My walk from Italian to Analysis of Police Organizations brings me through a crowd of library patrons and students looking for a lunch break across University Avenue. Every type of person walks through this passage; I can bump into a PIKE headed to MVP Sports Bar while overhearing the nasal singing of the Hare Krishnas. Today I recognized a guy walking in my direction, but I couldn't make a positive identification. He donned a baseball cap and sunglasses, and his attention was entirely devoted to the plain-but-attractive brunette by his side. I didn't strain my eyes to figure out who he was, but I knew that he had once been in my life. He and his female companion brushed by, and I heard him speak a few words to her.

The words were inconsequential; actually, they've already escaped me. It was the voice's timbre--- that nasal, subtly piercing tenor--- that brought me back to freshmen year, when Rob was my neighbor in East Hall. He was widely unpopular among the hall, partly for his odd eccentricites, partly for the non-stop cycling of Kid Rock songs from his stereo, but mainly for his remarkable anal retentiveness and intolerance of even the most faint outside noises. For reasons I can no longer remember, let alone justify, Rob once reminded me of my best friend from home, Andrew. When Andrew visited me freshmen year, the two met face to face. Andrew later informed me (jokingly) that he was offended by my comparison. I understand why.

Nevertheless, the mere vision and idea of Rob today made me think of Andrew. I spent last weekend visiting him in Pensacola, celebrating and reliving past memories. We involved ourselves in many of the same activities that made us best friends in high school: eating loaded potato soup at O'Charley's, watching The Meateater, discussing girls and religion, critiquing our old homemade movies. One of my personal favorites, one I did not appreciate until this weekend, has me sitting as a spectator as Andrew and my dad fire sarcastic insults toward each other, a battle my dad usually wins.

When Sunday morning came around and time had come for me to return to school, I gave Andrew a hand shake and hug, told him I loved him, and made sure he knew that I rarely want to ever see him again. If I rarely see Andrew again, I can be confident he is successfully chasing his dream. Tomorrow he takes a plane to New York and moves into his two-person, one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment. Andrew has been invited to join a theatre playhouse in Manhattan. He has never lived outside of Pensacola, but tomorrow he leaves everybody and everything familiar to pursue his acting career. Risky, terrifying, and exhilarating rolled into one chaotic ball.

Andrew was put on this Earth to perform. Dear friends are supposed to say such supportive things, but I put strong faith behind that praise. I believe him when he says that he will be happy in life if he can take masses of people and make them forget their problems in day-to-day life, if only for a passing moment. I'm sad but relieved to know he won't be a five-minute drive away whenever I go home. I may be losing proximity with a friend, but New York is gaining a passionate, delightful performer. The time has come for Andrew to share with the rest of the world what I have seen for sixteen years. I just hope the world is ready. And kind.