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.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
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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