A few thoughts ran through my head after my parents sat us down and informed us that our house was going up for sale. I couldn't believe that soon I wouldn't be able to jump off the diving board into our Better Homes & Gardens swimming pool, the one fully equipped with the outer picket fence and polaris that shimmied through the water and removed any unsightly debris. I wondered how there could ever be a house to replace this one that would always be my childhood home. My mind passed through a few more thoughts along these lines, until I got to the one where I was scared that I would be pulled away from the girl I loved, the one I needed to be with.
It turned out that we would only be moving one block over, in the same neighborhood, going to the same schools, being with the same people. To my relief, I wouldn't have to lose her, wouldn't have to say goodbye, wouldn't have to make a last-second confession of my true feelings as we embraced in a farewell kiss amidst a suddenly appearing thunderstorm. Not in 13 years of my life had I felt something like this, and I didn't know how it could get any better.
She had it all. She was pretty. She was nice. She was pretty. I knew everything about her: her middle name, what period she had earth science, her favorite movie. I'd never told her how I felt, even though I knew deep down she felt the same. Maybe one day our love would bring us together.
We slowly made our way down the stairs among the masses of people trying to get outside and call for the nearest cab. I censored my real opinions when responding to my friends' questions about what I thought of the opera we'd just seen. It wasn't yet appropriate to say that I found the brass poorly tuned and the solo singers uninspired. That wasn't the bottom line of this night. What really mattered was that we'd just seen the opera, that it was something available for us to experience, and that we did it. In the end, that made the night a success.
A few nights later, these friends were among others gathered in my dining room. It was the second or third of what we hoped would become a tradition: Sunday dinner. It was an event I'd once spoken so fondly of as a staple of my Italian and Puerto Rican roots, something I'd done with my family in my days back home. These people wanted to experience that too. We were still getting to know each other, part of our own new family of aspiring Ph.D.'ers. Among the outstanding food, laughs, photographs, and stories of days past, it became apparent that we could have an invaluable scrapbook together 5 years down the road.
These were things I'd never felt were possible at a similar magnitude in my former city. There were many lonesome days there. I'm not going to lie: I was happy to say goodbye to that town. I'd long grown tired of knowing that about the half the time, the highlight of my slowly crawling day would be whenever I laughed at something said online.
It wasn't that I didn't meet great people there (because I did) or that I didn't find anything there for me (because I did). What happened was that through my occasional visits to the city I'd later call my home, I knew that any happiness I felt I had in my life at the time paled in comparison to what I could have when surrounded by a backdrop that better suited the needs of an inspired guy in his mid-twenties trying to find himself among a diverse culture he'd felt isolated from.
After I gained more years of life and maturity, I was able to laugh at myself and my distorted perceptions of love. To think that despite the warnings from my elders that 13-year-olds don't know what love is, I thought, exactly like everybody else did at the time, that I was like nobody else at the time. I was different.
Years later, with a far-different girl in a far-different life, I knew what it meant to love. I'd never seen that I needed to go beyond knowing what made her laugh and cry to WHY she was touched in those ways, what mattered enough to her to touch her soul. I'd never seen that I could find someone as beautiful lying pale sick in bed as when she'd spent 2 hours getting ready for our date. I'd never seen that many of the sacrifices I made for true love didn't seem at all like sacrifices at the time.
I never knew this until I had it.
When my friends from past lives have called to hear how I'm doing, I never fail to convey how refreshed I am to enjoy the present day. My situation today is what I've been saying I wanted for over a year now, and when the opportunity came for life to call my bluff, I didn't back down. I took the chance and am reaping the benefits.
It has nothing to do with feeling I'm doing something meaningful and special with my days. It has nothing to do with randomly bumping into Bob Dylan or Pootietang. It has nothing to do with the knowledge that I can essentially hear any music I want in a matter of months. It has nothing to do with walking by restaurants serving food I could only pray to experience. It has nothing to do with spending my days surrounded by people of all colors, names of origin, sexualities, ideals, outlooks, and personalities.
It has everything to do with knowing I'm taking full advantage of the entire package.
She called because she was concerned about me. I'd sent her an e-mail the night before and explained the bad news. He probably had cancer, but we'd find out in a few days. It was possible that this could be the last Christmas with him around.
I was taking the news rather well, she said. She'd heard me tell many stories about my grandfather and thought there'd probably be a void there if he were gone. She was right. Having lost my other grandfather when I was 8, he's the only grandfather I've known since I could appreciate those relationships. I'd miss him for sure.
She wondered why I didn't seem sad on the phone. It didn't sound like I was in denial or that I didn't love him. Neither statement would have been true. What happened is that when I'd moved into close-enough distance to him, I'd made the effort to make an ocasional visit. We had new memories and stories the rest of my family didn't share. I didn't know if one day there'd be cancer, but I did know that his funeral would have to come some day.
When we got the news about cancer, I didn't know if I'd see him for much longer, but I did know that I took advantage of the time I'd had. I'd never be satisfied, always wanting one more day with him, but I'd always have comfort in knowing that each present day would pass without regret. I wasn't ready to say goodbye, but if I had to, at least I'd know I did what I could.
I'd always heard you don't see what you've got until it's gone. It seemed to me that with the important things, I didn't see what I was missing until I found it. In the meantime, I'll just keep looking.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Monday, July 31, 2006
Just So You Know...
Almost done with my thesis.
Training for my first boxing match.
Move to New York late August.
Hope to find time and inspiration to write something soon.
Training for my first boxing match.
Move to New York late August.
Hope to find time and inspiration to write something soon.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Devolution
My hand continues to shake with vibrato after I hang up, maybe even more intensely than during the conversation itself. Over my head lingers a fear that I didn't just end a call, but rather a friendship I've come to realize I've grown more and more dependent on as of late. I am as confused as I've undoubtedly left her tonight. The past 48 hours have been absolutely surreal, staring into space, feeling numb-yet-tense, wanting everything to go into reverse and immediately fast forward simultaneously.
They tell me that the one you adore should be your best friend, but a feeling that is supposed to be bliss has turned into unresolved, unexplainable agony, partly because I've messed up the order of the adoration-best friend development. She and I will never be the same, this I know. Regardless of whether the change will be for better or worse, I had no choice. Maintaining the present status of our friendship would have been a mirage on my part, and this turmoil is a necessary encounter on my way to my only shot at genuine happiness. Who will be part of that happiness is yet to be determined.
I keep telling myself that the not-knowing, the to-be-determined, stuck-in-the-middle pain is the worst. It gets better. It has to get better. That's why I'm doing this, but it doesn't change the fact that I miss her heart and genuineness already.
She sends me a message to let me know she's arrived home safely. I'm happy to receive the message. I don't demand that she check in with me like this on a daily basis; it's just something we’ve gradually grown accustomed to doing. This casual conversation is part of my typical night, as this good friend of mine is always the one who wishes me goodnight as I end my day. If we don't converse at any point during a day, it feels as though we have lots of catching up to do the next day.
I'm willing to talk with her about anything, even the uncomfortable situations I swore couldn't be a part of our talks. I felt that I had to uplift the restrictions out of respect of the friendship. She shows a genuine investment in my life. The feeling is mutual. We value the same things not just in life, but in each other. Hers has really become one of the best, and most surprising, friendships I've ever had.
I'm still excitable over my fun-filled weekend, so I'm a little worked up with energy tonight. I'm even more sarcastic than usual, making her laugh and gasp left and right from my wisecracks. Somehow-- the reason escapes me-- the conversation gets a little risque. Through the course of this change of pace, she lets out a secret, though her withholding of this information seems partly premeditated, partly incidental.
Even though she considers the situation rather minor, this is pretty big news I'm hearing, the news of her and this boy, from someone whom I'd normally assume I know every hour about. But what is going on here? Wait... what?
What is this?
I can't see straight because of the dizziness. The skin on my face tingles. I may have to vomit later. My eyes guard themselves by hiding in my protective hands. On the outside, I am stone, while inside my mind is scrambling at an overwhelming speed. My body is now my preoccupation. What's happened? Why do I feel like this? Why have I suddenly succumbed to feelings of horror, dread, and sorrow?
Oh shit. I know what this means.
I’m finishing the cookies she made me. A few days ago, a small brown package awaited me at my doorstep. She told me she'd make me any kind of cookies I want, and apparently she backs up her word. In my mouth now is sugary, peanut buttery wonderment. This is apparently her way of thanking me for being a good friend, and my stuffed face is in no position to argue at this point.
She tells me that she likes to send little thoughts of hello and care to her friends. No wonder she is liked by so many people; she lets the people that matter in her life know that they do. Today I see a simple online message from her that praises my awesomeness and how awesome it is to be someone as awesome as myself. The note makes me laugh.
This is exactly what I needed today. Things just fell apart with the woman I've been seeing. She doesn't know about this news yet; it's just good timing that she wanted to send me a surprise just as I need a little solace. I know I'll be ok, but I certainly feel better after this gesture.
She calls me after she hears the news, offering to be an open ear and to instill any optimism in me should I need it. This is quite a surprise. We don't really talk live voice-to-voice all that often, both of us being very schedule-heavy people, though we keep pretty steady contact through e-mail and AIM. I let her know that I accept what has happened between me and the woman, but it's good to know there's one more person I can depend on should I need to vent over the next few days. I wish I could return the favor regarding her pain, but it would be a sticky situation consoling the girl who was once dating my buddy.
Her words are comforting. She gets me. We've always seen eye-to-eye on the important things in life. I'm glad someone understands and appreciates where I'm coming from.
She's a good friend. I think I'll keep her around.
I tell her of our plans to fly down for the annual festivities, but we've yet to secure any accommodations. She solves one dilemma by offering to pick us up from the airport. That will work. She knows my buddy from a former life in a manner far more intimate than she's ever known me, but she gives me her phone number in case I need to call when I arrive.
She opens the trunk and steps out of the car to greet us. I give her a novel, but still appropriate, hug as my hello, and we are on our way. My goal here is to get drunk around some good people. I don't see a problem in my company accommodating.
She and I chat periodically between sips of beer. We're joking about tube tops and horrible 80s music. Sometimes when you don't know someone on a terribly deep level, you rely on some of the inside jokes you share to inject adrenaline into the conversation. Regardless of whether we're the closest of friends, we're capable of having a good time together. This is fun.
I miss it down here. She tells me I should come back. Beyond that, she entices me with some plans I'd love to be a part of. I may very well come down and meet up with her for that. There's no mention of my buddy being a part of that proposed trip, as more time apart has made things there slightly awkward. I suppose I'm no longer a third wheel. I guess she and I are no longer just secondhand acquaintances. It's always cool to figure out you have a new friend.
She looks pretty much as I remember, but this could just be guesswork on my part. As good as I am with remembering details, I'm bad at remembering faces, and hers only elicits a vague, minor click in my head. Either way, she's nice enough as far as I remember. I wasn’t sure if she was still on good terms with my buddy, the one she was dating until timing and distance interfered, but apparently things are okay between them. This should be good night.
My buds and I are tossing Blue Moon and obscure 80s band references at an alarming rate. This entertains her to no end, as she leans to the side in laughter more than once. She even takes part in a joke now and then. She's a good sport and carefree enough to have a good time with us.
I sit on the porch feeling slightly dehydrated the next morning. The sliding glass door is being pulled open. She sits in the opposite chair, and we stir up a conversation. I tell her about my current studies, my passion for boxing, the new woman in my life, all the standard stuff. She fills me in on her current studies, her home life, her love of the water and fresh fish, and everything else that gives me a better perspective of what she's all about.
Beyond the story, I see a smart, inspired, accomplished young woman who doesn't take herself too seriously. She seems pretty cool. I'd like to keep in touch and see how things turn out for her. The feeling is mutual. We exchange e-mail addresses.
He nudges my shoulder and points in the distance toward this girl about 50 yards away. This is interrupting my double-fisting of cheap beer, but since he's sort of seeing this girl, we might as well do the courteous thing and meet up as we wait for the game to start. I'm sure she'll turn out to be a nice person.
She's pretty cute: nice tan, athletic-toned, good head of long, brown, wavy hair. When my buddy introduces me to her, I can see a good smile behind her timidity. I'm fine with her being somewhat quiet. That's my nature as well when I meet someone new.
I try to avoid feeling like a third wheel as we chat in our self-made triangle, but she's fine with me being here. I'm happy to be back in Florida, and I can tell she's happy to meet a new person, even if we don't have much to go on regarding conversation. Before you know it, it's time for me to leave and find my seat for the game.
Later she gives us a ride to the airport when our trip reaches its close. I tell her it was nice to meet her, thank her for the ride, and leave to check in for my flight. I tell my buddy that, though I didn't really get to know her that well, she seems like a good enough girl. Overall, this was a pleasant, but admittedly insignificant, encounter. I doubt I'll ever see her again.
They tell me that the one you adore should be your best friend, but a feeling that is supposed to be bliss has turned into unresolved, unexplainable agony, partly because I've messed up the order of the adoration-best friend development. She and I will never be the same, this I know. Regardless of whether the change will be for better or worse, I had no choice. Maintaining the present status of our friendship would have been a mirage on my part, and this turmoil is a necessary encounter on my way to my only shot at genuine happiness. Who will be part of that happiness is yet to be determined.
I keep telling myself that the not-knowing, the to-be-determined, stuck-in-the-middle pain is the worst. It gets better. It has to get better. That's why I'm doing this, but it doesn't change the fact that I miss her heart and genuineness already.
She sends me a message to let me know she's arrived home safely. I'm happy to receive the message. I don't demand that she check in with me like this on a daily basis; it's just something we’ve gradually grown accustomed to doing. This casual conversation is part of my typical night, as this good friend of mine is always the one who wishes me goodnight as I end my day. If we don't converse at any point during a day, it feels as though we have lots of catching up to do the next day.
I'm willing to talk with her about anything, even the uncomfortable situations I swore couldn't be a part of our talks. I felt that I had to uplift the restrictions out of respect of the friendship. She shows a genuine investment in my life. The feeling is mutual. We value the same things not just in life, but in each other. Hers has really become one of the best, and most surprising, friendships I've ever had.
I'm still excitable over my fun-filled weekend, so I'm a little worked up with energy tonight. I'm even more sarcastic than usual, making her laugh and gasp left and right from my wisecracks. Somehow-- the reason escapes me-- the conversation gets a little risque. Through the course of this change of pace, she lets out a secret, though her withholding of this information seems partly premeditated, partly incidental.
Even though she considers the situation rather minor, this is pretty big news I'm hearing, the news of her and this boy, from someone whom I'd normally assume I know every hour about. But what is going on here? Wait... what?
What is this?
I can't see straight because of the dizziness. The skin on my face tingles. I may have to vomit later. My eyes guard themselves by hiding in my protective hands. On the outside, I am stone, while inside my mind is scrambling at an overwhelming speed. My body is now my preoccupation. What's happened? Why do I feel like this? Why have I suddenly succumbed to feelings of horror, dread, and sorrow?
Oh shit. I know what this means.
I’m finishing the cookies she made me. A few days ago, a small brown package awaited me at my doorstep. She told me she'd make me any kind of cookies I want, and apparently she backs up her word. In my mouth now is sugary, peanut buttery wonderment. This is apparently her way of thanking me for being a good friend, and my stuffed face is in no position to argue at this point.
She tells me that she likes to send little thoughts of hello and care to her friends. No wonder she is liked by so many people; she lets the people that matter in her life know that they do. Today I see a simple online message from her that praises my awesomeness and how awesome it is to be someone as awesome as myself. The note makes me laugh.
This is exactly what I needed today. Things just fell apart with the woman I've been seeing. She doesn't know about this news yet; it's just good timing that she wanted to send me a surprise just as I need a little solace. I know I'll be ok, but I certainly feel better after this gesture.
She calls me after she hears the news, offering to be an open ear and to instill any optimism in me should I need it. This is quite a surprise. We don't really talk live voice-to-voice all that often, both of us being very schedule-heavy people, though we keep pretty steady contact through e-mail and AIM. I let her know that I accept what has happened between me and the woman, but it's good to know there's one more person I can depend on should I need to vent over the next few days. I wish I could return the favor regarding her pain, but it would be a sticky situation consoling the girl who was once dating my buddy.
Her words are comforting. She gets me. We've always seen eye-to-eye on the important things in life. I'm glad someone understands and appreciates where I'm coming from.
She's a good friend. I think I'll keep her around.
I tell her of our plans to fly down for the annual festivities, but we've yet to secure any accommodations. She solves one dilemma by offering to pick us up from the airport. That will work. She knows my buddy from a former life in a manner far more intimate than she's ever known me, but she gives me her phone number in case I need to call when I arrive.
She opens the trunk and steps out of the car to greet us. I give her a novel, but still appropriate, hug as my hello, and we are on our way. My goal here is to get drunk around some good people. I don't see a problem in my company accommodating.
She and I chat periodically between sips of beer. We're joking about tube tops and horrible 80s music. Sometimes when you don't know someone on a terribly deep level, you rely on some of the inside jokes you share to inject adrenaline into the conversation. Regardless of whether we're the closest of friends, we're capable of having a good time together. This is fun.
I miss it down here. She tells me I should come back. Beyond that, she entices me with some plans I'd love to be a part of. I may very well come down and meet up with her for that. There's no mention of my buddy being a part of that proposed trip, as more time apart has made things there slightly awkward. I suppose I'm no longer a third wheel. I guess she and I are no longer just secondhand acquaintances. It's always cool to figure out you have a new friend.
She looks pretty much as I remember, but this could just be guesswork on my part. As good as I am with remembering details, I'm bad at remembering faces, and hers only elicits a vague, minor click in my head. Either way, she's nice enough as far as I remember. I wasn’t sure if she was still on good terms with my buddy, the one she was dating until timing and distance interfered, but apparently things are okay between them. This should be good night.
My buds and I are tossing Blue Moon and obscure 80s band references at an alarming rate. This entertains her to no end, as she leans to the side in laughter more than once. She even takes part in a joke now and then. She's a good sport and carefree enough to have a good time with us.
I sit on the porch feeling slightly dehydrated the next morning. The sliding glass door is being pulled open. She sits in the opposite chair, and we stir up a conversation. I tell her about my current studies, my passion for boxing, the new woman in my life, all the standard stuff. She fills me in on her current studies, her home life, her love of the water and fresh fish, and everything else that gives me a better perspective of what she's all about.
Beyond the story, I see a smart, inspired, accomplished young woman who doesn't take herself too seriously. She seems pretty cool. I'd like to keep in touch and see how things turn out for her. The feeling is mutual. We exchange e-mail addresses.
He nudges my shoulder and points in the distance toward this girl about 50 yards away. This is interrupting my double-fisting of cheap beer, but since he's sort of seeing this girl, we might as well do the courteous thing and meet up as we wait for the game to start. I'm sure she'll turn out to be a nice person.
She's pretty cute: nice tan, athletic-toned, good head of long, brown, wavy hair. When my buddy introduces me to her, I can see a good smile behind her timidity. I'm fine with her being somewhat quiet. That's my nature as well when I meet someone new.
I try to avoid feeling like a third wheel as we chat in our self-made triangle, but she's fine with me being here. I'm happy to be back in Florida, and I can tell she's happy to meet a new person, even if we don't have much to go on regarding conversation. Before you know it, it's time for me to leave and find my seat for the game.
Later she gives us a ride to the airport when our trip reaches its close. I tell her it was nice to meet her, thank her for the ride, and leave to check in for my flight. I tell my buddy that, though I didn't really get to know her that well, she seems like a good enough girl. Overall, this was a pleasant, but admittedly insignificant, encounter. I doubt I'll ever see her again.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Time
A student one row in front calls my name as I'm hanging my coat over the back of my chair. She proceeds to ask me a few general questions about getting an internship. I give her thorough but efficient answers but am forced to elaborate further when the girl to her right chimes in with a couple of follow-ups. I tell them how many hours I've done a week, when I started on my thesis, when I planned things out with my advisor, how many shits I take a day. Everyone wants to know how I'm on track to finish the program in 2 years, considering 1 person has done it since they extended the coursework.
When my professor is ready to start her lecture, the girls turn their chairs back toward the front. I space out during lecture, figuring out what I'm going to have for dinner, trying to think of another Chuck Norris quote, reminding myself to let a friend know who I bumped into earlier. I'm just going through the motions for these required classes until I graduate. I have plenty of work to do; why dedicate time to courses I'm only in because I have to take them (espcially ones where she gives us the questions to the exam beforehand)?
When lecture runs its course, I get up and leave my chair. There's a student waiting for me at the door. She thanks me for my help on an assessment of hers and updates me on her work-related issue we had recently discussed. I was happy to hear that things were resolved peacefully. We part at the bottom of the stairs: she to the parking lot, I to the library. I need to finish this last problem on my statistics assignment.
After I save the completed assignment on my USB card, I walk to my car and head home. I'm tired. I lean back in my computer chair and chat online with a good friend as I unwind after another Wednesday. Then I go to my bedroom and turn off the lights on another day.
The first space directly in front of the restaurant door is free. I turn my car into it and head to the door for some genuine latino lunch. There's an extra kick to my step. I've been craving this food for a while now but just hadn't managed to make the 20-minute drive here to get it. Today I'm in the mood for the roast pork with rice and beans. The little Dominican gentleman at the counter gives me a welcoming grin and puts on his glasses as he gets ready to master the cash register. I go through my order in spanish, idenitifying my choice of meal, what kind of rice I want, and what I'll have to drink.
He responds to me in spanish. I furrow my brow.
He says the same thing, only slightly slower. I got about half of it. Something about it being "here." I figure out that he's asking if I want it "for here or to go." He then asks me another question. I get frustrated and switch to English. I feel a little sheepish and just want to hurry up and pay for my food.
My spanish has regressed a bit lately, I suppose. I haven't been practicing with my old Simpsons dvds. Come to think of it, when was the last time I'd even been here ordering in spanish from my favorite cafe? This couldn't have been my first time back in 2006. I used to come at least once a week!
On the morning drive to internship, another song is selected at random from my ipod. I press the skip button because I'm not particularly in the mood for that song. The next one I've heard too many times, so I skip that one too. I don't even like that next one. What's it even doing on my ipod? Talk radio suddenly seems like a better alternative to skipping through the same songs over and over.
Later when I tell another friend of mine what bands I think she'd like, she informs me that I already gave her those artists. Apparently I don't have much new to offer her. The newest songs I've discovered are ones I got from a friend earlier this year. I haven't been celebrating New CD Day lately. I try to justify this by saying I have plenty of music to choose from, but that excuse is promptly rejected.
"You told me you can never stop finding music that'll change your life," is exactly how she called me out.
It's true that I was fooling myself. Maybe I should find some time to take a trip to Best Buy. I miss New CD Day.
My buddy calls me to let me know he's turning the corner of my parking lot and will be out front in about 45 seconds. I hang up the phone and get ready to meet him at the door. This will be a good visit. We have lots of grilling to catch up on, considering we haven't really been able to hang out for a while.
I open my apartment door and have to avoid stepping on the package that has awaited me. I tear open the manilla envelope as I go down the stairs. What am I getting in the mail from some company whose name I don't recognize? My question is answered just as I make it down to greet my friend. I show him that I finally got the replacement box to my Simpsons dvd collection. I had ordered it maybe 2 months before and had long forgotten about it.
This brings back memories of sitting in my dorm room with the other guys from our floor, watching Simpsons episodes I had taped during my youth (this was just before Fox made my lifelong efforts obsolete with its seasonal dvd compilations). I throw some random Simpsons quotes into the conversation for old time's sake. It's a little bittersweet to remember how often I watched those tapes. I can't remember when I put one in for the hell of it. Last week I even missed an episode, even though I was in the apartment at the time. I got sidetracked on the computer.
I update him on my upcoming start at John Jay, how the old people are treating me in Harrisburg, that I'm no longer particularly interested in meeting older women... all the important aspects of my evolution. We make some phenomenal lemon pepper wings and sit to watch the Gators play for a spot in the Sweet Sixteen.
I'm only watching for fun and for the Gators, I tell him, because my bracket is all but busted. I've been in first or second in every NCAA bracket since college, but this year I'll be lucky to finish in the top half of my pool. When I printed out my bracket before the tournament, I sighed and realized it would all be pure guesswork. I just didn't keep track of college basketball this year.
I'm really enjoying being able to sit back and watch my team play. Perhaps I should do this more often.
There isn't any reason to be nervous about this site visit. I know my supervisor likes me and won't tell my professor anything too incriminating. I take my professor to our office, where my supervisor already has 3 chairs set up. We go through a little small talk-- my professor knows my supervisor from the many visits she's made checking on interns-- before my evaluation begins.
Everything goes about as expected. I'm allowed to chime in about how I've been working hard and have been pleasantly surprised by the variety of work I've gotten here. My supervisor lists for my professor the same strengths he's indirectly told me he's seen in me these last few months. When the time comes for constructive criticism, he jokes that he's failed to get me a dead body to put my future profiling skills to task.
He then positions himself so that he's moreso speaking to me than to my professor. He emphasizes to me that he has a little concern about my egghead habits during slow times in the office. I initially wonder if it's a joke, considering that his criticism is that I, at times, get entrenched in my studies too much. How is that a bad thing?
He elaborates that he doesn't want me to miss out on some good things out there, and that sometimes people can get lost in the game of life because they are too busy with their head in the middle of an opened book.
The site visit is a complete success. On my drive home, I mildly chuckle-- the arrogant bastard I am-- that my supervisor thinks I may need to work on NOT working so hard. Then I think about the little joys in my life, and how some of them have hit the backburner lately. This is just a temporary place for them, I assume, but sometimes change can be so sneakingly gradual that you don't notice you've lost track of what you like about yourself.
I decide that I want to be a good worker but not to the detriment of who I am as a person. As long as I like who I am, there's no need to change... only to enhance. I'm once again shuffling through the same tunes on my ipod, and it hits me that the sly 73-year-old loudmouth that calls himself my supervisor has a point: I can maintain a solid work ethic while keeping track of the things I enjoy in life, be they treating myself to a meal, discovering a new musician, catching a basketball game, or expressing myself through written word.
When my professor is ready to start her lecture, the girls turn their chairs back toward the front. I space out during lecture, figuring out what I'm going to have for dinner, trying to think of another Chuck Norris quote, reminding myself to let a friend know who I bumped into earlier. I'm just going through the motions for these required classes until I graduate. I have plenty of work to do; why dedicate time to courses I'm only in because I have to take them (espcially ones where she gives us the questions to the exam beforehand)?
When lecture runs its course, I get up and leave my chair. There's a student waiting for me at the door. She thanks me for my help on an assessment of hers and updates me on her work-related issue we had recently discussed. I was happy to hear that things were resolved peacefully. We part at the bottom of the stairs: she to the parking lot, I to the library. I need to finish this last problem on my statistics assignment.
After I save the completed assignment on my USB card, I walk to my car and head home. I'm tired. I lean back in my computer chair and chat online with a good friend as I unwind after another Wednesday. Then I go to my bedroom and turn off the lights on another day.
The first space directly in front of the restaurant door is free. I turn my car into it and head to the door for some genuine latino lunch. There's an extra kick to my step. I've been craving this food for a while now but just hadn't managed to make the 20-minute drive here to get it. Today I'm in the mood for the roast pork with rice and beans. The little Dominican gentleman at the counter gives me a welcoming grin and puts on his glasses as he gets ready to master the cash register. I go through my order in spanish, idenitifying my choice of meal, what kind of rice I want, and what I'll have to drink.
He responds to me in spanish. I furrow my brow.
He says the same thing, only slightly slower. I got about half of it. Something about it being "here." I figure out that he's asking if I want it "for here or to go." He then asks me another question. I get frustrated and switch to English. I feel a little sheepish and just want to hurry up and pay for my food.
My spanish has regressed a bit lately, I suppose. I haven't been practicing with my old Simpsons dvds. Come to think of it, when was the last time I'd even been here ordering in spanish from my favorite cafe? This couldn't have been my first time back in 2006. I used to come at least once a week!
On the morning drive to internship, another song is selected at random from my ipod. I press the skip button because I'm not particularly in the mood for that song. The next one I've heard too many times, so I skip that one too. I don't even like that next one. What's it even doing on my ipod? Talk radio suddenly seems like a better alternative to skipping through the same songs over and over.
Later when I tell another friend of mine what bands I think she'd like, she informs me that I already gave her those artists. Apparently I don't have much new to offer her. The newest songs I've discovered are ones I got from a friend earlier this year. I haven't been celebrating New CD Day lately. I try to justify this by saying I have plenty of music to choose from, but that excuse is promptly rejected.
"You told me you can never stop finding music that'll change your life," is exactly how she called me out.
It's true that I was fooling myself. Maybe I should find some time to take a trip to Best Buy. I miss New CD Day.
My buddy calls me to let me know he's turning the corner of my parking lot and will be out front in about 45 seconds. I hang up the phone and get ready to meet him at the door. This will be a good visit. We have lots of grilling to catch up on, considering we haven't really been able to hang out for a while.
I open my apartment door and have to avoid stepping on the package that has awaited me. I tear open the manilla envelope as I go down the stairs. What am I getting in the mail from some company whose name I don't recognize? My question is answered just as I make it down to greet my friend. I show him that I finally got the replacement box to my Simpsons dvd collection. I had ordered it maybe 2 months before and had long forgotten about it.
This brings back memories of sitting in my dorm room with the other guys from our floor, watching Simpsons episodes I had taped during my youth (this was just before Fox made my lifelong efforts obsolete with its seasonal dvd compilations). I throw some random Simpsons quotes into the conversation for old time's sake. It's a little bittersweet to remember how often I watched those tapes. I can't remember when I put one in for the hell of it. Last week I even missed an episode, even though I was in the apartment at the time. I got sidetracked on the computer.
I update him on my upcoming start at John Jay, how the old people are treating me in Harrisburg, that I'm no longer particularly interested in meeting older women... all the important aspects of my evolution. We make some phenomenal lemon pepper wings and sit to watch the Gators play for a spot in the Sweet Sixteen.
I'm only watching for fun and for the Gators, I tell him, because my bracket is all but busted. I've been in first or second in every NCAA bracket since college, but this year I'll be lucky to finish in the top half of my pool. When I printed out my bracket before the tournament, I sighed and realized it would all be pure guesswork. I just didn't keep track of college basketball this year.
I'm really enjoying being able to sit back and watch my team play. Perhaps I should do this more often.
There isn't any reason to be nervous about this site visit. I know my supervisor likes me and won't tell my professor anything too incriminating. I take my professor to our office, where my supervisor already has 3 chairs set up. We go through a little small talk-- my professor knows my supervisor from the many visits she's made checking on interns-- before my evaluation begins.
Everything goes about as expected. I'm allowed to chime in about how I've been working hard and have been pleasantly surprised by the variety of work I've gotten here. My supervisor lists for my professor the same strengths he's indirectly told me he's seen in me these last few months. When the time comes for constructive criticism, he jokes that he's failed to get me a dead body to put my future profiling skills to task.
He then positions himself so that he's moreso speaking to me than to my professor. He emphasizes to me that he has a little concern about my egghead habits during slow times in the office. I initially wonder if it's a joke, considering that his criticism is that I, at times, get entrenched in my studies too much. How is that a bad thing?
He elaborates that he doesn't want me to miss out on some good things out there, and that sometimes people can get lost in the game of life because they are too busy with their head in the middle of an opened book.
The site visit is a complete success. On my drive home, I mildly chuckle-- the arrogant bastard I am-- that my supervisor thinks I may need to work on NOT working so hard. Then I think about the little joys in my life, and how some of them have hit the backburner lately. This is just a temporary place for them, I assume, but sometimes change can be so sneakingly gradual that you don't notice you've lost track of what you like about yourself.
I decide that I want to be a good worker but not to the detriment of who I am as a person. As long as I like who I am, there's no need to change... only to enhance. I'm once again shuffling through the same tunes on my ipod, and it hits me that the sly 73-year-old loudmouth that calls himself my supervisor has a point: I can maintain a solid work ethic while keeping track of the things I enjoy in life, be they treating myself to a meal, discovering a new musician, catching a basketball game, or expressing myself through written word.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Superstar
It's a quiet Tuesday night, well deserved after another random crazy fest at crisis intervention. I get out of my dress pants, make a little dinner, and get ready to watch American Idol.* I'm stretched out on my leather couch, waiting for the next tone-deaf auditioner to walk into the judge's room and give us the performace of a lifetime. I laugh, I cringe, and I groan at the horrid sounds that are coming out of some of these mouths. Several dreams are swiftly shot down, much to my disturbing amusement.
What's special about the exceptionally awful singers that audition is that many of them walk into the room imagining that they're really going to make it. They say that all they want to do is sing, that they can't imagine being happier doing anything else, that they are destined to be a star. I'm witnessing delusional ideation at its best. It's like having a friend with a voice like Harvey Firestein tell me her dream is to become a news anchor. No matter her diction, her dedication, or her training, she would always lack one of the innate characteristics necessary for the job. I can't believe some of the voices that come out of these people who are so gung-ho about singing. They were born without a shot in the world.
I'm genuinely entertained by these people and wonder how they could be so clueless, but the truth is that whatever career path any of us choose, most of us will only be able to go so far. The work we put in, the hours of playtime we sacrifice, the mentors we encounter, they all help us move toward our goals. But we all have human limits. There is a point of return, and if you're fortunate enough to hit your wall of ability, more power to you. Even those who maximize their potential are incapable of surpassing it, however.
I continue watching as the delusioned and hopeless are smacked into reality by the people with the outside perspective, the ones who can compare you to the great ones and see how you stack up. I wonder if I could ever be as clueless to my capabilities as they are. Then I remember checking the mailbox on my way upstairs. I rarely receive mail, but I've been checking every day lately. This is what happens when you've applied to graduate schools. You put together your audition, send it to the judges, and eagerly await to discover whether someone else sees the talent you hope rests within you, or if you are among the delusioned.
*Yes, I watch American Idol. Every year I watch to hear the bad auditions, then 2 or 3 randoms with legitimate talent get me invested because I want to see how far they can go. You think I lose all music credibilty for this? Deal with it.
Three weeks after writing the above, I was accepted by my top choice of doctoral program. Today, I said yes. In six months, the future is here.
What's special about the exceptionally awful singers that audition is that many of them walk into the room imagining that they're really going to make it. They say that all they want to do is sing, that they can't imagine being happier doing anything else, that they are destined to be a star. I'm witnessing delusional ideation at its best. It's like having a friend with a voice like Harvey Firestein tell me her dream is to become a news anchor. No matter her diction, her dedication, or her training, she would always lack one of the innate characteristics necessary for the job. I can't believe some of the voices that come out of these people who are so gung-ho about singing. They were born without a shot in the world.
I'm genuinely entertained by these people and wonder how they could be so clueless, but the truth is that whatever career path any of us choose, most of us will only be able to go so far. The work we put in, the hours of playtime we sacrifice, the mentors we encounter, they all help us move toward our goals. But we all have human limits. There is a point of return, and if you're fortunate enough to hit your wall of ability, more power to you. Even those who maximize their potential are incapable of surpassing it, however.
I continue watching as the delusioned and hopeless are smacked into reality by the people with the outside perspective, the ones who can compare you to the great ones and see how you stack up. I wonder if I could ever be as clueless to my capabilities as they are. Then I remember checking the mailbox on my way upstairs. I rarely receive mail, but I've been checking every day lately. This is what happens when you've applied to graduate schools. You put together your audition, send it to the judges, and eagerly await to discover whether someone else sees the talent you hope rests within you, or if you are among the delusioned.
*Yes, I watch American Idol. Every year I watch to hear the bad auditions, then 2 or 3 randoms with legitimate talent get me invested because I want to see how far they can go. You think I lose all music credibilty for this? Deal with it.
Three weeks after writing the above, I was accepted by my top choice of doctoral program. Today, I said yes. In six months, the future is here.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
2005 Music Awards
3 Biggest Surprises
3. Natasha Bedingfield, Unwritten. Wins the annual Dido award for "female pop artist who hits the chart with a catchy-ass single that overshadows a surprisingly solid pop album"
2. Kanye West, Late Registration. Avoided the sophomore slump with catchier hooks and just-as-deep poetry.
1. Jamie Cullum, Catching Tales. Modernized his sound even further to become just as vital a songwriter as he is a gateway to the past.
3 Biggest Disappointments
3. Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine (released version). Not nearly as tight as her previous 2 albums, and the "improvements" made from the bootleg version are often, in fact, not.
2. Switchfoot, Nothing is Sound. Foreman's lyrics get lost in over-produced guitars amd surprisingly forgettable melodies.
1. The Raveonettes, Pretty in Black. Hey, I've got an idea: let's get rid of everything that made our sound so unique! Borrrrrrrrrrring.
Top 10 Songs
10. The Raveonettes, "Love in a Trashcan". The album's saving grace is a cool retro beach rocker.
9. Jamie Cullum, "Catch the Sun". A damn fine cover capped by a majestic piano solo.
8. Kanye West, "Heard 'em Say". Is it just me, or is this a best-case scenario for "Mr. Rogers goes TRL"?
7. Bright Eyes, "Road to Joy". Ode to Joy transformed into a intense, chaotic, hummable tirade.
6. Amos Lee, "Arms of a Woman". Simple, straightforward, earnest, depressing, calming, and pretty.
5. Coldplay, "Fix You". Same as "Arms of a Woman," but with a more dramatic ending.
4. John Legend, "Ordinary People". I'm astonished that someone was able to write and perform this as an amazing pop song.
3. Sufjan Stevens, "John Wayne Gacy, Jr.", "Casimir Pulaski Day", and "Come On! Feel the Illinoise!". A pair of tragic folklore, with lyrics shifting from haunting to humorous to breathtaking, complemented by a bubbly, syncopated melange of classical/jazz/pop goodness.
2. Ed Harcourt, "The Storm Is Coming". It's got it all: aggressive guitar static, triumphant piano chords, a killer hook, and a whistling fade. The perfect album opener.
1. Rosie Thomas, "Pretty Dress". I know, this song emasculates me so bad. It singlehandedly made me wish I had a little girl.
Top 10 Albums
10. Over the Rhine, Drunkard's Prayer. Another round of intimate, complex, genuine songs that sound like they're being played in your own living room.
9. The New Pornographers, Twin Cinema. So damn lovable, sunshiny, and catchy. A perfect album for a warm, summer day.
8. Kanye West, Late Registration. Yeah! The mainstream got it right for a change!
7. Eisley, Room Noises. There's no reason these teen girls can't make it big. They know how to write a tight, hummable, memorable song.
6. Bright Eyes, I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning. "Potential" turns into reality. Somewhere, Bob Dylan is smiling (and not because he's still daydreaming about filming that Victoria's Secret commercial)
5. Coldplay, X & Y. Whatever, you haters.
4. The Mars Volta, Frances the Mute. You know that saying "crazy like a fox"? Meet the musical equivalent.
3. John Legend, Get Lifted. Technically it came out in 2004 (Dec. 28), but I don't care. John Legend is one cool mutha with soulful chops, slick beats, and an elegant piano to boot.
2. Jamie Cullum, Catching Tales. Suave, cunning, and ambitious. He's no gimic. This is the real deal, a gift to old and young music lovers alike.
1. Sufjan Stevens, Illinois. Singlehandedly expanded my vision on what can be done in music. Concert band meets folk meets jazz meets rock meets A&E documentary. Absolutely mesmerizing. Absolutely gut-wrenching. Absolutely incredible.
Honorable Mention: Brendan Benson, Alternative to Love; Blackalicious, The Craft; Ed Harcourt, Strangers; Amos Lee, Amos Lee; Rosie Thomas, If Songs Could Be Held.
3. Natasha Bedingfield, Unwritten. Wins the annual Dido award for "female pop artist who hits the chart with a catchy-ass single that overshadows a surprisingly solid pop album"
2. Kanye West, Late Registration. Avoided the sophomore slump with catchier hooks and just-as-deep poetry.
1. Jamie Cullum, Catching Tales. Modernized his sound even further to become just as vital a songwriter as he is a gateway to the past.
3 Biggest Disappointments
3. Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine (released version). Not nearly as tight as her previous 2 albums, and the "improvements" made from the bootleg version are often, in fact, not.
2. Switchfoot, Nothing is Sound. Foreman's lyrics get lost in over-produced guitars amd surprisingly forgettable melodies.
1. The Raveonettes, Pretty in Black. Hey, I've got an idea: let's get rid of everything that made our sound so unique! Borrrrrrrrrrring.
Top 10 Songs
10. The Raveonettes, "Love in a Trashcan". The album's saving grace is a cool retro beach rocker.
9. Jamie Cullum, "Catch the Sun". A damn fine cover capped by a majestic piano solo.
8. Kanye West, "Heard 'em Say". Is it just me, or is this a best-case scenario for "Mr. Rogers goes TRL"?
7. Bright Eyes, "Road to Joy". Ode to Joy transformed into a intense, chaotic, hummable tirade.
6. Amos Lee, "Arms of a Woman". Simple, straightforward, earnest, depressing, calming, and pretty.
5. Coldplay, "Fix You". Same as "Arms of a Woman," but with a more dramatic ending.
4. John Legend, "Ordinary People". I'm astonished that someone was able to write and perform this as an amazing pop song.
3. Sufjan Stevens, "John Wayne Gacy, Jr.", "Casimir Pulaski Day", and "Come On! Feel the Illinoise!". A pair of tragic folklore, with lyrics shifting from haunting to humorous to breathtaking, complemented by a bubbly, syncopated melange of classical/jazz/pop goodness.
2. Ed Harcourt, "The Storm Is Coming". It's got it all: aggressive guitar static, triumphant piano chords, a killer hook, and a whistling fade. The perfect album opener.
1. Rosie Thomas, "Pretty Dress". I know, this song emasculates me so bad. It singlehandedly made me wish I had a little girl.
Top 10 Albums
10. Over the Rhine, Drunkard's Prayer. Another round of intimate, complex, genuine songs that sound like they're being played in your own living room.
9. The New Pornographers, Twin Cinema. So damn lovable, sunshiny, and catchy. A perfect album for a warm, summer day.
8. Kanye West, Late Registration. Yeah! The mainstream got it right for a change!
7. Eisley, Room Noises. There's no reason these teen girls can't make it big. They know how to write a tight, hummable, memorable song.
6. Bright Eyes, I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning. "Potential" turns into reality. Somewhere, Bob Dylan is smiling (and not because he's still daydreaming about filming that Victoria's Secret commercial)
5. Coldplay, X & Y. Whatever, you haters.
4. The Mars Volta, Frances the Mute. You know that saying "crazy like a fox"? Meet the musical equivalent.
3. John Legend, Get Lifted. Technically it came out in 2004 (Dec. 28), but I don't care. John Legend is one cool mutha with soulful chops, slick beats, and an elegant piano to boot.
2. Jamie Cullum, Catching Tales. Suave, cunning, and ambitious. He's no gimic. This is the real deal, a gift to old and young music lovers alike.
1. Sufjan Stevens, Illinois. Singlehandedly expanded my vision on what can be done in music. Concert band meets folk meets jazz meets rock meets A&E documentary. Absolutely mesmerizing. Absolutely gut-wrenching. Absolutely incredible.
Honorable Mention: Brendan Benson, Alternative to Love; Blackalicious, The Craft; Ed Harcourt, Strangers; Amos Lee, Amos Lee; Rosie Thomas, If Songs Could Be Held.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Then, Later, and Now
I haven't been in the pub for 15 seconds before I hear my last name shouted in a thundering baritone from across the room. Before I can even acknowledge the greeting, I'm being picked up in a massive bear hug, shaken up and down, my ribs slightly crushed against an old friend's burly shoulders. All attention in the pub is now directed at me and the diversion we've created. Actually, it's not the shout or the bear hug that has directed the 200-or-so patrons in my direction, but rather the local musician who abruptly puts a halt to the chorus of "American Pie" to point across the pub to me and my friend.
"Bye, bye, Miss American Pie. Drove my chevy to the-- hey! Adam and Andre, right?"
"No, come on, man! It's Andrew and Anthony!"
Well, at least he got the A's right.
He picks up his guitar and starts a chant. Soon the entire pub is clapping in my direction and shouting, Kiss the moose! Kiss the moose! I'm being shuffled through a sea of drunken sailors. My push to the front of the pub is delayed by all the hands I have to shake. I feel like a celebrity walking the red carpet who has to be selective in recognizing people, or else he'll never make it out alive. People are shoving my body as I try to stop and say hi to familiar faces, faces of people from my days in Pensacola. As soon as a memory floods into my head, someone else is jerking me away from my past.
Kiss the moose! Kiss the moose!
I finally reach center stage, everyone's seats pointed in my direction. The roar of the crowd climaxes upon my lips making contact with the front of this stuffed moose head. I've done what was asked of me, and I'm treated to a room full of applause. I take a bow and shuffle through the crowd again toward the big table with the empty seat. There's an invisible Reserved sign, and I take the seat saved for me by friends of my hometown, people I only have the fortune of encountering once a year.
The waitress comes over, puts her hand on my shoulder, and says, "You're quite the hit tonight. What can I get you to drink?"
I order the house stout, and all is grand.
Making sure to exaggerate the size of the crowd and the intensity of the situation, I retell the story to a friend. I await her reaction, but there's a moment of silence. I use this time to go to the fridge and refill my glass of water. A minute goes by before she responds. When she does, I return to the computer screen to see that she is "lol"ing.
She says goodnight, that she needs to go to sleep early before her return to work. I put up an away message and go to the living room to watch tv, but not before I trip on the junk I'd left on the floor of my messy, one-person Pennsylvania apartment. The crash of my foot creates a giant echo in the room. Then silence. It's eerily quiet in here.
My first morning of 2006 opens with a slightly vomited-on sports coat and a glorious hangover, my first when waking up in my parents' home. I can barely stomach breakfast, which is troublesome because I know I must regain my composure enough to visit the field. Every New Year's Day, a few of my fellow high school alumni set up a bbq at a field where we can meet up and reunite. I'm breathing a little heavily during the drive because the motion of the car makes me dizzy. I cannot throw up in front of these people. What would they think I'd become if I interrupted the prayer with a dry heave?
I spot a guy named James in the distance as I get out of the car, but I don't see this 23-year-old fellow who's on leave from the Navy. Instead, I see Bobo, the 5th grade version of James: the short, bug-collecting kid with the squeaky voice, coke-bottle glasses, and knee high socks. This is how I see everyone here upon first glance: as former yearbook pictures. The extra pounds, the facial hair, the wedding rings, they're all out of vision. I see a reminder of what made this my home.
There's plenty to ask about when you're on a field with people you haven't seen in years, and the questions I'm getting will no doubt help me when I soon interview for doctoral programs. I'm answering the same questions over and over, perfectly reasonable considering I'm asking the same questions in return. The people from my past are listening to me explain my future, and their enthusiasm is likely feeding off the excitement in my voice.
When I talk about these programs I'm applying to, and what paths they'll guide me toward, it hits me that I'm getting closer to a time where I'll be educated in what I've sought to learn. Imagine that: going to classes guiding you toward what you want to become. I tell everyone of all the cool places I may live while getting my education, from South Florida to California to New York City. This has been a long time coming, and the future looks grand.
Some of these people haven't figured out how they want to make a living. They're waiting for the solution to click as they move back home. They find themselves sleeping in the bedrooms that have their former accolades plaqued against the walls, a reminder that when returning home, only the past is glorified and celebrated. While they wait for their life to figure itself out, they go through the motions of getting by until an opportunity knocks. Even though my old frames and trophies rest on a wall in another time zone, I feel like I am very much in the same predicament.
After I give her a hug and kiss goodbye, I get in my car and drive back to my parents' house. The songs I play through the stereo are no longer filled with beat boxes and adrenaline, but rather quiet acoustic guitar and intimate, whispering vocals. I find that we often play music that's conducive to our mood.
I am drained of energy. In a matter of 48 hours, a handful of people I care about more than most everyone else on this Earth have come and gone, said hello and goodbye, asked how long it's been and how long it will be. I've seen my past, and it's been fantastic. We've discussed our futures, and it's promising. And now I'm left here in this car, with an empty passenger seat, to face my present.
The present is my bridge from the past to the future. The good times and hard work I put in down south led me to the man I am today, the quirky, arrogant-yet-humble Floridian getting his Masters in Pennsylvania. What I do here will help me get where I want (and I don't mean specifically New York, though we all know that's something I've long craved). I find myself waiting for that day to come, seeing it on the horizon, and being unable to skip pages on the calendar. Because the future looks as stellar as the past has already been, my current life of Harrisburg vanilla seems downright uninspiring in comparison.
My days in Florida are cemented in the archives. My days in God-knows-where are purely hypothetical, abstract, not real. My day today is the one I must face each morning.
My bags are packed, and I'm ready to head back to Pennsylvania. In the airport, as I'm rushing to transfer gates, I get caught on the conveyor belt. An old lady has chosen to rest idle on the track. Her bag is placed gently to her left. The walkway is completely blocked. I'm now stuck, unable to get around her. I can see everything in front of me but have no way of getting there right away. In these situations, I get tense, inpatient, aggravated. Part of me wants to kick this lady's bag aside and hurry on my way. But I don't. I can't. I just can't do it. Instead, I must patiently wait as I slowly coast to where I need to get. This doesn't please me. This isn't where I want to be. I don't want to sit here waiting.
"Bye, bye, Miss American Pie. Drove my chevy to the-- hey! Adam and Andre, right?"
"No, come on, man! It's Andrew and Anthony!"
Well, at least he got the A's right.
He picks up his guitar and starts a chant. Soon the entire pub is clapping in my direction and shouting, Kiss the moose! Kiss the moose! I'm being shuffled through a sea of drunken sailors. My push to the front of the pub is delayed by all the hands I have to shake. I feel like a celebrity walking the red carpet who has to be selective in recognizing people, or else he'll never make it out alive. People are shoving my body as I try to stop and say hi to familiar faces, faces of people from my days in Pensacola. As soon as a memory floods into my head, someone else is jerking me away from my past.
Kiss the moose! Kiss the moose!
I finally reach center stage, everyone's seats pointed in my direction. The roar of the crowd climaxes upon my lips making contact with the front of this stuffed moose head. I've done what was asked of me, and I'm treated to a room full of applause. I take a bow and shuffle through the crowd again toward the big table with the empty seat. There's an invisible Reserved sign, and I take the seat saved for me by friends of my hometown, people I only have the fortune of encountering once a year.
The waitress comes over, puts her hand on my shoulder, and says, "You're quite the hit tonight. What can I get you to drink?"
I order the house stout, and all is grand.
Making sure to exaggerate the size of the crowd and the intensity of the situation, I retell the story to a friend. I await her reaction, but there's a moment of silence. I use this time to go to the fridge and refill my glass of water. A minute goes by before she responds. When she does, I return to the computer screen to see that she is "lol"ing.
She says goodnight, that she needs to go to sleep early before her return to work. I put up an away message and go to the living room to watch tv, but not before I trip on the junk I'd left on the floor of my messy, one-person Pennsylvania apartment. The crash of my foot creates a giant echo in the room. Then silence. It's eerily quiet in here.
My first morning of 2006 opens with a slightly vomited-on sports coat and a glorious hangover, my first when waking up in my parents' home. I can barely stomach breakfast, which is troublesome because I know I must regain my composure enough to visit the field. Every New Year's Day, a few of my fellow high school alumni set up a bbq at a field where we can meet up and reunite. I'm breathing a little heavily during the drive because the motion of the car makes me dizzy. I cannot throw up in front of these people. What would they think I'd become if I interrupted the prayer with a dry heave?
I spot a guy named James in the distance as I get out of the car, but I don't see this 23-year-old fellow who's on leave from the Navy. Instead, I see Bobo, the 5th grade version of James: the short, bug-collecting kid with the squeaky voice, coke-bottle glasses, and knee high socks. This is how I see everyone here upon first glance: as former yearbook pictures. The extra pounds, the facial hair, the wedding rings, they're all out of vision. I see a reminder of what made this my home.
There's plenty to ask about when you're on a field with people you haven't seen in years, and the questions I'm getting will no doubt help me when I soon interview for doctoral programs. I'm answering the same questions over and over, perfectly reasonable considering I'm asking the same questions in return. The people from my past are listening to me explain my future, and their enthusiasm is likely feeding off the excitement in my voice.
When I talk about these programs I'm applying to, and what paths they'll guide me toward, it hits me that I'm getting closer to a time where I'll be educated in what I've sought to learn. Imagine that: going to classes guiding you toward what you want to become. I tell everyone of all the cool places I may live while getting my education, from South Florida to California to New York City. This has been a long time coming, and the future looks grand.
Some of these people haven't figured out how they want to make a living. They're waiting for the solution to click as they move back home. They find themselves sleeping in the bedrooms that have their former accolades plaqued against the walls, a reminder that when returning home, only the past is glorified and celebrated. While they wait for their life to figure itself out, they go through the motions of getting by until an opportunity knocks. Even though my old frames and trophies rest on a wall in another time zone, I feel like I am very much in the same predicament.
After I give her a hug and kiss goodbye, I get in my car and drive back to my parents' house. The songs I play through the stereo are no longer filled with beat boxes and adrenaline, but rather quiet acoustic guitar and intimate, whispering vocals. I find that we often play music that's conducive to our mood.
I am drained of energy. In a matter of 48 hours, a handful of people I care about more than most everyone else on this Earth have come and gone, said hello and goodbye, asked how long it's been and how long it will be. I've seen my past, and it's been fantastic. We've discussed our futures, and it's promising. And now I'm left here in this car, with an empty passenger seat, to face my present.
The present is my bridge from the past to the future. The good times and hard work I put in down south led me to the man I am today, the quirky, arrogant-yet-humble Floridian getting his Masters in Pennsylvania. What I do here will help me get where I want (and I don't mean specifically New York, though we all know that's something I've long craved). I find myself waiting for that day to come, seeing it on the horizon, and being unable to skip pages on the calendar. Because the future looks as stellar as the past has already been, my current life of Harrisburg vanilla seems downright uninspiring in comparison.
My days in Florida are cemented in the archives. My days in God-knows-where are purely hypothetical, abstract, not real. My day today is the one I must face each morning.
My bags are packed, and I'm ready to head back to Pennsylvania. In the airport, as I'm rushing to transfer gates, I get caught on the conveyor belt. An old lady has chosen to rest idle on the track. Her bag is placed gently to her left. The walkway is completely blocked. I'm now stuck, unable to get around her. I can see everything in front of me but have no way of getting there right away. In these situations, I get tense, inpatient, aggravated. Part of me wants to kick this lady's bag aside and hurry on my way. But I don't. I can't. I just can't do it. Instead, I must patiently wait as I slowly coast to where I need to get. This doesn't please me. This isn't where I want to be. I don't want to sit here waiting.
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