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.