jones, another of Mitchell's co-workers.
Yet, the students kept Mitchell at Ball State more so than the building, Mitchell said.
And he has the stories to prove it.
Once, a female student wanted to let her pet rabbit run around the floor of her room. Mitchell discouraged it and said it was dangerous, but the girl remained skeptical.
So Mitchell concocted a story about a vampire rabbit that would attack his victims' ankles. Mitchell warned the student that whenever she saw skiers wearing a cast, it wasn't because of an accident.
They were covering up the mark left by the vampire bunny's attack, Mitchell said.
To help convince her more thoroughly, Mitchell even carved a wooden rabbit, complete with fake teeth and a cape.
During another year, one student apologized to Mitchell about her unkempt room. Mitchell didn't mind her uncleanliness, but during Thanksgiving Break, he bought some cotton balls, painted them and glued eyes to them.
When the student returned, she found Mitchell's makeshift dust bunnies waiting for her under her bed.
"When she got back, she was ready to kill me," Mitchell said, laughing. "People say I got a weird sense of humor, but it works."
Mitchell did more than play jokes, though. He served as the students' unofficial representative when Ball State was renovating Studebaker West, said George Edwards, associate director of housing and residence life facilities.
Almost daily, Edwards said, Mitchell would call him up, lamenting how the contractors weren't working up to standards. He said Mitchell would just call him with ideas or advice.
Whatever the reason, Edwards said, Mitchell was always willing to do more than what was asked of him.
Amid the compliments and hugs Friday, Mitchell remained mostly quiet. As he finished his lunch, guests would come up with some advice, a friendly taunt and plenty of hugs -- probably similar to the same hug he received from the freshman's mother so long ago.
He pledged to watch over her daughter, and the hug was her way of saying thank you.
"It's all for the students," Mitchell said. "As long as you keep that in mind ... everybody seems to appreciate it."