Archives: May 14-May 20, 2006

May 14, 2006

It's pretty slow at the Front Desk today. I get the feeling there are a lot of people who went out last night, and that a lot of them are still sleeping off the effects of it. Hell, I got up just in time to make it downstairs for my shift, leaving Dave still asleep in his bed.

When my RA, Barry, visits me at work today, there isn't the usual small talk. Instead, he sits on a corner of the desk, and speaks lowly. At first I think he's mad at me. But if he is, he doesn't show any signs of it when he speaks. “Is Dave all right?”

Barry wrote up Dave last night. I can't really blame him. Dave wasn't just smoking cigarettes, or even weed last night. When he came back into the party, he was freaking out. “What the fuck's going on?” he screamed at me, grabbing me by the collar. Veronica and I tried to calm him down, sitting him in a corner, getting him still, trying to talk to him. He was being loud enough that everyone heard him. Mike came over to see what was going on, and we started to get an audience.

I don't know what happened to Josephine, or Dave's other friends. Before long, though, Mike, Veronica and I were half-carrying Dave back to the dorm. He was getting me worried, asking if we were lost before we'd even made it off the street we were partying on. He would trip over himself anytime we let him go a little bit, and yell at no one in particular. “You sure we should be bringing him home?” Veronica asked at last.

“What, you want to go back to the party with him?” Mike asked, stooped so he was under one of Dave's arms.

“I'm thinking he should be in a hospital. I don't know what he was doing, but this is serious.”

“You send him to a hospital and you're spelling consequences for him,” Mike said. “Word's going to get back to the college and he's not gonna be going to school here next semester.”

“That's better than having him die or something.”

“He's not going to die,” I broke in, not sure of it, but sure that I didn't want to bring him to a hospital—didn't want to admit he was in that bad shape.

I had hoped to spend the night with Veronica. We all agreed that I shouldn't be leaving Dave alone, though, and I understood Veronica's hesitation to spend the night under the circumstances. So, she parted ways with us when we hit Main Street .

It seemed like Dave was going to be all right, until we got in building. As if on cue, he fell from our arms, flopping on the ground. Barry happened to be right there.

“Yeah,” I say, looking away from Barry. “I think he's all right.” Dave fell asleep when we got to the room, and I took that to be a good sign. He was snoring all through the night and into the morning.

“Because I know he wasn't just drunk,” Barry says. “I wrote him up for intoxication because he could pass for that—but I know there was more to it than that. Preston , do you know what he was on last night?”

I still can't look at him. “He went off with his friends. I don't know what they were up to, but the next time I saw him—he was pretty fucked up.”

“You should talk to him,” Barry says. “I'm gonna talk to him, but there's only so much I can say. You're his roommate. You're his buddy.”

“I know.”

“ Preston , this is serious. I saw how worried you were last night. If you care about him, you have to tell him about that. You have to tell him he scared you.”

“But it's not like he's done something like this before,” I say. “I mean, yeah, we drink sometimes, and I know he's smoked pot. But this is the first time there's been something like this.”

“Which makes it all the more important that you make sure it's the only time. You're good guys, and I don't want to see this get out of hand. Just promise me you're gonna talk to him.”

I nod. “I will.”

Barry pats my shoulder and heads out.

May 15, 2006

I stop in the English department office to pick up mine and Dave's final exams. Dave seems better—he was up and out of bed for a few hours last night, and we talked some. Still, he hasn't left the building besides stepping out to smoke a handful of times.

I fetch the exams from Jones's mailbox, to find I pulled an A, and Dave an A-, which makes me question whether all my time spent actually reading the texts, and writing thoughtful responses on my test were worth it for a half-a-grade difference. Still, it's over. And I only have one final remaining, tomorrow afternoon, before I'm through for the year. With that in mind, it's harder to split hairs.

“Mr. Burns,” I hear the unmistakable voice of Jones from behind me. I've never visited his office before, and it's not until this instant that I realize I'm standing right outside his door. “Come in here for a second.”

I step inside. There's a bluesy melody playing from the little boom box next to his desk. His walls are lined with shelves upon shelves of books, but between them hang a strange assortment of posters—one advertising a Shakespeare festival, one for Fight Club , a black and white one of Bob Dylan playing his guitar. “Have a seat,” he goes on.

I do, still looking around me.

“You did well in my class. You should be proud of that. I don't have a lot of freshmen who do.”

“Well, my roommate—Dave—he and I sort of survived it together.”

“Something tells me you did more to help him survive than he did for you,” Jones says. “Tell me, did he read any of the books I assigned? And it's okay to tell the truth—I've already put in his grade for the course.”

I shake my head. “Na—maybe a few pages, but that's all.” Jones laughs, and so I do too. “So, if you knew he wasn't reading, why did you still give him good grades?”

“I know he's not an English major. And while, if he had read the texts for himself, he would have gotten more out of the class, I'm not a proponent of making someone take a class they don't want to take.”

“Well to be fair, I think he did enjoy the class,” I volunteer.

Jones smirks. “And his papers and comments in class were probably most the original ones I had this year—which, to go back to your first question, is why he was successful in the class.” Jones shifts, putting a foot up on the desk. “But you are an English major, correct?

“Yes I am.”

“Well good. You had good comprehension, and I could tell you had read the books. That's going to serve you well.”

“Well I hope so,” I say lamely.

“What are you doing for the summer?”

“Going back home. Gonna try to find a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“One that pays.” I chuckle. Jones is more serious now.

“You were one of my better students this year, so I'm going to offer you some unsolicited advice. What you do in the classroom, or working with the newspaper while you're at school—that's all very important. But it's also important to think about what you do with your own time. That's going to matter every bit as much five, ten years from now. And anyone can flip hamburgers at McDonald's. You should be doing better than that.”

“I know that.” I nod. “I know with an English major, it's going to be competitive trying to find a job when I graduate—”

“But that's only half of it,” Jones cuts me off. “What you do with your summer—it gives you a chance to experience something, to do something completely different, or to work on a project. It's important to build your resume, Preston . But what I'm reminding you to do is to keep building your life.”

May 16, 2006

I'm tired. Leaving my last final in the mid-afternoon, my head aches from thought. I'm tired from staying up the night before, and I'm not sure what to do with my mind, now that I'm no longer cycling through all of the useful facts I was keeping straight for the test.

I feel good, though. Despite the fatigue, the relief of a semester done is running through me. I can sleep for a week if I so choose.

Or at least I will be able to sleep once I get home. The plan is for my dad to come here Thursday afternoon. We'll load up the car once again, so we can't see out any of the back windows.

Dave, however, is leaving today. I come into the room to find him in the same state he was in when I left, garbage bags filling up with crumpled papers, boxes filling up with books, CDs and clothes. There isn't much method to how Dave puts things away.

“It's amazing how much crap you learn how to fit into such a tiny little room over the course of a year.”

I chuckle. “Guess it's a good thing we'll have a common room next year.”

“Yeah, guess we can spread the wealth in the suite, and leave Mike to clean up all the crap afterwards.”

I pick up the foam ball and toss it underhanded into the plastic hoop on the back of our door. It's a wonder the thing has stayed up for this long, after this much abuse.

“We had a pretty good year, huh?” I ask, picking up the ball again and squeezing it in my hand.

“Yeah, not bad.” Dave says, starting to peel a poster from the wall.

“So who's coming to get you today?”

“Funny you should ask. It's actually Ellie—my little sister.”

“Little sis has her license?”

“Just got it a couple weeks ago. Folks didn't waste any time pushing the five hour drive on her.”

“They let her cut school for it?”

“There had to be something in it for her,” Dave says, gathering the sticky tack that held up his poster into a little ball. “Though I gotta say I'm a little hesitant to ride shotgun with her. I mean she's my little sister for chrissake.”

“You could always drive.”

“Fuck that, I'm sleeping.”

I'm glad to see Dave up and joking. He was out of the room yesterday, so I knew he was doing all right enough to go out. Still I haven't been sure about him since Saturday night. I start thinking about what Barry said to me a couple days ago about talking to Dave, trying to help him out.

“So the other night—things got pretty fucked up, huh?” I ask.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“So you're doing all right now?”

Dave looks over his shoulder at me. “Yeah, buddy. Just had a bad trip.”

“So what were you doing?”

Dave smiles, rolling up the poster. “Don't sweat it, Preston . I learned my lesson in a big way the other night.”

“And what lesson would that be?”

“That I gotta be a little more careful. I've been going around like I'm invincible or something. And as I found, and you saw Saturday night, there's some scary shit out there. So don't worry about it—I'm gonna be more careful now.”

“Well all right.” I say, tossing the ball through the hoop again. “So you setting up the hoop in your room for the summer?”

“Heh—I don't know. Sort feels like the hoop belongs here. I'll probably end up putting it up somewhere though, for something to do.” Dave sets the poster aside, and walks up to the hoop. “Tell you what, either way it's coming back with me next year. Just like you'd better bring back the trophy.”

I look at our first place trophy from the basketball tournament. Gold colored and nearly four feet tall, it's a pretty impressive thing, despite the dust we've allowed to gather on it over the last month. “You're gonna let me take the trophy?”

“It's not like I'm going to take both.” Dave says, beginning to pull the hoop's suction cups loose from the door. “Besides it's just a few months.”

It is just a few months. It's sad looking around the room, Dave's posters down, his notebooks hanging out of open boxes. I've already started packing my things too. Somehow, the move feels a lot more permanent than a few months. But then, Taylor College is more home than my dad's place in Shermantown now. Shermantown's just a place to go for vacation time and holidays.

I'm going to miss this room.

May 17, 2006

My rooms all packed up in boxes and suitcases. I've drawn the shades and am spending this last night away from Smith Hall, over on Main Street with Veronica.

She bakes a lasagna for the two of us and uncorks a bottle of wine. Half of Veronica's apartment is packed up. Her dad is coming to town to pick up some of her stuff tomorrow. Then she's going to hang around through the weekend, before driving home with what she has left. She already has her kitchen chairs stacked in a corner, so we sit side by side on her loveseat at the little kitchen table, shorts on skirt, calf against calf, bare feet rubbing against each other from time to time. We talk about the way finals wrapped up and what we'll do over the summer. I talk about visiting her, and she smiles.

After dinner, we move her loveseat so it's back in front of the TV, and pop in a DVD. We're still working on the wine.

Neither of us pay much attention to the movie. She's sitting between my legs, back against my chest. She'll turn and kiss my cheek, or I'll start rubbing her back. Then we talk.

“Ask me something,” she says.

“What do you want me to ask you?”

“Anything.”

I get the sense there is something she wants me to hit at. There are a lot of things I could ask her—so much that we still don't know about one another. For no apparent reason, my mind turns where, on some level, I know it shouldn't. “Who was your last boyfriend?”

“That would be Jimbo from the Sidewinders,” she says, leaning her head back against my shoulder.

“Ah right.”

“Now that was a mistake.”

“Really?”

“You saw what the ass did at competition, trying to sabotage our set.”

“So it was a bad break up?”

“It was a bad relationship. He was always—he was always doing things.”

“Things like what.” I notice I'm gripping her arm a little more tightly than I had before and ease off a little.

“He was just always freaking out about something. And at first I liked it. When we first met it was after a competition and he had found one of the judges and was arguing about how The Sidewinders had placed. And he was passionate and smart—and funny even. But then I found out that he would argue about anything. And for the next eight months, that's what happened between us. I'd listen to him yell at me, and I'd pick shards out of the carpet after he'd break something.”

I don't really know what to say. I just think of how I'm really starting to hate this guy. “Sounds like a real asshole.”

Veronica sighs. “He had good intentions a lot of time. He'd just get worried when he didn't see me, or if I didn't return a call. But he did some good things.”

“Like what?”

“Last year—I used to—” Veronica clears her throat. “I used to be kind of anorexic.” She sits up a little, moving away from me, her back becoming rigid. “It's not something I usually talk about.”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried,” I say. “I mean, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But, you know, I'll listen if you do.”

She looks straight ahead. “Well I'm not gonna give you the whole history. But, it's just a thing I had going on. It's something I still think about sometimes—I don't know why. But Jimbo—he called me on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he noticed. He noticed what I was eating and what I was doing. He noticed that, whenever we stayed at my place, I weighed myself before I went to bed. And then he smashed the scale.”

“He smashed the scale?”

She laughs quietly. “He would have good intentions. He saw I had a problem, and that was the best way he knew how to deal. He threw the scale on the ground, and he smashed chair over it. Totally busted it, and I haven't bought a new one since.”

I don't know what to say or do. How do you react to something like that? Veronica makes it easier though, leaning back against me. “Sorry, kind of heavy stuff.”

“No, don't be sorry.” And the funny thing is, as much as I don't know what to do, I realize in that instant, that that's all right. She's not expecting an answer from me. And in that instant I just appreciate that I know her that little bit better. Anyone who passes by Veronica can see her pretty face, can hear the sound of her voice. Tonight, when she turns to kiss me, I can see the little dark rings beneath her eyes—marks of weariness, battle scars. I can hear where voice comes to the edge, just about to break.

The only regret I have is that this is the last night we'll get to spend together for a while.

“So how about you and Emma?” Veronica says, nestling her head into my chest. “How did you two get together?”

May 18, 2006

I was just home a few weeks ago. There's something different about coming home this time—a sense of permanence to it. This time, I won't be home for a week or a month, but a whole season. That's long enough to break down any sense of separation between myself and Butterton. It's home again, and I'm living with my dad again, leaving my college life behind.

I think about Veronica. I think I'm going to miss her a lot.

In my father's Oldsmobile, there's no room to move. My year is packed up in this car, suitcases full of clothes, my little cube refrigerator, the textbooks I kept. I sit with my laundry basket, in my lap, filled with my sheets, pillows and comforter from my college bed. There's no where else to fit everything.

Matt's already home. I look forward to hanging out with him, just unwinding. I imagine that that's when the feeling of a summer break will really set in—when we're hanging out watching mid-afternoon TV at his place, air conditioner cranked to its highest setting. Or when we head on back to the park and shoot hoops with all of the people we would only spend time with in the context of a basketball game.

I'll have to find a job. Especially as the summer draws on, and Matt leaves to work as a camp counselor, I'll need something to keep me occupied.

I recall Dad saying something about all this sometime between my high school graduation and going to Taylor for the first time. He said everything would change once I went to college, and I could never come home and have things be the same as they once were. Back then, I was caught between the excitement of going to college for the first time, and a sense of loyalty to the high school friends I'd just graduated with. I listened to him, but wasn't too concerned—figuring I'd make my new friends and still have the old ones, and wouldn't have much problem being either place.

As the highway stretches out in front of us, I think of the people I've already fallen out of touch with, and how much my life has changed.

It's impossible to see out the back windshield—blocked by all the stuff of a year at college. There's no looking back.

May 19, 2006

“Don't get me wrong—Debbie O. was hot. Had that whole dark-skinned Italian thing you know I go for,” Matt says. “But when you're talking full body, sexy girl, Sherrie Wheat has her beat, hands down.”

“How do you figure?” I ask, turning my eyes from the TV at last to face Matt.

“Bigger chest, longer legs. I'd even say prettier face,” Matt says, reaching into the bag of chips between us.

We sit in Matt's living room. It's not quite hot enough to be cranking the AC yet, but we have both the windows in the room open wide open, and can hear the birds chirping outside. It's a beautiful day, but we're staying put on the couch, chowing down on junk food, watching TV neither of us cares about, talking about some of the stupidest topics on earth, including but not limited to a debate of who the hottest girl was from our graduating class.

“Gonna have to agree to disagree on that one,” I say. I feel a little disloyal to Veronica for talking about this, even though I get weird sense she wouldn't care, and if she was here, she would probably ask to see a yearbook so she could join in the discussion.

“I'm out of Dew,” Matt says, shaking his empty soda can. “Your turn.”

With a groan, I lurch out of my seat and make my way back to kitchen to get us each another drink.

May 20, 2006

Today, Matt and I sit on the back porch at my place, sipping iced tap water, and looking out on yard behind my house. I never really appreciated this spot until senior, or maybe junior year of high school when I first started sitting here. I imagine it was a more interesting view in my younger days—back when my mother kept up her flower garden, or further back, before the old swing set my brother and I used to play on got so rusted out, and my father finally uprooted the thing and set it out on the curb.

“You gonna get a job?” Matt asks, before launching a loogie over his sandaled feet on the railing, out onto the grass below.

“Yeah, I've got to find something. I figure in a few days I'll start going around to stores and stuff, maybe restaurants, pick up some applications.”

“You know, I hear McDonald's is always hiring.”

“I'm not doing that shit,” I say, taking a drink, swallowing a three-quarters melted piece of ice. “I'm in college now. College means not having to do jobs like that.”

“Gotta make that money, though.”

“What I should have done was gotten a job like yours. Play with kids all day, pocket a couple grand for the summer.”

Matt shrugs. “It's not a bad gig. Month off then off for fun in the sun with the kids.”

“Don't know what I'm gonna do here once you're gone.”

“Eh, the other guys are still going to be here. ‘Bout time we look up all them.”

“Yeah, I told Chang I'd call him when I got back in.”

“Presto-Chango, back in action.”

“You know I hate that.”

“That's what makes it funny.”

I shake my head, downing what's left of my glass. “I've gotta find something to do with this summer.”