Prologue

 

Pale moonlight shined on the black water as I swam the breaststroke and heard gentle splashing to my right.

 

I think the water killed my buzz. I’m never making it to work tomorrow.

 

I couldn’t see my clothes on the black beach. I left them on the right—no, on the left. I learned absolutely nothing from the last time I was here. I’ll just head straight to the left when we get out!

 

“Colin, why are you so far away?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

I swam ten feet closer with my head down. I promised her I wouldn’t look plus….I had to get out of the water eventually.

 

How was this happening? I never thought she would go for it. I was just kidding–sort of. Just think about Darren Bragg groundouts to short. 

 

She lifted herself onto the raft.

 

“The water is so nice. It does feel much cooler now.”

 

“Yeah, it’s really nice.”

 

“You can climb up here if you like.”

 

Oh my God. 

 

Is she lying on the raft?

 

I think Pedro is pitching tomorrow in Texas. 

 

“I’m not sure if I can.”

 

“Why not? Chicken?” 

 

“Okay...I will.”

 

Minima Cum Laude 

 

It was a mild, sunny daydream morning and I was about to graduate from college.

 

Maybe.

 

From the passenger’s seat of my mom’s white and black striped Honda Accord, I braced her for the potential looming disaster before us.  

 

“So….I might not graduate.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well, I’m not positive, I think I’m all set, but there’s, uh, a chance I fell slightly short of 120 credits.”

 

“Didn’t your class in West Hartford this spring give you what you need?”

 

“I think so. But I tried to get a waiver for Statistics and I’m not sure if they gave it to me. I think they did. Yeah…..don’t worry. It’s fine,” I backtracked lamely.   

 

“Well, I hope so,” her voice fading like the last song on Side 2.

 

Like a Pauly Shore vehicle, I walked out on Stats 101. Inside the cavernous Math-Science Building lecture hall, they projected an 8x11 image onto an IMAX sized screen–a real waste of screen real estate. Other kids sat back in their rock hard wooden chairs and enjoyed lectures on Natural Variability, Sampling Variability, Measurement Variability, and even Environmental Variability—all augmented by an eagled eyed view of the board/projector. But I couldn’t see a thing. 

 

Talk about ableism. Granted, I had read approximately 393 Political Correctness themed Daily Campus columns: morally superior epistles I felt morally superior to. You’re outraged by micro-aggression, Toby? I grew up legally blind in a town without a McDonald’s.

 

My Stats professor (TA?) sported a “My Stepson Needs To Understand I’m His Daddy Now” mustache better suited for moving jalopies from a used Buick dealership than molding young minds at a public Ivy. (Source: the US News & World Report).

 

I applied for a waiver.    

 

From my guest chair eight feet from the Dean of Liberal Arts desk, I learned distance makes the heart grow fainter. She reviewed my file for 28 years or possibly 29 seconds.

 

“You don’t think you can complete the coursework?”  

 

“Well…..it’s hard without being able to see the board, you know?”

 

That was my oral argument.

 

Pause.

 

Is it cold in here?

 

Why is her clock so loud?

 

“Did you go to the Disabled Students Center?”

 

“Well, uh, no. They did provide a Biology tutor,” I deflected.

 

Interminable pause.

 

While we’re waiting for The Dean to conclude her investigation, I will tell you my tutor was a blonde Kappa Kappa Gamma named Amber who mispronounced “organism.” For the rest of the lab (fine--the semester) I wondered if:

 

A) She created a hilarious anecdote for her boyfriend Brock (would I lie to you at a time like this?) at his Sig Ep house.

 

B) She just struggled with multisyllabic O words.

 

C. She Freudian slipped her white hot forbidden tutor/pupil passion for me.    

 

But lab table love triangles weren’t just for WB prime time programming. I only had eyes for Carrie, the raven haired goddess who stared straight into my eyes for ten amazingly tense seconds while we studied the anatomy of the retina. She saw Oasis right before Wonderwall blew up. I strummed Live Forever in my dorm–the ethereal F major 7th over the falsetto “ever” sent chills down everyone’s spine. If there had been anyone else in the room. 

 

“I’m going to deny this request,” the Ice Queen ultimately ruled. “You can get a tutor or speak with the professor about special accommodations.”

 

I had sunk so low. To think I once silently scoffed at classmates who panicked over references to the Quadratic Formula or Pythagorean Theorem without concurrent chalkboard illustrations. This highly adapted…..organism had reduced himself to groveling?  

 

I should have told The Dean about my high school Trig oral report. I crunched box score statistics from every baseball game one Sunday in May.

 

“Good job! This is why if a guy has gone 7 for his last 8 but his career batting average is only .262, the manager will always pitch to him,” Mr. Colangelo said.

 

“But Mr. C, don’t they do the exact opposite,” I was too shy to raise my hand and ask.    

 

The batter’s hand-eye coordination is off, he’s gripping his bat too tight, his mom is sick. Managers gleefully pounce on these wounded animals because statistics just measure the miles, confidence drives the bus.   

 

I took Stats again. The PA system which amplified my professor’s heavily accented voice was so low-def I started to imagine we all left on a snorkeling field trip. I support multiculturalism and A/V clubs, but my naturally selected hearing hit an evolutionary brick wall. I could neither see nor hear the lesson plan. I stopped setting my alarm for class.

 

So I adopted plan C: pretend Stats doesn’t exist. This wasn’t too difficult since I glanced at my transcript’s nose-diving GPA like an overdue cable bill. Did this mean I would stand in my cap and gown at Gampel Pavilion and not hear my name as my parents, grandmother, and aunt looked on in shame?

 

From the podium atop Gampel Pavilion’s basketball court, Phoenix Insurance CEO Bob Romano gave the commencement speech. No phoenix could ever rise from these rhetorical ashes. Contractually obligated, he said, “To thine own self be true”: a line from Polonius—who probably said “consequently” a lot—to his son Laertes—who said, “Hey Broseph, don’t bogart that joint'' repeatedly. Just once someone should say, “Kids, as the Bard might say, thou hast nor youth nor old age, but, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, dreaming on both. So….dream big?”

 

Then he got more serious than a Shakespeare problem play. 

 

“I believe very strongly that this is just the beginning for you, rather than the end. You will be entering the working world where grades are much less relevant than they were just a moment ago, where no one knows what you know, where, you will be surprised, very few people will care whether you succeed or not.”

 

Get this man to an Open Mic. 

 

He added family is what truly matters until everyone booed him off the stage. I’m probably remembering this wrong.

 

They started calling names. Aarons and Adamses have it made. Don’t they have ceremonies in the fall? I could come back! My family loves me unconditionally, right?

 

“Michelle Fairbrother……Eric Fallon………………”

 

How many stupid kids go to this stupid school?

 

“Gerald McCaffery, David Mark McCall, Douglas Scott McCaffery…….”

 

Was this a St. Patrick’s Day parade? Who brought the green Guinness?

 

“Colin McDonough.”   

 

I looked in both directions. No other Colin McDonoughs stepped forward to claim their degree. A miracle! I shook hands. I even smiled awkwardly. I had (somehow) earned a Bachelor Of Arts degree from The University Of Connecticut: a broken bat infield single, but a line drive in the box score. 

 

Did they waive Stats out of pity? A clerical error? Fear of litigation? Better stop asking questions. 

 

At our celebratory Friendly’s lunch, I had the Colossal Burger with bacon, large fries, and a chocolate shake. I’m surprised I’m still alive.

 

“I’m so proud of you, Col. This was an amazing accomplishment,” my aunt said. 

 

Was it though?

 

“Thanks!”

 

“I agree. You’re a college grad-u-8,” my self-deprecating, associate’s degree holding Dad seconded. 

 

Five and a half years plus one last course at the branch! Humiliating. All from an existential dread of getting up before 8:45 AM ever again. I drained the wallets of my parents and Services For The Blind to do keg stands in parking lots rather than browse Career Fair brochures. I owed everyone at the table a heartfelt apology. I could have at least picked up the check.

 

And what did I learn? William Faulkner hated the honeysuckle scented swamp called The South but couldn’t stop writing about it. James Joyce grew allegorical wings and flew from the drab, dreary labyrinth of Ireland but couldn’t stop writing about it. I hated Huskies Bar but couldn’t stop stumbling home from it.

 

And May is the kindest month.    

 

The Ghost In You

 

Halfway through his life’s journey Dante found himself in a dark wood. A quarter way through mine I found myself in Woodside Acres: a suburban neighborhood carved out of the forest in the 70’s. Many evenings I biked down to Hoffman Road and was amazed to discover the sun was still shining.

 

Maplewood Drive’s semi-circular gravel enclosed the woods. Our sprawling lawn meant more snow to shovel, leaves to rake, and lawn to mow while its hilly slope meant no basketball court. I had hoop dreams of playing for the Ellington Knights (named after 12 year old Samuel Knight who was run over in the road by a wheelbarrow in 1812). This was actually an apt metaphor for our ability to handle a full court press). They wore beautiful purple and yellow gold uniforms. #3 would look great on me. I imagined  tossing off my JV warmup jacket with 1:22 left in a 62-29 blowout of East Windsor. The rim is large and stationary. The ball is orange and relatively soft. Even a close range hit to the head wouldn’t likely be anything two Tylenols couldn’t fix. Pale and blond, I was basically the 5’8”, blind Larry Bird. But afraid other kids would laugh, I never showed up for try-outs.

 

I did, however, play rec football for the orange and black juggernaut, the Roadrunners. (Clearly not all Ellington nicknames were tender homages to poor Samuel Knight). I was eight years old. After my big brother Patrick signed up, I quite foolishly believed I too was ready for the hard knock life. My one and a half week career ended when I tearfully returned my helmet and shoulder pads to Mr. Sawwell, the despotic head coach who called us by our last names (what kind of psycho does that?) and said, “Gotta protect the family jewels, boys. Don’t forget to wear your jock strap or you will start talking funny!”. The other kids laughed hysterically. I didn’t get it. How would that impact your speaking voice? Brookside Park’s practice field was three miles from home but it might as well have been on Pluto. While I should have been showing the tackle bag who was boss, I worried my mom would forget to pick us up, leaving us stranded as darkness set in with only our jock straps to protect us from talking funny after getting kicked in the family jewels by a slightly more disheveled doppelganger of Mr. Roper from Three’s Company. This probably wasn’t how Mean Joe Green got started.     

 

But baseball was the temptress that truly broke my heart. Seventh grade Little League talk went from the bus stop to Home Ec to lunch to the bus ride home.

 

“Who’s pitching tonight?”.

 

“Farnsworth”.

 

“Against who?”.

 

“Zimmer”.

 

“Hey I’m on Pastori’s this year!”.

 

“Cool, man. I’m on Agway”.

 

I wanted to play so badly I suspended my disbelief until my mom had to say it wasn’t safe–even for the 80’s.

 

“Honey, you might get hurt. I’m sorry”.

 

“I think I could do it! I want to at least try!”, I protested through my tears. 

 

You know what doesn’t make you cry? Rock and roll. I fell in love with FM rock radio, listening every day after school. I even won WCCC T-shirts, The Alarm’s Strength and Dokken’s Under Lock And Key albums, and tickets to Blue Oyster Cult and NRBQ shows I was far too young to attend.

 

And our front lawn did host athletic competitions. Neighborhood kids flocked to 15 Maplewood after school for…a friendly game of touch football? Absolutely not. Kill The Man With The Ball, also known in more problematic times as Smear The Queer. A  Wilson was tossed in the air and everyone sprinted after it like rabid rottweilers. Whoever won the ensuing savage tug of war at the bottom of a pile zigged and zagged across the lawn to (temporarily) evade 8-10 bloodthirsty gang tacklers. But this lamb only postponed his slaughter. Following his inevitable sacking and stripping, the next victim took his place. This was football without the boring stuff. Playbooks? Teamwork? Being molded into fine young men? No thank you. As the youngest kid, I took pride in taking a pounding and still getting up. Take away a pee wee coach’s psychological terrorism, confine me in a kidnapper-free zone, and I was a gridiron gladiator after all. 

…………………………………..

My volunteer firefighting dad loved our aluminum siding’s fireproofing capabilities. I loved its springiness which allowed you to have a catch with your house. Our twenty-year old breezeway bore more pockmarks than the surface of the moon. Aluminum also saved a tree, but this was late 70’s east of the river Connecticut. Mik did a body good and Mother Earth was an immortal goddess. 

 

Woods walled our backyard on all three sides. While construction crews built our neighbor’s house, we peeked through a clearing. My Dad was flabbergasted.

 

“This house has no privacy at all. No privacy!”.

 

Woods lined their rear and left side, but their right flank was completely exposed! Might as well be naked. I don’t think Peeping Toms ever spied on the Fords, but their wide open (by Woodside standards) backyard became a thruway. I got stung by a bee in the forehead while running home. And watch that clothesline if you like your head.

 

But it turns out the Fords were lucky. During my first summer after college, I was starting to evaporate into thin air from so much privacy.

 

When I was four, my parents, my brother and I moved from Hillside Drive to our white raised ranch. When I was eight, my parents divorced, occupancy shrank to my mom, my brother and me. When I was sixteen, my brother left for college and switched places  with my stepfather. When I was 20, my mom realized she married the kind of guy who said, “There are very little shades of gray with me”, “Daddy’s home!” (to his stepson with a still breathing father), and “That’s where they go for the panty raids”, so she mercifully sent him packing. It was down to her and me now.

 

If a house’s occupancy decreases, do its dimensions increase? I didn’t trust the tape measure any more than the statistician. Our empty house  left ample space for ghosts to creak through the radiator. 

 

My brother Patrick had moved to San Diego with his college friends. He monopolized the TV, he said “Colin! Answer the phone LIKE A MAN” if I said “Hello” like a sleepwalking wuss, and he left dishes in the den until the gravy or A1 sauce turned into a congealed brown crust, but when shop class hood Carl Kawolski shoved him into a bonfire at a Purple Forest kegger and Patrick had to douse his James Hetfield hair in Bud to put out the flames, I was more enraged than him even though he was the one who navigated through high school fist first. His laughter from Cheers, The Simpsons, and even Roseanne was always accompanied by a solitary hand clap. I could hear it with my door closed and my stereo on. But now the house was all tranquil silence and clean dishes. I could answer the phone anyway I liked. It just never seemed to ring anymore.

   

Also, our cat Furball had died. My mom rescued her from a cardboard box in the street. She resembled a black ball of fur while sleeping. Her feline ways made you question if she cared if you lived or died or if she was possibly plotting your murder. Maybe she just used us for food, water, and a bed to hide under during thunderstorms? But she would excitedly greet us when Patrick and I came home from Florida. That’s love, right? And I’d be guarded with my emotions too if someone ditched me on garbage day. She would meow her way into my bed (usually when Patrick’s door was closed) purring all the while. One sweltering night she screamed on our front porch. I thought she was dying until four kittens popped out. I guess she had put on some weight…. The white cat on Oakwood Circle was the prime deadbeat dad/rape suspect, making their rumored tryst the first known example of ebony and ivory living in harmony in our white flight town.

 

Even the Whalers announced they were leaving to become the Carolina Hurricanes! Plain red and white replaced beautiful green and blue. Brass Bonanza would never again echo off the Civic Center’s walls. Is Raleigh a place or an airport? WTIC-AM had stopped airing their games when they conflicted with UConn games. Everyone hates a loser. Owner Peter Karmanos said “We would have stayed if the state of Connecticut had subsidized us”. Unloved, unsubsidized, cuckolded by a college basketball team, he ran to the arms of a town whose local basketball team, the NC State Wolfpack, could never upstage in-state powerhouses Duke and North Carolina, so Raleigh was safe for hockey. ………………………………………

I can’t read without my nose to the page, but my farsighted eyes can see large, four ton hunks of metal reasonably well, so, at least for the helmetless Evel Knievel loving 80’s and 90’s, riding bikes was safe. I had circled the entire town on my teal Trek ten speed since college. A town rumored to house more cows than people provided many backstreets to ride down without fear of getting run over by a day drinking landscaper barreling down a congested byway. And you had to drive to Vernon to get on scary I-84.

 

I rode down Hoffman Road and breathed in Baehler’s Farm’s pungent perfume of cow shit. (Comedy stylists from neighboring towns called us Smellington). I turned onto Pinney Street where the suddenly chopped down corn  looked unnaturally barren no matter that you saw it last August too. I braved the dirt and rocks of Porter Road in defiance of three previous popped tires. I rode past Ellington High School, Longview Middle, and Center Elementary. I toured all three one day, taking a sip from Center’s three foot water fountain and fleeing before any teacher could ask when I was planning to move on with my life. I pedaled up Mountain Road to Crystal Lake, the subject of rampant home room rumors of Jason Vorhees sightings. (Get it? Camp Crystal Lake?). A group of us once went drunk skinny dipping there. Four guys, two girls. Don’t leer at the girls! Don’t get excited. Skinny dipping was pretty stressful. I couldn’t find my clothes in the dark and Danielle said, “Your clothes are over here, Col”. Did she peek? Did she care?  

 

I saw a chalk lined message on Lower Butcher Road:

 

ERIC MELROSE IS GAY

 

This meant he was not gay. You would never pen a chalky memorial to an actual gay kid for fear someone might think you were gay for him.

 

I would get a Coke or Snapple at the Five Corners 7-11 before heading back on the open, aimless road.

 

Kids at keg parties used to say, “I always see you on your bike!”. But I had no keggers to go to this summer. I would still hear car horns. Someone I knew? I was like a distant star through a telescope; you see what it looked like a billion light years ago but whatever happened to it? No one knows.   

 

With its driveways, garages, parking lots, gas stations, and car dealerships, Ellington was painstakingly designed without me in mind. Bus drivers, car pooling catechism moms, and kegger chauffeurs were gone. I was on my own. An exile in my hometown.   

 

I never wanted to live anywhere else. (Besides UConn). My mom once floated transferring to American Airlines’ Dallas office but I was so horrified she promptly relented. The Golden Gate Bridge at sunset was nice, but I thought our town gazebo was the more impressive architectural structure. As I dug my feet in the warm white sands of Waikiki Beach gazing out at the glistening, turquoise Pacific, I wondered if it quite matched the majestic beauty of Crystal Lake. Disney World was magical, but magical like our Fireman’s Fair? Whichever girl I had a crush on lived in Ellington, so those tourist traps were like beautiful cinematography without a movie. But now I was a child actor deemed unsuitable for adult roles awaiting a phone call that never came about a Different Strokes reunion.    

 

When classmates excitedly announced passing Driver’s Ed (run by Richard “Are You Thinking Of Pink Elephants?” Pearson) I could sense the town’s wandering eye, but now it was unmistakably breaking up with me.

 

I got lost in uncharted Tolland one Sunday evening. A nice lady walking her dog gave me directions. I got even more lost. Eventually I stumbled back onto Route 83 as dusk settled in, thinking the territory I marked for years with my tire tracks was getting covered back up like footprints in the hedge maze snow

………………………………….

I read Crime And Punishment. A poor college student robs and murders an old lady because political pamphlets he read convinced him not all lives matter. A dad sells his daughter into prostitution but says he was out of work with mouths to feed. “Do you know, sir, what it’s like to have nowhere to go?”. It ended with an old-fashioned murderer/prostitute love story. 

 

After I finished that zany comedy, I picked up Lolita at Borders Books in the Buckland Hills Mall. A Vanity Fair critic gushed “Lolita is the only convincing love story of the 20th Century”. Sold!

 

In this heart tugging romance, an urbane, witty professor named Humbert Humbert falls for a twelve year old girl. He does the obvious thing and marries her mom. His cockblocking betrothed is run over by a car after learning hubby wasn’t quite Prince Charming after all. What a lucky break! Our romantic lead gains full custody of the tween fire of his loins. He assaults her. She ditches him for a pornographer. Humbert Humbert kills him–for  compromising her morals apparently.

 

This Valentine’s Day, a hardcover copy of Lolita will pair perfectly with a dozen long stem roses and a box of Godivas.

 

Some writers think ripping off rose colored glasses makes them ophthalmologists. But do these prosecutors strain so hard to denounce the shortsighted, saccharine arguments of the defense that they succumb to their own dirt coated myopia? I wanted to slay the Cyclops, not become his second eye! Unable to sail between the rock of realism and the whirlpool of romanticism, they blame the sea for their own poor navigation.

 

In grad school, A’s would be like taking candy from a nymphet and calling it love. 

 

“This text is a profound meditation on the rape of childlike innocence in twentieth century consumerist America. We’re all bobby sox wearing nymphets! Lolita? C’est moi! Our youthful, yearning, idealistic (three adjectives because I’m crawling towards five pages here) selves are getting incinerated in the pale fire of materialism. This is totally not just some weirdo channeling his sick fantasies into a critically acclaimed pedophile comedy. Like I said a little bit earlier, Lolita is brilliant!”. 

 

Is it much different from “You have beautiful eyes” in a meat market dance club?

 

Meanwhile, my classmate wrote a Beowulf essay entitled Beer, Babes, and Broadswords. Grendel isn’t a symbol of primordial paganism slayed by the righteous sword of Christianity/Beowulf, but rather a metaphorical Monstrous Hangover which our epic hero must kill so future generations can raise mead in the Valhalla air like they just don’t care. This groundbreaking contribution to literary scholarship earned a D-. No free thinking in the liberal arts!

 

I got up at 11:23 AM and slogged through Lolita (it still beat The Bold And The Beautiful) in a lawn chair in our wiffle-ball dented breezeway. I put my feet on our picnic table which had been defaced years with pocketknifed peace signs and pentagrams by The Woodside Crue: a restless gang of latchkey kids whose after school activities included but were not limited to smoking cigarettes, smoking weed, watering down parents’ wine bottles, wandering through the woods, and carving stuff into picnic tables. The also Crue waged epic snowball fights (two black eyes over here) and invented the sport of Roof Diving. Everyone crawled through my window onto the garage roof and dove into a teenage hooligan made snowball twenty feet below–headfirst unless you were a wuss. (I was a wuss). It was left to me to erase the snow prints and dirt in my room before my mom got home.

 

With the Crue disbanded, my mom placed a blue table cloth over their pocket knifed legacy. But, like St. Paul, I remembered. I often lifted it up just to read the old names.

 

Dan’s high school aged sister Ally played Radio 104 across the street while tanning by their above ground pool. I heard a song about getting nicotine in your hair. Was this a misheard lyric? Was it “on your ass?”. But how does that happen? Should sweet, impressionable young girls like Ally listen to such dirty songs?!

 

I read The Hartford Courant, The Journal Inquirer, box scores, CD and concert reviews, and if I got desperate, the news. Or the editorials. “A UConn football stadium will boost economic activity”. “A UConn football stadium will be a financial catastrophe”. As our wind chimes blew gently, I saw this:

 

WILLIAMS. Stacy Miller, 24, of Overhill Road, Ellington, died Sunday (May 26, 1997 at Cape Cod Hospital, Hyannis, MA. She was born in Rockville, daughter of Louis and Virginia (Dawson) Miller of Ellington. Stacy had just completed nursing school at St. Elizabeth School of Nursing in Brighton, MA”.

 

This was more depressing than a literary masterpiece. Strawberry blonde hair. Quiet and shy. Friends with Tracy Byers across the street. One day they called me over. What did we talk about? I couldn’t even remember. Forever 24. Her old age now someone else’s after-dinner dream.

…………………………………           

Dan still went to Eastern CT State University. I often congratulated him on attending the second most prestigious university in northeastern Connecticut. Our pickup basketball games on his flat driveway ended after I broke his backboard with my lethally effective bank shot. (The red painted square was easier to see). His neighbor Mr. Aase was elated. When the ball crash landed in the flowerbed under the wooden fence separating their yards, he would storm out screaming, “Keep that fucking ball out of my flowerbed!” (He also screamed, “Shut your fucking dog up!” every summer night after 11PM). His long- suffering bride Diane tended those delicate peonies. “Hey punks, I’m maintaining appearances in my loveless marriage.”

 

To signal a wiffle ball game, Dan tried to draw me outside with whistling, but I had studied Pavlov and Skinner in Psych 101 and, hoping to stave off mechanized clockwork canine status, I played deaf. Not one to see the behavioral sciences so discredited, he initiated Plan B: whiffle ball line drives against our aluminum siding.

 

But this summer this once proud anti-Skinnerian became a meek, starving Pavlov dog and widened my interpretation of a stimulus. At the sound of a car door, I rushed down to greet him. I was usually too late.

 

Knocking was not an option.

 

One sleety semester break January night Dan left tracks in our muddy lawn while backing out of the driveway. I labeled it (probably) accidental. My mom wasn’t so sure.

 

“Did Daniel do this on purpose?” she asked in a wounded voice.

 

 My stepfather—who offered the homeless a leg up with “Get a job!” life hack tips—moved out two weeks earlier. I felt so bad for my mom I left an uncharacteristic note by the kitchen door:

 

“Dear Mom,

 

Have a good day at work.

 

Love,

 

Colin.”

 

She thanked me when she got home. (If love is the answer, why does it hurt like nothing else?)

 

But now the time for comforting words was over. Bob Romano said it best: this was not the end, it was only the beginning. Dan would think defacing our lawn was hilarious! Had he not defaced our beautiful yet fragile aluminum siding with impunity for years?

 

Under the cover of starless midwinter darkness I stealthily marched out at 1:36 AM (had to catch Spacehog on Conan) and placed a fistfull of mud on his Dad’s minivan. The contrasting white roof would boldly reveal my crime in the gray light of dawn. Then in a moment of truly inspired madness, I carved a tic-tac-toe board on their lawn with my boot and drew three diagonal X’s.

 

Game over, Matthews family.

 

This brazen act of kamikaze warfare caused such a breakneck fall from grace in Mr. Madden’s eyes I nearly got the bends. Like 98 percent of middle-aged suburban dads, lawn care was the poor man’s life. And to think I had faithfully (or so it seemed at the time) served their home care needs for years! While they vacationed in Maine every August, I watered Mrs. Matthew’s geraniums and put chlorine in their pool (though not quite to Mr. Matthew’s exacting standards unless his pH readings were sorely mistaken) in exchange for $20 and the right to skinny dip at night. (A contractual clause written in invisible ink). I also subbed on Dan’s paper route while he was at basketball or baseball practice. I stoically endured countless paper cuts to bring The Journal Inquirer to my I mean his loyal customers’ doorsteps on Maplewood and Oakwood. Mrs. Madden handed me $30 per week. But now my healed hands had mud on them which all the perfumes of Arabia would never again sweeten.

…………………………………….

I caught up with Dan one Tuesday afternoon.

 

“What’s up, Jacque Jones?”

 

I was Jacque Jones, Jake, Dickie, Rob, Rob Reiner—never Colin. His buddy Tim Kowalksi was Coach K. His sister, for reasons unknown by this author, was Charles.

 

“Hey, Dan. Want to play wiffle-ball?”

 

“I can’t. I have to work in an hour. The Old Country Buffet needs me, Rob. Maybe Thursday or Friday.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Sox fucking suck this year, Jake. Did you watch the game last night?”

 

“I wouldn’t miss a Bob Kurtz broadcast if you paid me”.

 

NESN’s play by play man was blander than unbuttered Wonder Bread, but I didn’t miss a game during that 78-84 season. Jerry Remy’s color commentary went, “First the fastball, now the curveball strikes out Mo Vaughn” when even fans with best corrected visual acuities of 20/400 watching on 19 inch Zenith TV’s could plainly see that. His smoker’s cough during “Emeker'' Insurance promos (he was from Fall River, MA) inspired me to quit. 

 

In high school I bummed ‘rettes off my badass longhaired black leather jacket wearing bro and his longhaired stone washed denim over leather wearing smoking lounge companion Ian. Axl Rose’s mom probably didn’t do his laundry but mine did, so I couldn’t go full Marlboro Man. But after I mastered the spin cycle in college, I trudged to Store 24 in a snowstorm. Nor’easters make you crave nicotine, I guess. 

 

But my future as a black rebel motorcycle club member who uses his right ear as a cigarette holder or an intellectual hipster, cafe frequenting, homemade tobacco rolling lover of French cinema and not just for the full frontal nudity looked dim. Time to hang up my Bic. No more cigarette butts flicked into the woods which my mom probably saw at the clothesline.

 

Plus I’d save money if I moved out. But I still needed more than the monthly SSI check I had collected since turning 18. My dad said: “I’ve been paying taxes all of my life and now my son can benefit”. Sound reasoning. My mom agreed. My SSI collecting brother agreed. Farsighted and outvoted, I still felt the majority party was shortsighted. Did my inability to drive or see the board make me “disabled”? I read so close it looked like I was sniffing a ditto fresh off a microfiche machine and I couldn’t man The Hot Corner without endangering my life, but during fourth grade recess, in my life’s most transcendent epiphany (inspired by a ditto high?) I figured out the comeback to, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

 

“I don’t know. How many am I holding up?”

 

(Sticks up middle finger).

 

Everyone laughs. 

 

Did I sound disabled to you?  

 

And at one time I might not have even been born legally blind. They widened the definition in 1968. Did they send Publishers Clearinghouse “You may already be blind” letters? And what did those nouveau aveugles think? Did they beam with gratitude or feel burned by this legislative hot poker to their eyes?

 

$300 in public assistance turned me into a collegiate King Midas. Record store owners, package store owners, bartenders, and the makers of Nacho Cheese Pretzel Combos experienced a sudden financial windfall they’re still struggling to explain. If someone says welfare doesn’t stimulate the economy they simply don’t know what they’re talking about. I told my broke ass floormates, “The next time you see your parents, please thank them. Their tax dollars paid for my beer tonight.”  

……………………………………..

I shouldn’t have quit smoking.  

 

Slow ripples of anxiety broke through the surface and nicotine withdrawal was the underwater volcano which threatened to blow the whole island to smithereens! (I’m not sure if that sounded Shakespearean or like a Michael Bay screenplay. Either way I refuse to hit delete).

…………………………..

Dan invited me to the movies with his buddies Jeff and Chris. (Three man minimums were absolutely essential so no one could possibly mistake you for two dudes on a date). In Con Air, John Malkovich went full Malkovich. Nicholas Cage got extremely Cagey. John Cusack made you wonder why Lloyd Dobler turned out this way. There was an airplane prison break. Shit got blown up. Tender romance. A corpse fell out of the sky. Someone got shot in the head. “Put the bunny back in the box!”, Nick Cage warned for some reason. It goes without saying Con Air was a runaway summer blockbuster.

 

I got panicky. I had trouble breathing. Was it the Coke? This happened when I saw Field Of Dreams too, but luckily my dad disapproved of unrealistic storytelling unless Arnold was winning a machine gun battle against fifteen highly trained snipers, so when Shoeless Joe’s ghost walked out of Kevin Costner’s cornfield, he was happy to hit the left Exit door when I said I wasn’t feeling well--maybe something I ate?

 

I went to the bathroom and loitered in the lobby. I stared probably somewhat maniacally at the Milk Duds and Raisinets behind the glass. Finally, Dan came out.

 

“Jake, what are you doing out here?”   

 

“I don’t know. I’m not feeling too good. Maybe something I ate.”

 

“Do you need to go home?”

 

“I think I’ll be alright. I’ll be back in a minute.”

 

I summoned the courage to go back in. I calmed down just enough to enjoy machine gun fire, military helicopter bomb droppings, and wacky one liners. The film ended after Nick Cage gave his adorable daughter Casey a toy bunny while Leanne Rhymes yearningly cooed How Do I Live Without You. They must have developed the bunny plotline while I was in the lobby.

…………………………………...

I owned a $400 Mexican Fender Stratocaster with a bridge humbucker (like Eddie Van Halen!). Sunburst with a rosewood fretboard and black pickguard, it looked like a Halloween pumpkin.

 

It replaced the black Steve Vai signature Ibanez I won in high school after I named seven guitar riffs. (Bad To The Bone and Jet Airliner were involved). Its Floyd Rose tuners encouraged facemelting divebombs while staying in tune, but I never figured out its elaborate locking system so I had to ask Beller’s Music to change the strings, which was emasculating.

 

My idiot proof Strat and my Crate amp’s 20 watts of raw, skull crushing solid state power transformed me into a rock and roll lethal weapon. The clean channel’s built-in chorus effect was spacey and beautiful and the distortion channel sounded like a swarm of angry and very constipated bees. That’s a compliment.

 

But chicks dig singers so I grabbed my $200 laminated Washburn acoustic, fired up our Windows 95 equipped Gateway P5-66, dialed-up to AOL, and found guitar tablature sites. Tab books were $25 in the offline world. Good riddance. They made Unskinny Bop and Naughty Naughty appear to rival Ride Of The Valkyries in musical virtuosity, but copyright infringing E-pirates just provided chords so you could fake your way through until it sounded close enough. No drowning in a sea of ghost notes. The Information Superhighway helped most when it provided less information.

 

REM’s shy guy anthem Losing My Religion came out my senior year in high school. Hair metal hadn’t died (although Slaughter was flying it to the angels) but no one smelled like teen spirit yet. I chose Athens, GA college rock over Bang Tango.

 

That summer I learned how to play and sing Find The River. That Maxell cassette is buried under a landfill somewhere. That’s not good enough. Please find a river, get an anchor, and drown it.    

 …………………………………..

 A “friend” tells me 90’s Internet lacked the bandwidth for porn. Even low-resolution photos took twelve minutes to load—a right boob appeared at 39% but you had to wait until 93% to fully see the left one! Dial- up Internet would have caused even patient Job to throw his mouse against the wall. A step backwards from my VHS collection of the most crucial scenes from 80’s teen comedies and 90’s erotic thrillers HBO aired nightly around 11:45 PM. If you failed to hit record in time, you missed a boob shot or– always a jackpot winner—a full frontal scene which moved the plot forward (thank you Twin Peaks alumni) from lost classics like Hardbodies 2 and Sins Of Desire until they aired at 2:50AM the following Wednesday and even I wasn’t enough of a loser to set my alarm or learn how to program a VCR.

 

Out of AOL minutes, I turned on MTV. Some guy moped into the camera about artificial greenery. Then an angry guy fantasized about a major metropolitan area driven into oblivion by a rare weather catastrophe.  

 

Oh for fuck’s sake. If I wanted musical uplift, was I in the wrong decade?

 

But then a bleach blond guy by a sunny swimming pool sang of his dreams of aviation.

 

This should have helped more than it did.    

 ………………………………….

I followed my mom’s lead and tried online hearts against non-human Lisa, Bill, and John. My avatar was a frowning blond guy. What were they trying to say? Lisa also angrily frowned and her hairstyle was likely the result of a toaster accident. John was a carrot topped, shifty eyed scowler. Bill was a straight faced, mustachioed black haired button man who didn’t care to be fucked with. I think his avatar was inspired by ESPN World Series Of Poker players or drug cartel mules. 

 

I struggled early because I don’t believe in reading directions. I assumed you tried to collect hearts when in fact you try to ditch them. But it’s the evil queen of spades you really want to avoid. You pick three cards to pass on before each game (unless you had the 2 of clubs). I kept my hearts and spades and dropped my clubs and diamonds while stalling for time. Lisa, Bill, and even John didn’t know what hit them. But then I realized if you ditch all your low diamonds but get dealt the ace of diamonds and someone leads with a diamond---let’s say John—and shadowy Bill tossed in the queen of spades, I was stuck with the hand. Whatever. Possibly there was another path to domination, but then Bill would just come find me and break my knees.

………………………………

A road trip might do me good. We visited my grandmother in Stafford Springs.

 

 “Anybody here love their grandmutha??!”

 

“Yes, me.”  

 

If I snuck through the kitchen while she talked to my mom she said, “Get back heah and give your grandmuthah a hug, sweethaht!” Gram had yet to shed her Fall Rivah accent after fifty years in Connecticut. (She obviously loved Jerry Remy).

 

She didn’t make her famous fried chicken or amazing chocolate chip cookies. Or bread pudding. (No huge loss there). My mom did her hair. Gram always said I was so handsome and “smaht.” She said corny shit like, “Colin, will you be my Valentine?” or “God gave Gram two knees: one for each boy!” But she wasn’t all lovey dovey.,

 

“It’s easier to jump over her than walk around her,” she observed of a fellow Senior Center member. The pot was calling the kettle black but I admired Gram’s insult comic chops nonetheless.    

 

We stopped at McDonald’s on our way home.

 

“I think I might have something wrong. I’m getting some heart palpitations,” I said.

 

“Oh dear. For how long?”

 

“A couple weeks maybe. I wonder if I need to see a doctor”

 

“You’re not covered under my insurance anymore. Are you sure you don’t need to get out of the house more? You don’t seem to ride your bike anymore.”

 

“I just haven’t been into it I guess.”

 

“Can you do more things with Daniel?”

 

“He’s always working.”

 

“Have you talked to Barry Arroyo? Maybe the state can get you a job?”

 

Barry was my Connecticut Services For The Blind (CSB) counselor. They had paid a portion of my tuition. A year earlier he visited my dorm.

 

“We’ve got to form a vocational plan and get you a job. We’ve invested quite a chunk of change in you, so we’d like to see some return.”, he said like a cross between Gordon Gekko and Jabba The Hut. Would I go into the carbon freeze or just get punched in the face in Central Park?

 

“No, I haven’t talked to Barry. Maybe I’ll call.”

 

“They have to help you. Otherwise, what are they paying him for?”

 

“I know. I also quit smoking. Maybe I’m having withdrawals.”

 

“Well I’m glad you quit. Would you like to stop at Walgreens for nicotine patches?”

 

So much for that bombshell confession.

 

“Okay. I don’t know. I think I miss college. Or I miss my friends.”

 

“What about Sean Lask and those guys?”

 

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll call them. I don’t know. And then maybe Patrick living in San Diego.”

 

Oh no. Not here. Not in the stupid Stafford Springs McDonald’s over a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.

 

A tear fell in my fries. Then another.

 

“I’ll be okay.”

 

Go and worry your poor mom to death why don’t you? How did that help matters? A drowning son drags his mother down with him. Details at eleven.

…………………………………………..

The breezeway doorbell rang. Only Avon ladies and Jehovah’s Witnesses rang our front door. I opened the screen door and saw my brother’s friend Ian. He wore boots, jeans, and a black T-shirt on this 87 degree day.

 

“Hey, where’s Patrick!?”

 

“Hey Ian! What’s up?”

 

He took a long drag from his cigaretten and exhaled.

 

“Where is your brother?”

 

“He’s not here. He doesn’t live here anymore.”

 

“What!? Well that’s just fucking great. Are you serious? He doesn’t live here anymore??”

 

“No. He’s living in San Diego now.”

 

“He’s living in San Diego?? (Long pause). When did that happen!?”

 

“About six months ago. He moved out with Central friends.”

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

 

“I’m not kidding, dude.”

 

“He’s really not here? Tell him I’ve got a joint for him.”

 

“Really, dude”, I laughed. “I’m not hiding him from you, I swear.”

 

He stared blankly, rendered utterly speechless.

 

“Wow.”

 

I’m not positive Ian was entirely sober.

 

“What’s up with you?” I asked. “Have you seen anyone lately? Missy? Aaron? Beth?”

 

“I’ve seen no one. I’m in Milford.”

 

“Hey, can I bum a smoke?”

 

One wouldn’t kill me.

 

He took his Marlboro Reds out of his left front pocket and lit his silver lighter.

 

“Well this is just fucking great.”

 

Boy he was taking this news hard. Eventually denial, anger, bargaining, and depression yielded to acceptance. He drove off. I never saw him again.

 

Ian was a high school heartthrob with Jordan Catalanato cheekbones and a cool reserve that made the girls swoon. Missy was his smoking hot ex-girlfriend. One day I rushed to answer the phone (95 percent of the calls were for Patrick but never mind that).

 

“Why didn’t you go to the prom?” she said.

 

Word travels fast. I had watched my Taxi Driver VHS recording just to enhance my masochistic joy.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You should have asked me. I would have gone.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Of course!”

 

Of course we would have gone as friends, but she had broken up with Ian (again) and between getting dressed up, maybe some dancefloor Tone Loc, and far too much illegal Southern Comfort, who knows? Was my own brand of emotional unavailability enough to get me to second base?

 

Ian went to Elmcrest reform school. He hung drawings of mountains, dragons and each of us on our refrigerator. They looked amazing. One day we watched Cheers. Sam and Diane got in a slapping contest until Sam said, “Are you as turned on as I am?”. Diane said, “More!” They made out. The phone rang in my mom’s room.

 

“If it’s my mom, say I’m not here!”

 

“Hello,” I said.

 

“This is Ian’s mother. Is he there?”

 

“Sorry I haven’t seen him around today.”

 

“Well if he was there, could you tell him it’s imperative he comes home to rake the leaves?” Her tone chilled more than the November wind screaming through the windows.

 

“Ian, it’s imperative you come home and rake the leaves.”

 

“She always uses big words when she’s trying to be scary.”

 

He left five minutes later.

 

Another afternoon, he and Patrick smoked a joint while sitting on a rock in the woods.

 

“Colin, your problem is you don’t have enough self-esteem,” Ian said.

 

He’d been paying attention. I was flattered.  

 

Was he evaporating too? Was the world perfectly happy to move on from another talented kid from a broken home?

 

“Very few people, you may be surprised to learn, will care if you succeed or not.”

 

I don’t blame him for not believing me. The Woodside Crue was gone and it wasn’t coming back, but it all seemed to come without warning even though they spoiled the ending just like when Scott Alfson gave away the ending of The Empire Strikes Back at the bus stop in first grade. But I still didn’t believe Darth Vader was Luke Skywalker’s father until I saw it myself two days later. Maybe in our hearts those teenage days of getting lost in the woods (“We just need to find the generator”), making ourselves at home in half built houses on Cherrywood Drive when construction workers weren’t around and hoping the half- built stairs didn’t collapse under our feet, scoring illegal Peppermint Schnapps from someone/anyone’s older brother, going pool hopping until Dad stormed outside screaming “Get the hell off my property!”, drunk trick or treating after you had clearly aged out of Halloween so you smashed pumpkins in defiance of time…..it all felt too eternal to ever really end. I think Ian was surprised to discover eternity had an alarm clock and he felt tricked. 

…………………………………....

I took midnight walks through the houselight-only streets of Woodside. Some living room lights were still on.  Night phantoms, they felt more distant than the stars in the sky when I peered through my binoculars while lying down in strangers’ dark dewy lawns. 

 

To my right was the Drew’s house where we went sledding in winter. Then Rob Mullin’s old house before he moved—cutting off access to his awesome in-ground pool when old people without kids moved in. Up the hill was Kristin Quinn’s house with driveway lights which resembled a runway. Her brother Lou committed suicide in high school—a nice kid. Maybe a little hyper? Why did he do it?  Through the woods was Amy Hawthorne’s house; she had dimples and dark curls and whispered through her readings when called upon in class.

 

Next was Greg Nowicki’s house. On the bus one day, apropos of nothing, he challenged me to a fight at the circle. 3:30. Be there. I knew he was just trying to boost his street cred with the junior high savages who turned fistfights into an after-school elective, but The Code demanded I accept. I threw a punch which, to my immense surprise, connected. Actually grazed is probably the more accurate term.

 

“You just messed up the wire on my braces!”, he mumbled marble mouthed.

 

No mas. Down goes Nowicki! A panel of Puma and Converse clad judges ruled me the unanimous winner via technical knockout. Not exactly the fight of the century. His orthodontist was the real winner that day. Rob’s dreams of Woodside tough guy ascendancy reduced to the crushing reality of an emergency visit with Dr. Granatini, his next door neighbor Pete Kozlowksi sang the requiem.

 

 “Since you quit that means you’re a pussy!”

 

And I liked Rob! Just not enough to get branded the neighborhood pussy myself. The law of the jungle ruled in Woodside.

 

The circle was dark and silent on this night except for crickets, bug zappers, and pool filters. Were those ghosts still living at home? Were they home right now? A slippery, skyscraper sized wall separated us now.

 

I listened to Blood On The Tracks and Astral Weeks on my Walkman. Perfect late night walking music. If You See Her Say Hello. Ballerina. Like Clara Lafleur stretching her legs like a pretzel on the floor of our hallway. “I’m flexible. I’ve been dancing since I was four.” A year earlier she had knocked on my door one Saturday evening.

 

“Hi, Colin. I’m Clara Boucher. I’m from Ellington.”

 

She was three years below me in high school. One day Dan called her “CL” while we played basketball. She turned heads even as a freshman. Almost a black haired Ashley Judd. Out of my league? Why didn’t I find out? As I said goodbye to floormates for the year, TJ in room 303 said, “Clara’s moving here next year. She’s hot.” Did he know something I didn’t? I hardly talked to her. I did buy her illegal beer once. I knocked on her door to deliver I heard the shower running three doors down. I formed a mental image of course. We crossed paths in the stairwell when I tried again 15 minutes later.

 

On a drunken dare from floormates Kevin and Seth, I left her a voicemail. “Clara, I love you!” Uggh. When I walked up to the cafeteria with a group of floormates two days later as she and her friends walked down, she called out “Colin! You’re leaving me crazy voicemails!” I laughed like it was the funniest thing ever said. Instead of the most embarrassing.

 

One night in our “study lounge” (a hackey sack and Gin Rummy playpen) she asked if I knew Paige Cappadocia who had a pic in Mademoiselle. I decided maybe Clara was shallow. Not very smart? I had my perfect rationalization for not trying.

 

She hung out at Kevin and Seth’s Sig Ep house.

 

“She likes to kiss everyone. We call her Kissing Clara.”

 

“Does she……..do more than kiss?”

 

“No, just kisses.” 

 

Did I believe him?

 

Another excuse to not try. 

 

I would have given anything to have her walk beside me through those dark, quiet, middle of the night Wooside streets, but she fell off the face of the earth like everyone else.

 

And new friends only prove the disposability of old ones. By the mid-80’s, it seemed like Wade Boggs had always been the Red Sox third baseman. Sure, my Dad said they had traded Carney Lansford (“If someone from Boston calls him Connie, don’t listen. That’s a girl’s name!”) but I was too young to remember. Boggs had little power, constantly stranded runners in scoring position, hit too many singles, wore an 80’s porn ‘stache, cheated on his wife with a bleach blonde bimbo named Margo, ate fried chicken before every game like a superstitious weirdo, and drank 60 Miller Lights on a cross country flight to Seattle, but he was our guy!

 

Until he wasn’t. By the mid-90’s he wore Yankee pinstripes while winning the World Series. Our 3rd baseman was Tim Naehring. Who? Exactly. Old friends are batting champions, new friends are Tim Naehring. Old friends are lodestars guiding you through a disorienting world, new friends make you wonder if you just rooted for the uniform all along as you felt more lost than ever before.       

……………………………………

But a reunion with my hometown friends wasn’t possible. Shane (a borrowed friend from my brother) dated Christina. She lived next door to my dorm The Jungle, which was a metaphorical subtropical lawless forest, in Frats—which stopped being frats decades earlier. She invited me to visit whenever I liked. Her spitfire roommate Shumsa was obsessed with Duke basketball. Rooting for Duke in Storrs was like hoping Andre The Giant would kick a puppy. All American point guard Bobby Hurley was her dreamboat. #11 was “the NCAA’s all-time assists leader” she announced if you inquired about Duke, the weather, or if it was Build Your Own Burger day in the caf. I thought Duke was the (blue) devil incarnate: preppies who called their 4,000 seat gym Cameron Indoor “Stadium” and preached about teamwork, academics, America, and starving Guatemalan children with polio and pinkeye when they just wanted to punch you in your public school throat.

 

I still decided Shumsa was maybe not that annoying. Was I blinded by the 0.1% chance she would hook up with me if I let her call me Bobby?

 

One night I went to The Homer Babbidge Library, an unpretentious pre-war industrial slab draped from head to toe in gray plastic to prevent falling bricks. Duke’s library probably didn’t have a fifty-foot condom wrapped around it. If our library wasn’t used as a metaphor for safe sex at freshman orientation (possibly to the plaintive strains of Ben Folds Five’s unwanted pregnancy dirge Brick) a golden opportunity was lost.

 

Exhausted from not studying, I decided to write a funny note. I’d slip it under their door early in the morning! Everyone would find it hilarious. Devilishly charming even! This satirical masterwork, basically Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal Part II, read as follows:

 

Shumsa,

 

Yo shorty, what poppin’? This is the NCAA’s all-time assists leader. You can call me The Notorious B-O-B. Some honeys call me white chocolate. Check it, I was chilling with my boy Grant last week while bench pressing 350 pounds (just to warm up) at an indoor stadium and he said you’re so  smokin’ hot someone better pull the fire alarm. I’m popping by on Friday (is Huskies as lit as they say?) so we can kick it. They say I’m a preppie but shorty, the only thing I’m preppin’ for is banging you like a screen door in a hurricane. Oooo baby you make me harder than Stats 101. I wanna pound you like a batch of Bisquick. C ya at your crib around nine? That Haterade drinker Colin will lead me there. What else is he doing on a Friday, know what I’m sayin’? The blind leading the amazing. That doesn’t rhyme, but does it have to? I’m good at basketball.    

 

Your boy,

 

B. Hurl

 

I think I knew this was a really bad idea, but, like a game of workboot Tic Tac Toe, I marched onward anyway. The Blue Devil made me do it?   

 

“Hey Col, it’s for you,” said my roommate Greek.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Colin, this is Christina.”

 

She usually called me Col—even after I got shitfaced at a Lynard Skynard show at Riverside Park and puked on her shoe. This situation must be worse than sneaker vomit.

                                                        

“Hey.”

 

“Um, we got that note you wrote. That wasn’t funny. I don’t think you should talk to Shumsa for a really long time.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Great.”

 

“Um…………Christina, I’m really sorry!”

 

“Have a good day.”

 

I grabbed two books and fled like a criminal. Calm down, calm down, Colin. I was just making fun of douchebag guys—which I totally am not! Trust a Duke fan’s ear for razor sharp social satire at your own risk!

 

Oh who was I kidding? Was I even trying to be funny? Maybe I just hated every guy a girl liked—even former ACC All Conference players. Oh and my sworn enemy got into a car accident 19 games into his NBA rookie season and suffered a collapsed lung, broken ribs, severed trachea, fractured shoulder blade, and  compression back fracture. 

 

I went home that weekend. Our mutual friend Dale called.

 

“I don’t know. I guess I just thought it might be funny,” I said. I sat on our yellow and white kitchen floor, leaned against our yellow refrigerator while I, yellow haired, held our yellow phone.     

 

“Well it was funny.”

 

“I’m glad at least you thought so.”

 

“But everyone is worried about you.”

 

“I’ll be okay.”

 

Tears came. I sniffled.  

 

“Are you crying?”

 

“No.” 

 

“Are you going to be okay?”

 

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

 

After I convinced him I wasn’t  suicidal, we hung up.     

 

But Christana never said don’t talk to her again, just Shumsa, right? Dale thought it was funny! And this was two years ago. Maybe it had all blown over. Maybe I could call Trask to read the temperature?

 

But that ice in Christina’s voice just wouldn’t thaw. I never made it past a dial tone.

………………………………………

“Mom, I’m having chest pains. Can we go to the hospital?”   

 

9:40 PM. Swampy mid July night. The den fan blew hot air. Steve Avery was blanking the Orioles. Shane Mack was going 3 for 4 and I was having a panic attack or (more likely) dying. 

 

She got dressed and drove towards Rockville Hospital. She tried to talk me down.

 

“You’re not covered under my insurance anymore.”
 

“Mom.”

 

“I think maybe you’re just nervous. Do you want to go to McDonald’s for an ice cream?”

 

Prescribing sugar and saturated fat to a cardiac patient? You just don’t get it Mom!  

 

“I guess so. Maybe I can pay for it. How much does it cost?”

 

“A lot. Let’s go to McDonald’s.“

 

She turned right instead of left on Route 83.

 

I got a chocolate shake. I took the tiniest sip humanly possible and waited for my heart to stop completely.  

 

Did I actually just need a milkshake? I calmed down a little.

 

It didn’t last.

 

“No one your age gets heart attacks. It just doesn’t happen,” my Dad said over the phone.

 

“What about Hank Gathers from Loyola Marymount? He dropped dead right on the court!” 

 

“We’re going to take you to every doctor known to man if that’s what it takes!”

………………………………………

My mom had good reason to postpone my funeral arrangements.

 

In tenth grade Biology, I was assigned a book report on rabies. I read the signs and symptoms in sixth period study hall until it became painfully obvious mine was a rapidly advancing case. Rabies is contracted by an animal bite. Furball play bit me on Saturday! Was play time over for me? You get thirsty yet develop a crippling fear of water. Hydrophobia. I hadn’t gone near the water fountain all day! Headache: check. You go insane right before you die of thirst. Well that’s just great. Cure for rabies: n/a. Were the library walls closing in or did my delirium kick in already?

 

After two insomnia plagued weeks (if I go to sleep will I wake up?) I realized this was lunacy. Who gets rabies?? Duh, it was a brain tumor. What’s up with these dull headaches? “Spring allergies, sinuses,” my Dad’s friend speculated. Dream on, Mr. Bierbach! I hadn’t read The Merck Manual but I had seen Kindergarten Cop and this was a tumah! 

 

My grandmother hosted my Sweet Sixteenth birthday party. It was just Gram, Mom, me, and the kind of guy who said kids today could use a good spanking.

 

“Blow out the candles, Colin!” Gram said.

 

As I blew, I speculated on my funeral attendance figures.

 

My pediatrician Dr. Deckard ordered an MRI and CT at Rockville Hospital.

 

“I know we won’t find anything but let’s just confirm.” Nice bedside manner, Dr. Death!

 

The young MRI tech spoke in soothing, hushed tones as he presumably assumed a high schooler getting a brain scan was a dead man walking (finally someone gets it) but my imaging was cleaner than my acne filled face. This radiographic Clearasil eased my fears.

 

For a few hours.

 

Don’t scans miss stuff?

 

Dr. Deckard wrote a prescription. He was kind enough to pretend these were special b.i.d. brain tumor destroying capsules, but of course they were probably anxiety meds. On our state Capitol field trip I felt mellower than a Deadhead during Space Jam. Until the bus ride home. Nice try, pharmaceutical industry. 

 

One luminous late spring morning I waited to take my lukewarm shower (everyone else left precious little hot water) while Led Zeppelin’s Down By The Seaside played through the bathroom door. (Neither Patrick nor I showered before we parked our boomboxes on the vanity). It was the most sublime thing I had ever heard. Even Patrick felt the mystical, healing energy. I overheard him say, “This song is really good.”

 

Life was so achingly, indescribably beautiful!

 

But this salt air spell broke before home room.

 

The lasting cure didn’t come from any known manual in Western medicine. I returned to Dr. Deckard’s office for a physical required by the end of my sophomore year performed by a 20-something doctor. Or nurse? PA? Office assistant?

 

“I’m Sonya. Go ahead and get undressed and I’ll be right back.”

 

I got down to my tighty-whities and, not being sure what was expected, lied down on my side and propped up my head. A gown hung on the bed-post. Was that for me? Probably not.

 

She opened the door. 

 

“Are you ready for me?”

 

Ooo was that a flirtatious tone I detected? If loving medical malpractice was wrong, did I want to be right? She seemed oddly unconcerned with my myriad terminal diseases of unclear etiology. Instead, she focused on screening for testicular cancer Why didn’t I think of that? Amateur hour! Six months earlier I discovered a bump down there (can you even get zits there?) and naturally assumed castration was my only path to survival. 

 

 “Can you pull down your pants for a minute?”

 

“Okay.”

 

At this point I probably started to get a little too excited about possibly not having cancer. But I was a teenage boy. That’s normal, right?

 

Do not let this thing get airborne.

 

Think about Rick Cerone plate appearances.

 

“Do you check yourself from time to time?”

 

“Yes,” I lied.

 

She felt around down there. Pretty thoroughly I might add.

 

“And Cerone grounds weakly to short. Again.”

 

I was cured.

 

Her magical healing touch freed me from rabies, cardiovascular disease, brain and testicular cancer!

 

Healthcare just works.

 

That night—the first night of summer vacation—I watched the upstart Pirates beat the evil Mets and knew I would live forever. Ralph Kiner too! My “YEAHHHHHHH!!!” reverberated throughout Maplewood.

 

Chapter 3: Message In A Bottle      

 

Voice mail. I hung up. What was I doing? I called back. Voice mail. A woman’s voice:

 

 “You have reached Barry Arroyo at the State Of Connecticut, Services For The Blind. Please leave a message and Barry will return your call as soon as possible.”

 

Guess Barry wasn’t a high tech guy. I’d gotten lost in this Bermuda Triangle too many times to expect a call before Labor Day. No wait, that was a holiday.

 

“Barry, it’s Colin….. McDonough. So I think I need a job. I was wondering if you had any leads? Please call me if you can. Oh, if you don’t have it, my number is 860-872-0502. Thanks!”

 

Footnote: (don’t worry this isn’t Infinite Jest) Rockville Hospital’s number was 872-0501 so this became a common exchange:

 

“I think I just broke my penis.”

 

“I’m really sorry but you need to call 872-0501.”

                                                                                                                               

I didn’t have anyone’s number from college. Did I just blend in with the futon and disappear into the blacklight? Just like high school. Kids flooded my yearbook with “you’re a funny guy” but all I could think was, “Was I a close enough friend to ask you to sign?” 

 

I could try Greek, my fifth roommate but the first I became friends with. Sharing a 6x8 room with a stranger just wasn’t going to end well. Greek was unassuming with a goofy laugh. His feet constantly cracked. He flirted with pre-med and podiatry. “I like feet!” Okay, Greek, and I’m an ophthalmologist. Physics 1 was his Waterloo, so Marketing it was. He loved the finer things in life like cigars and silk boxers, a pair of which he showed off to our floor.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”, granite faced New Hampshire native “Hurricane” Andrew Caposella wondered. “Greek is showing everyone his silk boxers which no one will see except Colin!”

 

False. I closed my eyes as I climbed to my top bunk every night.  

 

So maybe Greek was a little weird. I walked in on him drunkenly making out with this girl Gina from downstairs but that was it. Maybe we got along because he was even more afraid of girls than me.

 

Before I roomed with him, my idea of a fun Friday night (when I didn’t go home) was to sit by the library’s second floor town directory shelves and read heart pounding content about the Ellington board of selectmen and study the town map like it was a cartographic lost Eden. I memorized every single street in town. My homesickness lasted three years. With normal kids it’s three nights. It sinks in that breath mints and curfews are over. Mom and dad won’t be the wiser after you get annihilated on Natty Ice. I didn’t care. My high school of 500 felt like an extended (dysfunctional) family. My cold, windy college campus felt vast and empty like interstellar space.

 

Well, paradise revisited! I was back from east of Eden. Except it was deathly silent except for the lonely echo of basketballs dribbled by kids born when I was in eighth grade.

 

I went through our stack of phone books on top of the fridge. Come on Mansfield/Storrs …… Please? Ellington, Vernon, Tolland, Somers, Manchester….. Willington….getting warmer. No Mansfield.

 

Crushing.

 

Wait, what about information!? Why was I such an idiot? Unless he’s unlisted. Nah. Greek was a listed guy. A more devout Christian or Bon Jovi fan would have said a prayer. I dialed 411.

 

“What city please?”

 

“Storrs? Or….Mansfield.”

 

“Name?.”

 

“Gianopoulous. Nicholas. I can spell that if you like.”

 

“Please do, sir.”

 

Fuck.

 

“It might be G-i-a-n-o-p-o-u-l-u-s”.

 

Silence.

 

“I’m not seeing anything under that listing.”

 

“Okay, maybe  G-i-a-n-n-o-p-p-o-u-l-u-s.”

 

Eternal pause.

 

“Still nothing.”

 

Why couldn’t he be named Smith? Was it hopeless. One last try.

 

“Okay, Maybe G-i-a-n-n-o-p-o-u-l-o-u-s

 

Silence. Click. Recording.

 

“The number of the person you are dialing is 860-486-4875.”

 

A miracle!

 

Rotary phone dialing took forever. You could still spot extroverts by their trigger finger calluses. I had non-dominant left hand guitar calluses only.  

 

I hung up three times. This was stupid. Then I went through with it.

 

Ring….ring…..ri…….

 

“Hello?”.

 

Holy cow. It sounded like Greek!

 

“Is Nick there?”

 

“This is Nick.”

 

“Greek! Hey what’s up. This is Colin….your old roommate….?” 

 

“Of course, Col. Good to hear from you!”

 

“What are you up to?.”

 

“Not too much. You?”

 

“Um, not a lot. I graduated in May. I’ve just been hanging out. I need to go to grad school or something. Kind of bored at home. You?”

 

“I’m home in East Lyme this summer and you just happened to catch me. I’m moving to a house on North Eagleville Road this year and I’m just here moving some stuff.”

 

"Okay. Well……just wanted to see what you were up to.”

 

Hopeless.

 

“Let me have your number. We can hang out sometime.”

 

“Cool. Yeah, sounds good. It’s 860-872-0502.”

 

“Cool. Talk to you soon, Col.”

 

He wouldn’t call. He was being nice. But the world seemed a little brighter. A ghost still walked the earth! Resurrected through a telephone operator/medium.

 …………………………………….

One week later.

 

“Colin…….”, my mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

 

I turned down the TV. Stupid Real World Boston. Who names their daughter Genesis?

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Telephone. For you.”

 

No one ever called me. If it was Dan she would have said, “It’s Daniel.”

 

"Hello?”

 

“Hey Col, it’s Greek.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“So you were looking for something to do, right? Want to come hang out for a couple days?”

 

Yes!

 

“Okay.”

 

"Cool. Are you doing anything Monday?”

 

No!

 

“Uh………no, I don’t think so”.

 

“Then I’ll pick you up. Where do you live again?”

 

“Ellington. 15 Maplewood Drive. It’s…..kind of hard to find.”

 

“I’ll use my atlas.”  

 

He found it. I was almost disappointed. I welcomed any chance to flaunt my map study knowledge since every other place on earth besides Ellington and Storrs was foreign land rolling by the passenger seat window.

 

We sat at a red light at Five Corners. Five roads diverged at an intersection and we took the one most traveled: straight out of town. Eat my dust (for a day and a half) sleepy, spooky Ellington.

 

“Are you up for some lifting?”

 

Was he taking me to Gold’s Gym?

 

“Sure. What do you mean?”

 

“I’m moving stuff from Celeron to our house. Mind helping me move?”

 

“Sure, no problem.”

 

I was so excited about this reprieve from my dead, empty life that no Greek ulterior motives occurred to me. Besides, to the desperate, exploitation can be a priceless gift.

 

Celeron Square lied on a winding road of two-story buildings across the street from Carriage House Apartments. Both were connected to campus by the “Celeron Path”: a name existing only in brochures and orientations. It was “affectionally” called The Rape Trail. This gravel shortcut through the woods was dimly lit save for a large light over a humming generator. I never witnessed sexual assaults, just pleas to “Show us your tits!” from male scholars to their female study buddies, but I also never saw a girl walking down it alone. Would now be a good time to say UConn is one of the top research universities in the country? Lest you think they turned a blind eye to the seedier side of campus life, please note they handed out rape whistles at freshman orientation (pretty accusatory) and condoms (an amazing vote of confidence).  

 

Clothes, CD’s, VHS tapes, books, dishes, and fans covered Greek’s floor. I picked up Recovering The Satellites by the Counting Crows. Their debut August and Everything After was a sad sack collection of whiny dirges drenched in spilled milk self-pity. I loved every note. Their new single was Have You Seen Me Lately?

 

“Is this any good?”

 

“Yeah. Really good.”

 

Greek was so positive. No wonder I eased up around him. I blockaded my previous roommates with a wall of silence. But they all sucked! Tony was a preppy rich kid from Greenwich who watched sports every single night with four other braindead jocks on the first floor. Get a life, guys. (The fact that I did the exact same thing at home was immaterial). When he and his bro were planning to hide in this girl Joelle’s room for some unknown reason and she expressed reservations, he said, “We’re not going to go through your underwear drawer!”. He was too white collar! Next came Ross: middle aged with a Rhode Island accent and a prior work history in the industrial arts. Too blue collar! His afternoon naps forced me to listen to Pearl Jam’s Ten on two while I sat at my desk in the shade drawn darkness. He applied skin ointment which smelled like cockroaches with severe IBS but words fail to fully describe the noxiousness of this olfactory hate crime. Mike was my next future ex-roommate: a photographer who specialized in “artistic” black and white Polaroids of his erect penis. He cheated on his sweet blonde girlfriend Rita with a gallery of art class chicks. One evening he showcased a “self-portrait” to a 3rd floor girl he met four minutes earlier. This unwitting patron of the avant-garde undergraduate arts said, “That’s different……if nothing else”. (Education majors simply have no appreciation for the arts). Full exposure, I mean disclosure: I discovered REM’s Murmur and Reckoning and Jane’s Addiction’s Nothing’s Shocking through his CD collection. (And Husker Du’s Candy Apple Gray so that was cool too I guess). Too little too late you faux artist philandering freak. Finally came devout Christian and Agricultural Science major Steve. He would have been scandalized by shirtless family beach photos let alone dick pics. He probably thought the Mona Lisa’s neckline was scandalously revealing. The kid was staler than a leftover first communion wafer or a cafeteria dinner roll but incredibly, just like arty and engorged Mike, he was a ladies man! I guess there’s more than one way to skin a cat! A cute blonde girl from Whitney made frequent conjugal visits.

 

(Unlock door).

 

“Hey Colin, can you come back in a bit?”

 

“Sure.”

 

So I was off to the study lounge for another hour. “Can you come back?” soon became our only exchange.

 

In summary, roommates are the absolute (literally) fucking worst.

 

But on day two of fall ’94 semester, Greek invited me to hang out with his buddies across the hall and I forced an “Okay” after I promised myself to try harder after my friendless college life along with Kurt Cobain’s suicide and my mom’s second divorce gave me the bright idea to stop going to class halfway through spring semester. I got four F’s and an A. (I aced Eastern Philosophy and Religion. Extinguishing fear and desire on the primrose path to nirvana was all that made sense.) I had to meet with the Assistant Dean over the summer.

 

“Were you depressed?”, she said not unsympathetically. I think my mom softened her up.   

 

”Yes.”

 

“You were a good student before this so we will give you another chance. But one more semester like this and we will have to expel you.”

 

So no more four F clubs. But a lot more C’s.  

…………………………………….

We loaded Greek’s stuff in his truck and drove to his new place. It was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen. It had an A-frame roof and the early August sun splashed on the pale brown hardwood floors. Was this heaven? Nothing like my dark forest home. No ghosts. 

 

A kid sat on the couch.

 

“I’m trying to resolve my car insurance payment. You charged me too much last month. …..but I already gave you my ID ….don’t you have it on file?……..can I speak with a supervisor?...........Yes, that’s my number…..you will adjust my payment?.....thank you…. you have a nice day too!”

 

He beeped his phone off, flipped the antenna, and looked at me.

 

“Amazing what happens when you get a white person on the phone.”

 

The Daily Campus’s PC foot soldiers couldn’t win every battle.   

 

“Tony, do you know Colin?” 

 

“Hey man.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“And this is Tony’s girlfriend Katie.”

 

A cute girl next door blonde. They were everywhere. Burly Tony’s black chest hair exploding out of his wife beater. Nice girls always got swept off their feet by loud, hairy guys of southern European descent whose reservations about the customer service acumen of people of color was offset by their complete lack of doubt about their own capabilities. But Kate didn’t harbor universal love for everyone.

 

“I don’t like Brandon. And I like everyone!”

 

She went upstairs.

 

“Jesus, I shouldn’t have eaten that burrito. (Farts). Greek, pull my finger,” Tony suggested.

 

“I don’t want to touch it. It probably has Katie’s juices on it from last night.”

 

He unleashed his goofy, possibly virginal laugh. He was breaking a rule here: when a girl leaves a room you should always wait five minutes before you discuss her bodily fluids-- bar none.

 

No offense was taken. Following a reflective pause to achieve proper gravitas, Tony lowered his voice one octave.

 

“Clean pussy.”

 

Is this the only convincing love story of the 20th Century? Take that, Nabokov. Nice try, Disney. A man who champions the hygienic purity of his lady’s unmentionable region when she’s out of the room is a keeper. Would Brandon say, “Tell me about it. What a ho bag” before winking in the mirror?

 

The Dolphins played the Broncos from Guadalahara. Crushingly boring to anyone with a life, but more exciting than The Super Bowl to me since I was sitting in a sun drenched dream house with other humans. 

 

Miami led 38-19.

 

“The Dolphins are going to have a great team this year.”

 

“Are you a Dolphins fan?” I asked.

 

“Die hard.” 

 

Italian Americans loved the Fins’ paisan quarterback Dan Marino. They had sleepwalked through life since they got pummeled by the 49ers 38-16 in the ‘85 Super Bowl, but per Tony, Super Bowl glory was mere months away. The past, a weak secondary, and an aging quarterback can’t match the orange and aqua optimism of a true believer.

 

Not wishing to tear down the preseason confetti, I changed the subject.

 

“Did you hear Kevin Garnett turned down $105 million from the Timberwolves? He said, ‘Call me back when y’all are serious’.”  

 

“I couldn’t believe that!” said Mitch, Tony’s southern accented landscaping partner.

 

Tony’s own fortunes weren’t on par with twenty one year old power forwards, but pretty close.

 

“I have an interview at The Hartford next week. They’re a Fortune 500 company. They’re hiring like crazy. It’s in the bag.”

 

“Good luck, man,” Greek said.

 

I should ride my bike to Dairy Mart after I get home. They’re a Fortune 5000 company.

 

I dropped my stuff in the downstairs bedroom. Back in town for the first time since December, I was ready to tear this town apart! Not easy in sleepy summertime Storrs.

 

“Greek, want to go to Ted’s?”

 

(Yawns). “I’m tired. I think I’m gonna crash.”

 

I walked down North Eagleville Road and bought Camel Lights at Dairy Mart since I was on vacation from being unemployed. At least I had tapered down from Marlboro Reds. “Light” cancer sticks and “diet” sodas: killing me softly with their songs. 

 

A triple threat, Ted’s Grinder Shop (defiantly situated next to Subway) sat atop Ted’s Spirit Shoppe (the only “shoppe” in this Olde New England village where lads purchased Olde English 40’s, Natty Ice 30 packs, and Jungle Juice), and, up a flight of wooden stairs, Ted’s Restaurant and Bar. This restaurant happened to, oh right we almost forgot, serve booze. I went there roughly 1,487 times but I couldn’t tell you much about the cuisine at this eatery, although after Long Island Iced Tea races (don’t do those) I don’t remember the cheesy fries ever not being on point.        

 

I turned right at the top of the stairs and there it was! After eight months of exile in a dark forest, the prodigal son returned. The red doors and awning offset the exterior walls, probably once sky blue but now blueish gray. Black railings herded the cattle on Thursdays through Saturdays during the school year.

 

Look at this beautiful bar! The jukebox on the left stood beside the foosball table. The dartboard lied further back. Not much bigger than a studio apartment, it got so packed on weekends trips from the door to the bar took 5-6 minutes and another 5-6 to your table, by which time you had probably finished your drink (1/3 of which had spilled via elbow collisions) so, like a binge drinking Sisyphus, the journey began anew. And in a cruel twist of fate ordained by cloud gathering Zeus or the assistant bar manager, double fisting was forbidden. They probably could have built an addition, but that probably wouldn’t have increased patrons but definitely would have killed the sweaty, spill your drink on a stranger ambiance you just can’t put a price on. If you didn’t want a stranger sweating on you, just play solitaire in your room or join SUBOG. 

 

Was it a fire hazard? I guess if you want to be like that, but police raids were the only inspections. Somehow they always leaked in advance—perhaps by the owner who hoped to maintain his winning business strategy of “checking” the ID of a 26 year old from Columbus, Ohio named Sir V. Mee Bier: a German immigrant of Asian descent who for some reason was knighted by the British Royal Family. He came all this way just for Nickel Night. Who would spoil his trip?  

 

I walked to the bar (in 3.4 seconds on this night).

 

“Hey man. Miller Light?”

 

“Yeah, thanks.”

 

“How have you been?”

 

“Pretty good. You?”

 

“Good, man.”

 

Look who wasn’t invisible anymore. Tiny The Bartender and his girlfriend drove me home two summers earlier.

 

“An ironic name,” I observed. He was fucking huge.

 

Despite a career ending freshman year football injury, he seemed free from despair. A gentle giant. Miller Light was my drink because it was a “classier” option than Icehouse, Natty Ice, or Milwaukee’s Beast and I couldn’t read the labels on the taps and I was too embarrassed to ask him to read them so you might say Miller Light won its first and only blind taste test. 

 

Then I really went apeshit and got some hard alcohol in me. If the second half of my college career was a fable, “Beer before liquor, never sicker” was the moral, but, like most fable readers, I piously shook my head in assent, tossed the book in the dumpster, and did the opposite. 

 

“Rum and coke?” I said.

 

Tiny probably saw that coming too. It was my mixed drink fave. Vodka and cranberry: too bitter. Gin and tonic: too watery. Long Island Iced Tea: how did I get home?

 

Oh what had I been so worried about? The soft amber lighting and multi-colored fluorescent beer signs strewn throughout Ted’s bathed me in pure bliss. Smashmouth on the jukebox! Maybe not quite bliss. I floated on the back of the murmuring stream of past, present, and future, gently rolling with the rising and falling tide. (I told you I got an A in Eastern Religion and Philosophy).

 

There was only a dozen other patrons. Two dudes stood at the bar.

 

“I’m TELLING you, bro. Treat chicks like shit and THEY LOVE IT.”

 

Next door at Huskies, the lights were on. It was open! Also nearly empty. I ordered a vodka and cranberry. I know: I said it wasn’t my favorite but this wasn’t my favorite bar so hey why not? Huskies “Tavern” was scary and otherworldly. The lighting was hard white, not soft amber, especially the blinding fluorescent “ugly lights” of last call. Girls seemed to love Huskies but girls were always “going dancing” whereas guys were “going to get shithoused”, “going to get retarded” or “going to get my knob polished.” Despite disparate paths leading them there, they always converged.   

 

TRISH: I love this song!

 

Ace Of Base thumped through the speakers.

 

TREVOR: Yeah, it’s not bad!

 

TRISH: Let’s dance!

 

TREVOR: Let’s get out there, girl!”

 

I didn’t go home alone, I went home with my dignity! Okay maybe 13+ beers and 3+ mixed drinks before stumbling home to pass out before without brushing my teeth or getting undressed (and occasionally waking to soaking wet jeans) wasn’t the pinnacle of dignified comportment either.

 

Speaking of shattered pride, the dance floor often burned up to a song about a girl dissing a guy with a diminutive reproductive organ. Uncalled for. Objectify much? Thank God for beer.

 

Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ was a guilty dance club pleasure. And Finally by CeCe Peniston. This is my most humiliating confession yet (the book is young). That song— with absurd amounts of hard alcohol—thawed a 90’s kid’s soul previously frozen solid by Rain When I Die and Slaves And Bulldozers.

 

Huskies played rock too. Power ballads like Nine Inch Nails’ Closer and Head Like A Hole. Trent Reznor was Gen X’s Bob Dylan.

 

Like Ted’s, Huskies was a sweaty, beer soaked debacle but more from body movin’ and the impossibility of seeing your way around. Strobe lights turned your co-eds into shape shifting black and purple aliens but offered scant visual aid otherwise. Oh how I judged them! So shallow! They jigged, they ambled, they lisped! Hamlet, Jonathan Edwards, and John Lithgow in Footloose had nothing on me. Never mind I wished I had the guts to ask a girl—hot or even dance club lighting hot—to dance.

 

On this August night, there was no bass pounding or rump shaking. Huskies didn’t wear its summer deadness well. It was like a mirror that shattered if too few faces looked in it.

 

I grabbed a nightcap at Ted’s and walked back.

 

“How was Ted’s?” Greek asked.

 

“Dead.”

 

But not as dead as Maplewood. Why did I have to go home?

 

On Night Court, John Laroquette refused to let Bull through the door, leaving Bull no choice but to invent the human pretzel. It took the entire cast to untangle him. Greek laughed.

 

The morning was sunny and bright.  Mixed drinks were a mistake. So were the cigs. I forgot my sunglasses. Greek’s brother Chris helped with the move. Like Greek, he seemed chill and nice. Probably didn’t expect too much from life. Teach me to be like you guys.

 

We loaded the pickup.

 

“Are you going to Limestone this year?”

 

“The Phish festival?” 

 

“Yeah, Chris is going. I’m trying to get off work. It should be cool.”

 

The Great Went. The sequel to The Clifford Ball. On the Canadian border. My brother would have gone if he wasn’t in San Diego. He followed Phish around the country in ’95. This ertswhile headbanger was fully immersed in the hippie jam band scene: a conversion which only proves the thin line between love and hate, hemp dresses and fishnet stockings.  

 

I would go. I’d go to any concert. Pure boredom drove me to Hootie And The Blowfish the previous summer. More humiliating still, I went alone. My cabbie talked on his jumbo sized phone (what kind of a tool needs a mobile phone?).  

 

“I’m taking someone to Hootie And The Blowfish at The Meadows. You know, that fake rock band.”

 

I’m literally right here, buddy. Can we just focus on the road, Lester Bangs? 

 

Without any overt Great Went invitations, the matter was dropped..

 

“Thanks for inviting me, Greek. It was fun to get back for a bit.”

 

“No problem. Want to come back after the year starts? We’re gonna have some killer parties.”

 

“Yeah, sounds good!”

 

I’d probably never see him again.

……………………………………

 

A folded up paper fell onto the breezeway when I opened the screen door. 

 

“Colin,

 

Sorry I missed you. I was visiting another client in Ellington. I got your voicemail. Are you interested in our Vending Program? Or would you be interested in the Industries Program? I’ll be in touch.

 

“Barry A.”

 

Both of my SOS signals had been received. Vending? Industries? Like a factory? Did he forget I just graduated from college? Were these real jobs? Weren’t we in a Dot.com boom?

 

“Hey Barry, this is Colin. Yeah I might be interested. Let me know. Thanks!” 

……………………………………...

 

“Come out, Jake!” Dan implored over plastic on aluminum incidental music.     

 

"Dave, stop denting my fucking house!”

 

“Geez, Jake. Relax.”

 

“This is like the eight billionth time I’ve asked you.”

 

“What’s one more going to do at this point, Jacque Jones?”

 

Dan insisted on batting last in our street wiffle ball games to ensure the possibility of hitting heroic bottom of the ninth walk offs. Any ball that landed past the imaginary line which ran parallel to the end of his driveway was a home run.  

 

“Jake, tell your mom to fix her lawn. It’s full of weeds!”

 

“Can I interest you in minding your own business?”

 

My mom hadn’t used ChemLawn in a while but I wasn’t conceding anything.

 

“Everyone is complaining.”

 

“Who is ‘everyone’?”

 

“My dad. The Doerrs. The Fords.”

 

“One of those is true anyway.”

 

“I’m telling you.”

 

“Please ask Bob to focus on his own lawn. I don’t want to do it, but if I have to make a hopscotch board……”

 

“Very funny. You’re lucky he didn’t murder you for that stunt.”

 

“I’m wanted to help him out. There’s so much more to life than lawn care. Also, black argyle socks with shorts aren’t a great look—if you can pass that along.”

 

“Remember when I took you deep with my game winning Brady Anderson blast, Jake?”

 

“I almost forgot. Thank God you’ve reminded me 903 times.”

 

We were teams/players—the same guy batted nine straight times. Dan was the Orioles/center fielder Brady Anderson: a former Red Sox prospect traded for pitcher Mike Boddicker in the hopes of winning the 1988 World Series (they got crushed four straight by the A’s in the ALCS). He hit 50 home runs in 1996. This heartthrob sported sideburns like Luke Perry on Beverly Hills, 90210. Sports Illustrated ran a cover story which primarily focused on his sideburns. Burnelss Dan looked more like Garth Brooks than Brenda’s Beverly Hills badass boytoy, but close enough in Ellington, 06029.

 

Once I could get pretty good plastic on the ball for a blind kid, but I was mired in a slump.

 

Dan threw one high and outside, then below the knees, then a one hopper to the plate, then low and inside.

 

Mr. Colangelo would be proud of him for following Frank’s Fallacy: never challenge a slumping hitter.     

 

“Dan, throw a strike please!”

 

“What was wrong with that?”

 

“It was low and inside.”

 

“That was a strike!”

 

With no home plate umpire to call balls and strikes, at-bats lasted until you swung and missed three times or put the ball in play.

 

“Dan, why don’t you have the testicular fortitude to challenge me?”

 

“Swing the bat, Rob! These pitches are hittable”

 

“Your mom? I’d hit it, but I can’t hit your pitching unless I grow six inches taller, six inches shorter, or the arms of a monkey.”

 

“Quit monkeying around and being such a pussy. Swing, Jacque!”

 

The pitch…..swing and a miss.

 

“Damnit! That was way outside too!”

 

“Nice swing, Col!”

 

A kid rode past on his bike. Now I had a heckler too?

 

‘Who was that?”

 

“Derek Ford.”

 

“I knew it!”

 

Where’s my chalk? “DEREK FORD IS GAY” will line every street in town before I’m through!   

 

I wasn’t much better. I threw sliders below the knees. (I didn’t know how to throw a slider but my Slider Of Death had a southwestern flight path so let’s just go with it). Dan didn’t flail at these tantalizing offers. He took pitch after pitch and further questioned my manhood.

 

“Jake, it’s okay if you’re afraid but I have to be at work in an hour.”

 

Games devolved into grueling wars of attrition. Whose reserves of patience for pitches outside the strike zone would deplete first? Who would swing? Who would do the unthinkable and throw a strike?

 

“Crack!” said the bat.

 

It was the sound of lost patience, the sound of soft hole filled plastic yielding to hard solid plastic. The ball whistled by.

 

I hung my Slide Of Death.

 

“Ohhhhhh that is deeeeeeep and I DON’T THINK IT’S PLAYABLE! I DON’T BELIEVE WHAT I JUST SAW! GO CRAZY FOLKS! THAT IS WAAAAAAAAAAY OUT OF HERE! THE CROWD IS GOING WIIIILD HERE AT CAMDEN YARDS!”

 

Pretty boy Brady had flower power.

 

The ball landed in Mr. Aase’s flower bed so this wasn’t all bad news.

 

Dan/Brady began his snail-like trot around the bases.

 

“Can you fetch the ball please? I’m not dealing with Mr. Aase’s wrath.”

 

Mr. Aase apparently wasn’t home on this muggy, hazy Tuesday. He was probably screaming at a post office trainee after his Family Handyman copy got delivered to the wrong house.

…………………………………….

 

The ninth time was the charm. 

 

“Barry Arroyo.”

 

“Hey Barry, it’s Colin…………..McDonough.”

 

“Colin! How is your summer going?”

 

“Pretty good.”

 

“Did you get my note?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you interested in our vending program?”

 

“Yeah…..I think so.”

 

He picked me up in his state car the following Wednesday. Barry was also legally blind, so Carlos drove him to his appointments. His wife was his off-duty driver. Short and mustachioed, he looked eerily like my ex-stepfather.

 

“Is it Friday yet? I have the worst sinus headache,” he wearily intoned. I guess getting chauffeured though life wasn’t a nonstop party after all.

 

“Last week Donna said I had to alphabetize Ashley’s case files but I said I was your Special Assistant but she said when you’re on vacation I need to fill in but I told her that’s not in my job spec.” 

 

Bartleby would “prefer not to.” Guess you didn’t get the memo Donna, but they abolished slavery in 1865.

 

They had just rebranded the vending program with the totally not Orwellian moniker The Business Enterprise Program. Name changes were all the rage then. Just ask Roseanne Arnold and The Artist Formerly Known As Prince. BEP’s czar (or hapless middle manager?) did not, however, appear ready to launch his own Lovesexy tour. A tall, graying, soft spoken gentleman, his affect was much flatter than his waistline, but any guy who once pounded a 30 pack of Busch Light in one day before washing it down with two rum and cokes probably lacks all moral authority to comment on anyone’s else’s gluttony. 

 

“Colin, this is Neil. Neil, this is Colin McDonough.”

 

“Nice to meet you.”

 

“Nice to meet you”. Maybe Neil’s sinuses were hurting him too.

 

“Neil,” Barry said in a rehearsed tone, “Could you walk Colin through what is expected of a vending operator.”

 

“Sure. We operate thirty vending stands in state buildings. Gift shops, snack bars, cafeterias. You would operate your own site. You would be an entrepreneur. We look for people with good social skills and math skills. You would do your own budgeting and order supplies. You would need to maintain a clean and orderly site which we periodically inspect. You collect a portion of the sales. Snacks……snack bar…….. ……inventory……snack……snacks…….”.

 

“As a BEP operator, you would be serving the general public,” Barry added. “Appearance and attitude are important. Most people don’t know any who’s blind, so they will judge all blind people based on how you present yourself.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Service with a smile and a pair of Dockers. Did Barry doubt I was customer service material? Too shy? Bit of a wallflower, isn’t he? Nothing like his life of the party brother. Not cut out for the blind food stand minstrel show. Could I inspire the sighted to say, “Oooooo that nice, smiling blind boy did such a wonderful job serving my Cobb salad today. Great set of teeth!” “Oh yes, Barbara, he’s a wonder of modern orthodontics. My turkey wrap was simply divine. And his boat shoes were so shiny. It’s so wonderful they let the blind work nowadays!”

 

Wow, with that attitude, maybe you’re not blind mascot material after all, buddy. 

 

“Would I need to be there every morning?” 

 

“Yes”, Neil replied like he’d just downed six Ambien. 

 

“I’ll ask my mom. She could drive me some mornings but sometimes she works nights…..”

 

I asked her. Nope. And no bus. Hootie shaming cabbies were too expensive every day. My vending career/blind ambassadorship ended before it started.

………………………………………….

 

Another heart broken. Shattered glass splattered everywhere.

 

Queen of spades. Sandra really should have played that better. 

…………………………………………

A folded white cake box materialized as if by magic on the breezeway. If bare cornfields were Ellington’s whisper of fall, cake boxes were its shout. Boxes landed outside every single door (and breezeway) in town. And if you were new to town or just couldn’t take a hint, they stapled a piece of paper to the box and asked you to kindly preheat your oven immediately. It seemed like a lot of legwork to me but if 10,000 cake boxes yielded 100 Cake Booth entries, they considered that a sound investment of time and cardboard. I once watched my former Ellington volunteer fire department Dad march in the Saturday evening parade. As a mulleted teenage wannabe badass I drunk rode The Scrambler three times and tried not to puke. But my Dad was a Hartford firefighter living in Manchester now and I didn’t have anyone to ride The Scrambler with. I could ask my Mom to drop me off but that was just sad.  

 

Cake pushers can really hurt your feelings sometimes.

……………………………………………

Dan went back to Eastern, but wiffle ball lived on. I tossed the ball in the air and hit laser beams and frozen ropes which sometimes dented the aluminum siding. Okay, so it took a village to destroy my house.

 

Like Babe Ruth, I also pitched. I once left my Rawlings glove under my mattress for three nights to break it in as if I was a Cy Young candidate. The oak tree diagonal to my house was home plate. My Forest Of Dreams.

 

From 20 feet away (major league distance was 60 feet, six inches, but come on) I tried to fire strikes against the poor defenseless tree and hoped the ball bounced back to me. A miss triggered an Easter egg hunt. Dirt, leaves and branches were arboreal camouflage.

 

I lifted my arms above my shoulders, curled my left leg, drove down with my left foot and unleashed my cannon of a right arm. The windup was more fun than the pitch. The Baryshnikov of backyard pitchers, I danced with myself like Billy Idol. I could ID pitchers just by watching windups on Sportscenter. Like voices and fingerprints, they were all unique. Dwight Gooden pitched from a rocking chair, Jack Morris pitched from an electric chair, Roger Clemens switched from a rocking chair to an electric chair to improve his splitter, trading aesthetics for pragmatism. Bad trade.

 

After I lost every other ball I owned, I grabbed the one Nolan Ryan autographed before a game at Fenway Park. I lost that one too.

 ………………………………..

Would everything get even worse after winter arrived? One unreturned voicemail and four hangups later, Barry called me back.

 

“Hi Barry……..so you mentioned the Industries Program. I guess I’m willing to give that a try.”

 

“Great! I’ll let Gary know.”

 

Carlos drove us to the dirty dying industrial outskirts of West Hartford: Elmwood, aka Elmhood. No Crate and Barrels or Lux Bond & Greens here, just KFC’s and Family Dollars.

 

They didn’t require a job interview this time. I had terrible vision and a pulse, so I was their ideal candidate.   

 

“Gary, this is Colin McDonough.”

 

Gary wore a light blue dress shirt. Blond with a slightly pudgy face. Was this me at 40?   

 

“Hi Colin!” he said in an excited/not excited tone.

 

“Hi,” I not excited/excited counter toned. 

 

“We’re glad to have you onboard. Let’s head down to the basement and I’ll show you our shipping department.”

 

We descended on a rickety ancient freight elevator which led to a warehouse of wooden pallets covered in plastic. It smelled like a musty sawmill. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” I mean this was an exciting opportunity.

 

“Colin, this is Phil.”

 

“Hi.”

 

Phil was tall with a baseball cap, glasses, and a black beard. He could have doubled as a Unabomber protegee, a born to be wild easy rider, or a fireballing closer though it’s hard to say which one would have made him more dangerous--he had lost much of his vision. I never felt so clean shaven, baby faced, and blond in my life.

 

“We ship brochures to 18 locations throughout Connecticut. We work with DECD. We receive large shipments every afternoon and send large shipments out every morning. You will load incoming brochures onto skids, place outgoing brochures into boxes, put them on the loading dock, and keep inventory.”

 

Skids? DECD? Is that even English?

 

“Okay. That makes sense I think.”

 

I knew what brochures were, so that was key.

 

I started three days later.

 

Winding Trails ordered 50 brochures, 100 Wadsworth Athenaeums, 25 CT River Valleys. I hadn’t been to any of these places. 50 Mystic Aquariums. That was an elementary school field trip. I remember water.  

 

75 Lake Compounces. Now we’re talking. In high school, I went to this Bristol amusement park to see Motley Crue, Poison, the Scorpions. Even Damn Yankees featuring The Motor City Madman Ted Nugent who opened for Bad Company without their original singer Paul Rodgers--there was nothing good on TV that night. Lake Compounce’s mob connected(?) owners never got around to installing seats, but who could remain seated anyway when Bret Michaels and the boys launched into melodic metal mayhem masterpieces like Look What The Cat Dragged In, #1 Bad Boy, and Talk Dirty To Me?

 

Before Motley Crue stormed the stage to pyrotechnics explosions (they distracted the fire marshal with metal sluts and cocaine) I got claustrophobic when everyone crushed to the front during opening act Johnny Crash.

 

“You suck!”

 

“Get off the fucking stage!”

 

“D’agostino Roofing is hiring!”

 

Johnny Cash played to a kinder, gentler crowd at Folsom Prison.

 

I moved back for elbow room and oxygen. I had seen a thought provoking WKRP In Cincinnati episode about a kid crushed to death at a Who concert. Johnny Fever was inconsolable. Don’t even talk to Venus Fly Trap right now. Gordon Jump, the strong, silent leader of southern Ohio’s top album oriented rock station, was nonplussed.

 

The greatest Lake Compounce show was the mighty Guns n’ Roses in June, 1991. It was………canceled. The park’s deadbeat owner filed for bankruptcy and Bristol Rock City went silent. We never got our money back. My “bahgin” hunting grandmother never quite got over it. “You kids got robbed! They should all be in jail!” I was over it eight months later when we finally saw them at the Worcester Centrum. They went on three hours after Soundgarden because did Axl have time for your rules?

 

Lake Compounce brochure displayed a Ferris wheel languidly spinning in the sunshine. Any/all kids getting pickpocketed by shady promoters or smothered to death by rampaging Megadeth fans during Symphony Of Destruction remained tantalizingly out of the camera’s eye.

 

“We’re done with orders so you can head up to the floor for the rest of the day,” Phil said.

 

Gary showed me around the humming factory floor.  

 

“We make clothes for the military. This is our sealing machine. You take a T-shirt, put it in one of these plastic bags, place it on the machine, and let the machine seal it. You try it. No, like this.”

 

They were olive green T-shirts. If you didn’t line up the bag perfectly, it wouldn’t seal. If done right, the machine made a hissing air sound and clamped down. I did this about 458,380 times. Then I did it again. I stood the whole time. Who knew that could be so tiring?

 

Is this what work was? I had to get up tomorrow (6:15AM!) and do it all over again? And the next day. And the next day. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in its petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time….. Would I become another sucker who eternally pushed his tired rock up a hill? And was office work just a shinier rock?

 

Rush’s Working Man played in my head.

 

My mom worked in American Airlines’ Hartford office and in a rare breach from her cheery disposition, she once told dinner guests, “I can’t retire there. I have to get out of that office.” My Dad loved his job as a cop, but after he had to kill a machete wielding maniac his nightmares led him into the sheltering arms of burning buildings. He didn’t fear flying bullets or carbon monoxide poisoning but he was afraid to fly to Florida to visit my grandfather, his medical encyclopedia scratched his every hypochondriac itch, he bit his way to ingrown fingernails, and he was twice divorced. Is work the drug and life the hangover? The thief? The vampire? Was I the only one thinking these things?? Everyone else seemed so jacked up by Fortune 500 companies, Future Business Leadership Of America, even Business Enterprise Programs!

 

“How was your day?” my mom asked as we exited the American Airlines lobby.

 

My soul had drained from my body, never to be found again.

 

“Pretty good.”

………………………………………

She dropped me off downtown twenty minutes before my bus every morning. I got a cinnamon roll and coffee at the Cinnabon in the Civic Center mall. Was coffee like adulthood? At first it tastes bitter and gross, but once you acquire the taste you start to like it?

 

“Can I get extra cream and sugar?”

 

Better take things slow.

 

So breaded and liquid candy it was: the breakfast of champions and sealing machinists alike. To face the spirit swallowing reality of getting up at 6:15 AM, I took up coffee like a good little adult. I always figured I was too nervous for it considering I nearly died from a rabies scare, but these were desperate times. No one drank it in college. Coffee was for old people.  All-nighters (which increased as my GPA decreased) meant a walk to Dairy Mart for Jolt Cola and a box of Chips Ahoy: real brain food. Did Duke students pound caffeinated rat poison and fresh from the laboratory cookies too?             

………………………………………………

I discovered another potential lifeline to the outside world: email. I logged on to create an address.

 

BadBoy69@aol.com.

 

Taken.

 

#1BadBoy@aol.com.

 

Taken.

 

LickMyBallz123@aol.com. .

 

Taken!

 

BlowMe321@aol.com.

 

Getting an email address was literally impossible.

 

ChunkOfChange$$$@aol.com.

 

Finally!

 

My found my old floormate Matt in UConn’s online directory. His address was MattC321@UConn.edu. So that’s how mature kids handled this.   

 

“Hey Matt. It’s Colin! What’s up? I joined the brave new world of email! I’m back home and just started working—my job sucks! Might apply for grad school. How is Coventry Lake with Jeff and Cane? Is Cane his normal jovial self? Are they cranking too much Korn and Rage? Demand equal stereo time with R. Kelly and Boyz 2 Men! How about those Marlins? This is why baseball is the best sport: it’s 25 guys contributing, not just superstars carrying everything. Well, talk to you soon!”

 

Two days later:

 

“You’ve. Got. MAIL!”
 

“Hey Colin. Good to hear from you! I will turn Jeff and Cane into R&B fans if it’s the last thing I do. Our apartment is pretty nice—it’s great not having Psycho Boy around or listening to Frank and Joey crank Ol’ Dirty Bastard at 3:30AM. Did you see those Livan Hernandez curveballs 3 feet outside that Eric Gregg called strikes?? I think the Braves can still come back. Well, talk to you soon!”.

 

“Hey Matt! It was 86 degrees and muggy in Miami. Eric Gregg is large and in charge. The poor guy just wanted to get through a long, horrible workday and dominate the post-game buffet and who can blame him? Swing the bats, boys or get a dome!”

 

This was nice, but it wasn’t like I was going to go live with them. Matt was a quiet kid. He pounded Mountain Dews, not Bud. My well-adjusted shadow self, he wrote sports columns for The Daily Campus. But one night he confessed to four of us that his 11 year old brother had died of leukemia. He broke down in tears. He knew family pain too. Maybe more than me. So what was my excuse for being such a fuck up?          

 

The Marlins beat the Indians in Game 7 of The World Series. They rewarded their sun baked South Beach fairweather fans after five long, grueling years in existence while Cleveland endured their 49th consecutive year without a title–along with the Browns, smog, and an Ohio winter. The Tribe blew a 1 run lead in the bottom of the 9th before losing in extras when UConn alum Charles Nagy surrendered the game winning single. Way to represent.

 

I smoked a cigarette on the breezeway—obviously I was back smoking—and went to bed.  

………………………………………

I bought three new baseballs from Sports Authority. The red, yellow, and orange leaves which curtained our backyard provided a much better contrast for lost baseballs. New England’s leaf peeping season was here. I guess foliage was my Eric Gregg.  

 

…………………………………………. 

 

A-Framed

 

My mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

 

“Colin, it’s for you!”

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey Col, it’s Greek.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“So you know that house you visited this summer? Noah is moving out. Are you interested in moving in?”

 

The sun drenched A-frame! So far from my shadowy arboreal home with its first frost warning of fall and increasingly early sunsets.  

 

“Yeah. Definitely. Wait…………I started working. I might have to check if there’s a bus or something. Can I let you know?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“That was Greek,” I told my mom over pork chops and chopped potatoes with vinegar. “He asked if I wanted to move in.”  

 

“I’m happy for you, honey,” she said. Was that a melancholy tone I detected? Was our house was about to become haunted by another ghost? But this time it was me? Was she scared of living alone through the dark and cold New England winter in our silent, ever expanding four-bedroom house? I can’t think about this right now. Can’t. Think.  

 

We dialed up to AOL. A Peter Pan bus went from Willimantic to Storrs to Coventry to Bolton on its way to Hartford! But the A-frame was a mile from the bus stop next to the library and winter was coming. And the bus took almost an hour and I would still need to take a scary city bus to West Hartford. And it was $14 round trip. And I was living off a sub-minimum wage sheltered workshop “salary” and $300 of supplemental crumbs. Too expensive. Too inconvenient. Dead on arrival.

 

I started packing.

 

I could stop overthinking it and enroll in grad school! (Maybe Lolita was better the second time?) Roommates again. Ted’s!

 

We loaded up Greek’s truck. I traveled light: my mattress, a pillow, a garbage bag of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant, and my acoustic guitar. My electric guitar/amp and subwoofing sonic destroyer stayed. 

 

The waning, mid-autumn sun slumped over Five Corners as we waited at the light. Was this my final look as an Ellington resident? I fled my lodestar and omphalos like an Alcatraz fugitive.

 

The A-frame didn’t look quite as soul illuminating in the November twilight but my Dream House (or Safe House) still stood tall on its hill.  

 

“Col, you get the downstairs room,” Greek said. “Do you know Pavlovich?”

 

“No I don’t think so.”

 

“Pav, this is Colin.”

 

“Hey man.”

 

“Hey.”

 

Tall, lanky, and goateed Pav had a slight lisp and the simmering heat of a permanently pre-heated oven.

 

“And this is Brandon.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey.”

 

The unliked-by-Mark’s-girlfriend Brandon! He was short, muscular, and sandy haired.

 

“And you know Tony.”

 

I put my blue and white sheets on my mattress. And my unpacking up was complete. I sloppily played the Lie In Our Graves into very quietly to avoid judgment.

 

Brandon and I made awkward small talk while watching TV (I hated strangers so much) until someone mercifully knocked on the door.

 

“Come in!”  

 

In walked a thin, balding middle-aged guy in a tan cardigan.

 

“Hello. Is Tony home?”

 

“He left. I’m Brandon. Can I help?”

 

“Well…..uh, I spoke with the police and I just wanted to discuss the matter if you have a minute.”  

 

This guy was gentler than a lamb.

 

“Okay. We kicked Noah out. I’m not sure if you knew that.”

 

“Oh---no, I didn’t. Uh…..well, the thing is I think we still need to…..I think I still need to ask you gentlemen to vacate. Especially with things getting in the newspaper. I hope you understand.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“Okay. Well, I was thinking by the end of December?”

 

“Not a problem.”

 

“Great! Enjoy your evening.”

 

What just happened?

 

Tony walked in two minutes later.

 

“What was that about?”

 

“We just got shitcanned.”

 

Well good thing I didn’t pack my box spring. Even Puck lasted longer on Real World San Francisco. But it was a magical A-framed hour I wouldn’t  soon forget.

 

“Well that sucks,” he said, sorting mail. 

 

Why was no one surprised? Or upset? Was I the only one seeing a bit of a problem here? This was my quarter life crisis sanctuary!

 

“So…………….what happened?” I asked with the studied nonchalance of someone asking, “Do you think I should get this mole checked out?”

 

“Pav got busted with three pounds of weed.”

 

It happens.

 

“The cops raided our Halloween party.”

 

“Why was Noah the one who moved out?”

 

“Noah got busted first and narc’d on Pav and this girl Renee to get off charges. So we kicked him out.”  

 

On Sportscenter, Dan Patrick announced the Red Sox acquired the Montreal Expos’ National League’s Cy Young Award winning pint sized fireballer Pedro Martinez at The Winter Meetings. At least Sox GM Dan Duquette was having a good night. Well maybe our landlord too. He didn’t get shot by convicted, evicted drug dealers.  

………………………………………..

Girl Trouble

 

“It’s 6:07 in the morning here at Radio 104. Here’s some Fiona Apple for ya.”
 

I desperately needed a hat and gloves. And thicker jacket. I was freezing.

 

I’m pretty sure I’m the first and last human to commute to work in this insane fashion, but if you’re ever in Storrs and work in a sheltered workshop for the blind and you don’t have a car and need to get to a Peter Pan bus from an A framed house, walk straight down North Eagleville Road past Dairy Mart (you will also need a time machine) past Sgt Pepperoni’s, Wings Over Storrs, Huskies “Tavern”, Ted’s “Restaurant”, and Subway “Sandwiches.” Turn right onto Hilltop Drive, walk past the Math Science Building and the Student Union on your left, the Fieldhouse and Gampel Pavilion on your right, turn left onto the street whose name I forget behind the Homer Babbidge Library and await your bus. It’s a long day’s journey into The Insurance Capital Of The World, New England’s Rising Star. But your journey still isn’t quite finished yet, I’m afraid. Please board the New Britain Avenue CT Transit bus (which stops every 30 feet) to Shield Street in West Hartford. If everything goes perfectly, you should make it in 1 hour and 58 minutes door to door, which interestingly is also the run time of Silence Of The Lambs.

 

The city bus was a remarkable growth experience. I learned so much from those salt of the earth folks. Oh, the laughter we shared. I consider them family. Differences between farm boys and city dwellers are only skin deep. We all put our pants on one leg at a time. Phil Collins hit the nail on the head in Another Day In Paradise.

 

Just kidding. I was scared fucking shitless. This cow town hick thought getting gunned down by a semi-automatic was a semi-automatic guarantee if I sat next to anyone who planned to keep his two-seater to himself that morning. I wore my headphones at all times, stared straight ahead and never uttered a word—and certainly didn’t even think about quoting Phil Collins. Ever.

 

But I learned there were no murderers here, just strangers I hadn’t learned to drown out with Phish bootlegs and Sex And Candy yet on my AM/FM/cassette player Walkman.  

………………………

Leanne Rhymes’ summer cameo turned into  a workshop starring role that fall. She sang through packing room supervisor Pablo’s radio seemingly every hour on the hour. Light 100: playing today’s hits and yesterday’s classics too. Leanne’s romantic longing blended with stuffing plastic wrapped T-shirts in cardboard boxes better than you might think. No one ordered me to put a bunny back in a box, but I could imagine Nick Cage working here while researching his next role as a blind baby thief leaving Las Vegas to get face transplant surgery to look just like the criminal mastermind who kidnapped his only son.     

 

Seeing eye dogs filled the workshop. Sighted sewers decamped in the back. None of these ladies spoke a word of English. Pablo and floor supervisor Mario Rijo were bilingual. It was a brave new world for me. I took (failed) a year of French in high school followed by three years of Latin which I didn’t exactly “veni, vidi, vici '' either. No Spanish. Sometimes Leanne and Michael Bolton were the only English speakers in the box stuffing room. (I was a mute). But after hearing enough Chicago power ballads to send Mr. Rogers into a homicidal rage, Jose heroically turned it to the Latin station. Red hot brass sections blasted away the soft rock treacle. This workshop was sheltered from Peter Cetera.

 

After the lunch bell rang at 11:55 AM, you had to climb a steep, winding flight of stairs to reach the lunchroom. This didn’t really seem like the best setup for a place filled with blind people but I’m no architect or safety inspector. The morning break and lunchtime was a tangled clusterfuck of canes, service dogs, and angry humans ascending and descending  treacherous bottlenecked stairs. 

 

I never brought my lunch. The A Framers and I weren’t exactly going grocery shopping together and I was afraid to eat with sweatshoppers. I was just passing through and couldn’t sink in this quicksand. I went to the McDonald’s a block away.

 

“Would you like to Super Size that?”

 

Nope, I need beer money.

 

I read the Hartford Courant’s sports and entertainment sections and forced myself to read about Clinton and Newt and the end of the era of Big Government and the beginning of the Contract With America and Bridges To The 21st Century and stained blue dresses and other wicked dumb shit.    

 

After lunch, Bobbi, a permed chainsmoker with a weary but not unkind voice, showed me how to fold and place shirts into plastic bags. A 40-ish black bearded white dude sat across the table incessantly talking to himself, utterly oblivious to my presence. 

 

“I am going to talk to staff. I think we can all go to Dairy Queen and get ice cream after we get our haircuts. We can get haircuts. And then get some ice cream. And maybe sometimes they can let us leave, let us leave the group home and go for walks unsupervised. I think we can, yes. But some people aren’t remembering to brush their teeth at night. 10 o’clock lights out. I’m going to tell staff. The new girl, Ashley. I’m going to tell Ashley about this. And then maybe we can go to the movies on Sunday. Of course I can’t go anywhere that’s around young girls. I can’t be around young girls.”

 

Wow that had a twist ending. The workshop’s M. Night Shamalan was Donny. Do group home residents ever get to be Don? I’d like to talk to Ashley about that.

……………………………………..

For the first week, Brandon’s rottweiler Athena barked murderously when I approached the house, but she eventually turned her tail.

 

“I can’t bite one of Master’s pack member’s face off. I got off the couch for this?”  

 

Nothing beats puppy love.

 

Eviction be damned, at the packie I bought a six pack of Sam Adams Winter Lager and Brandon bought Jim Beam. It turned out Donny wasn’t the only one with young girl problems. Brandon was dating a freshman–also named Ashely!

 

“She keeps leaving answering machine messages. She cried last time I banged her and told me she loved me.”

 

Radio 104 played Blink 182.

 

The timing and structure.

Did you hear?

He fucked her!   

 

“I don’t understand these chicks,” Romeo lamented. “What is it about using you as a semen receptacle that makes you think we’re in love?” 

 

Preach, player. These ho’s be like static cling. Get off my jock!

 

“Are you going to break up with her?”

 

“Eventually.”

…………………………………………………………………..

I know what you’re thinking: I was a virgin. You couldn’t be more wrong. My little black book contained not one but two sexual conquests encounters debacles. 

 

Organizers of my brother’s five-year high school reunion rented the banquet room at The Colony in Vernon. I tagged along. They split “our” room ten ways because passing out on the floor is a perfectly viable sleeping arrangement between the ages of 18-26. While everyone pre-gamed with beers, the topic shifted to my sex life. I really cannot recall why. Because I had just turned 21 and was still (obviously) a virgin? Time to shed my scarlet V?   

 

“Colin needs to get laid,” Dale declared. This problem solver suggested calling a prostitute.

 

 “Do you have $250?”

 

That’s hardly the point, is it? This was obviously a horrible idea. Too nerve wracking. Was I drunk enough to relax? And getting a hooker?? Was I really that kind of guy? I even found The Electric Blue super awkward. But just like when Pete Kowalksi challenged me to a braces rearranging afterschool rumble, I couldn’t just say no. Nancy Reagan had failed once again.

 

The Class Of ’89 went downstairs to reminisce over Kamikazes at the open bar. The lady of the night arrived with a large bag. Blonde. Damn. No hot brunettes? What about Asians? A blonde hooker seemed so cliché. But she was pretty. She could have passed for a girl with a nice, supportive father who got stars in her eyes after she saw a Pretty Woman matinee. Probably not much older than me. I paid her upfront, as I guessed was what you do? She gave me a massage while she got undressed one article of clothing at a time. When I dared to look up I saw her without pants. More compelling than her shoulder rubs—because we both agreed they were very sore-- was her special area. Woop there it is? Yeah, probably don’t say that. She looked like a real blonde. That was an upset. I decided what the heck? I reached down to, I don’t know, pet it? Is that what you do? Is that considered seductive foreplay? She pulled my hand away.

 

“Sorry,” I said. 

 

“It just hurts a little when people do that. It just feels like pulling hair.”

 

“Oh right. Sorry.”

 

When you fall off a horse always get right back on. I touched her right boob. I mean you just hate to let almost an entire month’s worth of SSI go to waste. Plus they were just out there like that. Perky B cup sized. Also real! (Probably).  

 

“Can you grab a little more gently? That kind of hurts.”

 

“Yeah, sorry”.

 

“That’s better.”

 

Boy was she strict. Like my Home Ec teacher. “You’re sewing your football wrong!” 

 

She laid me down on the bed and took off my pants. She gave me these small kisses up and down my legs and chest. 

 

“You’re cute,” she said under her breath.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Then, refusing to accept a compliment even from someone paid to give it, I said, “I’ll bet you say that to all the guys.”

 

I meant it as a joke.

 

I think.

 

“No. I don’t say that to all the guys!”

 

Great. It turns out I could even flunk an etiquette exam with a hooker.

 

I was so nervous. Richard Gere didn’t through this with Julia Roberts unless those were Director’s Cut scenes I missed. Amber slipped an industrial grade condom on me more clinical precision than a nurse checking for testicular cancer. Was The Great Wall of China this unbreachable? Charlie Sheen couldn’t spread an STD in this freaking thing.

 

Things started to, you know, progress.

 

“I’m tight,” she said almost apologetically. 

 

 Wow. Girls didn’t just say stuff like that on Red Shoe Diaries? It was all so surreal. I tried to relax. Was this what I always imagined? Did I envision a prostitute named Ashley in a hotel room? No, I did not. It was exciting but I had trouble looking strangers in the eye so this was just ridiculous. How did she end up in this line of work? Was her 5”4” step-father the kind of guy who called his 5’3” wife a “midget”? Should we have delved into that first? I felt far away and it wasn’t just the three inch (thick, not long) silicone barrier. I get semi-excited but not super excited.

 

“Some people take a while. Some just never get there,” she reassured me like a gym teacher after you fail to reach a high rung on the wall with your wooden stick.

 

Someone knocked on the door. Then knocked again.      

 

“Hey! Open up! Who the fuck is in there?” a fuly pre-gamed male voice called.

 

“Who is that?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe if we just ignore him, he will go away?”, I unhelpfully suggested. Hope is not a plan.

 

”Why is this door locked!?”

 

Knocks escalated to punches. This wasn’t the kind of pounding I paid top dollar for. 

 

“OPEN UP THIS FUCKING DOOR!!!!”

 

That was all she wrote for Ashley. She got up. What a body. I couldn’t believe an actual naked girl stood three feet away. Now any movie of my life would need to come with a parental warning: graphic nudity, strong sexual content, and  adult situations. Slap it with an NC-17!

 

She got dressed and gathered her work tools.    

 

“I think your friends have some serious issues.”

 

“But I barely know him!”

 

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

 

“Maybe I can talk him into coming back later.” I flailed in the wind, literally and figuratively.

 

She knew better. She had been around the blo----see, there I go again. She opened the door and fled like the building was on fire. Farewell Amber, we were two ships passing in the night.

 

In thundered my brother’s former scholastic colleague Tim Lacy.

 

“What the FUCK were you thinking!? We paid for this room. Not you!”

 

I was in no mood to split hairs over the booking ledger.

 

“FUCK YOU MAN, YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE!”

 

“FUCK YOU, DIPSHIT!”

 

He deftly intercepted my punch, grabbed my arm, and put me in a headlock. To avoid suffocation, I finally gave up struggling. I ran down the hallway screaming.   

 

“FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!” 

 

And that’s how I lost my virginity.

 

I recommend The Colony.

………………………………………

Epilogue: if they write Cliff’s Notes for this Pulitzer frontrunner, I assume this chapter will say I pulled a hooker’s pubic hair, mauled her breast, denigrated her profession, and couldn’t get completely aroused through a polyurethane prophylactic until a drunken madman subdued me in a headlock. When you put it that way, it really sounds bad.

 

Let’s think glass half full: maybe Amber re-evaluated her career goals, went back to school and became an X-ray technician or pre-school teacher.    

   

Despite all this, my stock rose precipitously in Dale’s eyes. When I reported she said, “I’m tight” he nearly asked me for my autograph.

……………………………………..

Still not convinced I had serious game with the ladies? A year later, four Jungle dorms held their annual semi-formal dance. Well-dressed kids got annihilated on cheap beer at a local banquet hall and humiliated their school. My blue denim dress shirt with a red tie (a killer look which said “I’m classy enough for ties but badass enough to say no to cotton”) paired with roughly half a container of Vidal Sassoon hair gel enticed a swooning young lady to ask me to dance. Before I knew it, we made out on the dance floor and I started feeling her up. Gonna Make You Sweat really loosens your inhibitions. (Fifteen beers don’t hurt either). We sat side by side on the ride home from Willimantic. She sat by the window. She tapped me on the arm. I looked over and saw her bare left breast! “Semi-formal” meant just one boob exposed on a school bus. What does one do in this situation? I never got the syllabus. I grabbed it (gently this time) and licked it. 

 

She changed out of her maroon dress and into gray sweatpants and a T-shirt at her dorm in Litchfield like we were going to study for Bio-chem. She was the brunette Wild Cheetah Escorts didn’t give me. Fluorescent dorm lights replaced dim dancefloor strobes and revealed she was a pretty cute girl. Her name was Melissa. I vaguely knew her roommate. I’m afraid that’s all the biographical background I can provide. This was a college hookup, not a Jane Austen courtship though I was the “gentleman caller” who escorted her to my dorm room like a wildly miscast Mr. Darcy. (I FINALLY had a single). Two seconds after I closed the door we started kissing again. I wished our tongues could stay locked forever. Why are people ever not kissing? We took off our clothes. “I’m on my period,” she said but later retracted that statement. “You can do whatever you want.” Testing if I was a rapist? Who knows with girls! Either way, she took off her panties. Without turning this into a 12th rate romance novel beside Slim Jims in a Shell, things got going a bit but I had killed 20 beers by this point. (Conservative estimate). If I had known about this pop quiz I might have drank responsibly with 15! Long story short, I didn’t quite complete the job. Again. No one even pounded on the door–although a hallway hackey sack tournament was in progress. I did do…..other stuff. More tangy than I expected.

 

In the morning my phone rang. I thought not answering would make me seem shady or something.     

 

“Did you watch the Sox last night?” my Dad asked.

 

“No, I went to a dance.”

 

“Worst April start in team history! Time to clean house! Kevin Kennedy is on the hot seat”.

 

“Yeah, totally.”

 

“How are classes going?”

 

“Not bad.” 

 

“Want to go to Kathy John’s next Sunday with me and the boys?”

 

“Yeah, sounds good.” 

 

“See you then!!”

 

All this while I sat on my bed, naked in the unforgiving glare of the morning sun knifing through the shade while a stranger got dressed. I took one last furtive peek. Naked girls are the greatest thing ever. Boy did I feel like shit.

 

“Are you doing anything later? Can I call you?”

 

Did she want me to call? Is that what you do with a hookup? Or was I a job applicant who shouldn’t have gotten past HR screening let alone ask for a second interview? She gave me her number. I laid on my bed for hours and waited out my merciless hangover with its crushing despair. Why are these encounters always so awkward? First time I wasn’t drunk enough, now too drunk? Was that even it? What if I was gay? I certainly never had a crush on some hairy dude. Might as well write sonnets to gorillas while I was at it. But what if it’s more subtle than that? Not a single character in 80’s teen sex comedies had these problems! Tom Cruise removed call girl Rebecca De Mornay’s purple dress while wind blew the shutters and leaves on a crisp autumn suburban Chicago night to a hypnotically beautiful Tangerine Dream soundtrack. Mike Damone impregnated Stacy in Fast Times At Ridgemont High after only one afterschool pool room encounter!

 

Of course, since my floormates saw her coming and going, I was a stud.

 

“Are you going to call her?”

 

“I don’t know. I think so.”

 

“She’s cute.”

 

I called after I got back from the dining hall.

 

 “No I’m not going out tonight”, she said with a hint of anger. Or was I being paranoid?

 

I threw away her number. Oh well we will always have the Jake Speakeasy Lounge. What should be our song? I’d prefer Melissa by The Allman Brothers but we’ll have to settle for Too Drunk To Fuck by The Dead Kennedys.             

……………………………………………..

Winter

 

“Colin, Pav and I found a new place across from Schmedley’s. Do you know where that is?”.

 

“Yeah kind of.”

 

“Want to go in with us on rent? The lease starts in January.”

 

“I’m going to live back in Celeron,” Greek said. 

 

“Okay. I think so. That’s a little far from my bus stop but I think I can do it.”

 

I guess the new landlord’s screening process was about as stringent as a blind sheltered workshop. The A-frame was already pushing it, but Staffordville Road was three miles away. Time to pump up my Trek’s tires again. Either that or return to my haunted house. That way madness lies.

 

My bedroom had obviously been Noah’s room. At least there were no leftover rolling papers or scales. Noah lived next door to me for a year. Blond like me, cocky unlike me. He borrowed my Henry Rollins book Black Coffee Blues. I’d hear knocking before his door closed and reopened five minutes later with boisterous laughter. Another satisfied customer. This young entrepreneur, much like Macbeth after his chance encounter with weird sisters on a heath, foresaw his tragic fate. But there was no bloody handed guilt because Noah, unlike Macbeth, knew character was fate. “A pretty boy like me? I can’t go to jail,” he declared as we walked up to the cafeteria. He had introduced a hypothetical legal Sophie’s choice, as one does. He self-diagnosed himself a “truly disgusting human being.” And in the end, to thine own self he had been true.

 

I didn’t have a dimebag’s worth of respect for him, but I pretended we were bros anyway. Natty Ice and a need for social acceptance bridge gaping chasms in moral and philosophical worldviews. But then a third-hand rumor surfaced that he had carnal knowledge of Carrie, my Oasis loving lab table champagne supernova. Even floormate Brian, who hibernated in his room, watched Reservoir Dogs, played Legend Of Zelda, and evinced fewer romantic longings than a Nintendo Switch joystick, got hit by Cupid’s arrow.

 

“That just ruined my day, he said.

 

Join the club. Brian and I (and the entire New Haven 3^rd floor) were left to hope this disgusting human being lied to enhance his weed market share. (In business, reputation is king). Staring too long at any other conclusion could blind you.

 

Pav’s hatred of him could fuel an entire Pantera box set.

 

“I had another violent dream about Noah last night,” he announced one evening as he ate a bowl of Kraft mac and cheese. 

 

Another night I opened the front door to:

 

“…………..FUCK UP MY FUTURE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

 

Forensic details were scarce (and it seemed like a touchy subject?) but Pretty Boy fingered Pav and Renee to the cops to prevent romantic overtures from Bubba in a medium security shower, so Pav faced possible jail time and Renee was already there.

 

Pav’s, um, intensity cast shadows over the once radiant A-frame I fell in love with on that languid summer day when the Dolphins were still plausible Super Bowl contenders. Pav personified the November gray and chill. 6’4” and lanky with chin facial hair, he was no pretty boy (thus better prison material?. He could have passed for a Celtic Frost bass player. He’d never get caught dead standing in the rain for Toad The Wet Sprocket on Spring Weekend. (Not that I’m confessing). He even ordered pizza and checked his class schedule with an unnerving twitchiness.

 

Yet this teddy bear was an animal lover. His Burmese python Jägermeister was just as cute as a button with scales that resembled, yup, a Jägermeister bottle. He sat shirtless on the couch with Jaeger draped around his neck. Until your pet snake elects to not suffocate you to death, you don’t know true love.  

……………………………………

Phil tuned to the jazz station and ripped off his radio dial. The warehouse was a Leanne Rhymes free zone. And Fiona Apple could forget about setting a skid of brochures ablaze with her seething rage towards yet another man-boy. Festive trumpets and saxes blew jazzy Christmas tunes all morning.

 

A yuletide seductress implored Santa to descend the chimney with great alacrity. Phil scatted along.

 

“Ooooo Santa. Boop zoo da doo dee chicka chicka boom! Oh Santa! Give me that Big Santa!”

 

This was the first time I’d heard “Santa” employed as a dick euphemism.

 

“Mr. McDonough! We have a big order today. You think you are ready?” 

 

“Yes, I think so.”

 

He spoke with a practiced friendliness. Did he fear I was the clean shaven, golden haired college punk fixing to kick his blackbearded blue collar ass to the curb? Did warehouse boss Jim plan to fuck him over with his Big Santa? Or did he just not respect someone who had never steered a chopper and confessed to only passing by Ellington’s TSI Harley on his, if we’re going to be brutally honest here, effeminate Teal ten speed?

 

He only called me Colin once—and it was weird.

 

“Mr. McDonough, we had an error in yesterday’s shipment. You only included 74 Mystic brochures to Bradley but the order was for 75. Try to be a little more careful?”

 

“Okay. Sorry about that.”

 

Why was I counting at all if you were JUST GOING TO COUNT ANYWAY? I’m surprised Mystic Aquarium didn’t permanently shutter their doors. While waiting for their luggage after a red eye from Disney, did a family of four walk past an empty display where 74 Mystic brochures once had been? They would never experience the breathtaking reconstruction of Charles W. Morgan’s 1840’s whaling vessel or feast their eyes on Bobo the beluga whale. Because college boy can’t count.

 

But what I really thought was: is my brain slowly draining out of me? Forget standard deviations, is addition now beyond my skill set? The Dean would totally approve my Stats 101 exemption if she could only see me now.

……………………..

That afternoon I assembled pens. No counting required! Hard plastic navy blue “Assembled By The Blind” shells were laid out in wooden boxes next to another box with the soft plastic tubes with ink alongside yet another box with golden metal crowns. The final box to my right was for completed pens. I sat at a long wooden table with six pen assembling colleagues.

 

“Did you watch wrestling last night?” a perpetually smiling tiny black-haired girl asked an African American woman.

 

“No, what happened?”

 

“Oooo Stone Cold poured cement into Mr. McMahon’s car!”

 

“His Corvette!?”

 

“YUUUUP. His Corvette! Oooo Stone Cold is gonna get it!”

 

“Hey Marisol, get some work done over there and stop all that blabbering!” a gentleman at the next table advised.

 

“Oh shove it, Sam! I’m gonna get Hulk Hogan to beat you up!”

 

I was glad Hulk Hogan was still relevant. Although I pretended to like Swann’s Way, if you think I wasn’t jacked for Wrestlemania 1 in ’85 when The Hulkster and Mr. T fought a no holds barred steel cage tag team match against Rowdy Roddy Piper and “Mr. Wonderful” Paul Orndorf at Madison Square Garden you’re crazy. I hated Roddy so freaking much after he smashed a coconut over Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka’s head in Piper’s Pit! Rage so clouded my judgment that I never noticed that despite his red kilt and bagpipe theme song, this “Scotsman”’s Canadian accent was thicker than Gordie Howe’s.

 

“I’m from Edenborough, mate, so I’m not aboot to tolerate this Mickey Mouse organ-eye-zation, Jack Tunney!”

 

Wrestlemania 1 was a massive tease. Ended in a draw. Someone hit someone else with a chair and got a technical disqualification or some bullshit. All those weeks of MTV hype for this? Wait for the Summer Slam pay per view event?  

 

Wrestling and letdowns were always intertwined. One morning my brother placed me in a Figure Four Leg Lock. Just another Saturday at 15 Maplewood. Other days it was the Sleeper Hold. He became confused and exasperated when I remained wide awake.

 

“Can you guys come downstairs for a minute?” my Dad called.  

 

“Mom and I still love each other but we’re not in love with each other anymore,” he said. The Hartford Courant sat on the kitchen table. I picked it up and pretended to read about soaring inflation and everything the Fed and the Reagan Administration planned to do about it—large on the minds of eight year olds everywhere. I read a half inch from my face, so the paper became a protective shield once my tears started. Finally, realizing I couldn’t hide forever, I lowered it and my mom bawled immediately.  

 

It’s too bad Patrick didn’t try the Sleeper Hold that time. Maybe that was the day it would have finally worked.

…………………………………

Pen assembly was just a resume builder, isn’t that what Barry said? I called him.

 

“Colin! How is Industries going?”

 

“Okay. But are there……..other jobs out there?”

 

“I will connect you with our vocational specialist Melissa.”

 

Would I bitterly disappoint this Melissa too?

 

A week later Gary approached me while I got my Sealing Machine on.

 

 “Colin, Melissa is here to see you upstairs.”

 

We climbed the Himalayan stairs and exchanged super awkward pleasantries.

 

“Everything going okay?”

 

“Yeah, no problems,” I noted in an ascending vocal scale.

 

”Great! If you need anything, just let me know.” His pitch soared even higher, rising as sharply as the stairwell.

 

Did Phil pull a Noah with CountingGate?   

 

“Hi Mel!”

 

First syllable basis?

 

“Hey Gary.”

 

“This is Colin.”

 

“Hi. “.

 

“Hey there! Want to go into the office next door where it’s a bit quieter? How are things going here?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Unlike Wrestlemania 1, Melissa didn’t disappoint. Dare I say smoking hot?

 

“Hey Mel, didn’t you see the no smoking sign?”

 

Definitely don’t say that. She had long brown hair and wore tortoiseshell glasses. Only a few years older than me? Sexy librarian look or were the glasses a prop to fend off leering gas station truckers and very single sheltered workshop workers? A wedding ring just screams “challenge” to those guys (I was too blind to see if she had one) so glasses instead? Deflective lenses on Shield Street?

 

“What kinds of things do they have you doing?”

 

“Well I’m doing brochures. Shipping them out. And some other stuff, like, I don’t know, working some of the machines.”

 

Don’t even mention pens. 

 

“Great. What kinds of jobs are you interested in?”

 

“Well……..I’m not too sure actually.”

 

“I see you graduated from UConn?”

 

Technically.

 

“Yes.”

 

White blouse. Necklace. Looked like just a hint of cleavage. Was I not maintaining perfect eye contact?? You say the world needs another objectifying white male chauvinist writer like a case of rabies? Check your privilege, reader. I’m blind.

 

“What was your major?”

 

“English. I guess I could have picked something a little more practical.”

 

I need to stop apologizing for my major. I think.

 

“Do you have any prior work experience?”

 

“I worked in the college cafeteria one summer.”

 

Kitchen tray cleanup which nearly destroyed my appetite for life. People are so gross. I lacked the seniority and Machiavellian statecraft needed to scam my way to ID scanning: the corner office of college cafeteria employment.  

 

“How are your computer skills?”

 

“Pretty good. I used WordPerfect in school. I’ve used Windows 95? I can email.”

 

Don’t sell yourself short. Online hearts? Pearl Jam guitar tabs? Netscape naturist beach photos?

 

“We pay for a program at Goodwin College in East Hartford which teaches Microsoft Office. Would you be interested?”

 

“That sounds good.”

 

“Great! Would you say you have good people skills?” 

 

“Yeah, I think so,” I said flatly.   

 

“Do you think you would have a hard time dealing with difficult people?”

 

Only when they pound on the door when I’m with a hooker.

 

“No, I think I’m pretty good.”

 

“Maybe we could look at some customer service jobs?”

 

“Sure, that sounds okay.”

 

Customer service? Patrick connected San Diego hotline callers to ghosts of their departed loved ones with tarot cards. Was that customer service? I almost pursued customer service a couple of summers earlier after I stopped on my bike at Moser Farms ice cream shop and discovered Amy Alfson and Leslie Menunos worked there. The next day I chickened out going back to ask for an application. I just wanted to work with cute blonde Amy and smoking hot brunette Leslie and feared they would smell my lack of commitment to pouring rainbow sprinkles on Kerry and Emily’s mint chocolate chip waffle cone from a mile away. So my telltale heart and I never went back for ice cream, let alone employment.   

 

“Great! We’ll be in touch then!”

 

“Great!”

……………………………………..

“I had a dream I beat Noah with a hammer until he cried”, Pav shared.

 

“Did you hear about the court date?” Brandon asked.

 

“Next Tuesday.”

 

This protracted legal drama was really starting to ruin my enjoyment of Tostinos party pizzas and that’s saying a lot. I slave away all day in a brochure dungeon and this is what I come home to? Can’t we just enjoy our waning days in the Taj Mahal of North Eagleville Road?

 

At least Greek giggled like a schoolgirl at Austin Powers’s attempts to shag Elizabeth Berkley. Groovy, baby, yeah. Will Ferrell was still alive but very badly burned.

 

I rarely saw Tony. He must have decided a den of drugs, deceit, eviction, and compromising media coverage was not the place for a budding Fortune 500 power player. This situation was hairier than his chest but if he had anything to do with it, his resume, criminal record, and rental history would remain cleaner than his girlfriend Our Lady Of The Immaculate Vagina. Too bad he wasn’t around to watch his Dolphins play the Patriots a few days before Thanksgiving. The Fins 14 point 4th quarter rally fell just short. Final score: 27-24. Miami fell to 7-5. All pre-season prognostications of Lombardi Trophy hoisting looked murkier than the gray November sky. The Pats were also 7-5 under Pete Carroll. He looked like Paul Newman and acted like Keanu Reeves. A nice guy. What a terrible hire. A huge downgrade from obnoxious Jersey boy Bill Parcells who took a separate plane home after they lost to the Packers in the Super Bowl before bolting to the Jets. Four years of preaching teamwork led to an Irish goodbye. I guess that’s what winners do. Ditching football at age eight was the smartest thing I ever did.

…………………………

This kid Jay lived halfway up our yard in a mini-house. A converted shed? Brandon and I walked in while he cranked Smashing Pumpkins’ Cherub Rock. I liked him already.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey man, how’s it going?”

 

“Just studying for Econ. What are you up to?”

 

“Nothin, man”..

 

“Hey, do you still want that couch?”

 

“Yeah, want to come up and get it?”

 

“Cool, man.”

 

A couch almost as big as Jay’s house sat in our basement.

 

“I would help you, but I tweaked my back lifting,” Brandon said.

 

Oh yeah me too.

 

“No worries. Can you help me, Colin?”

 

“Yeah, no problem.”

 

“Dude, what’s this thing made of? It’s freaking heavy.”

 

I hadn’t been making barbells my bitch, just boxes with 74 brochures. 

 

“Yeah, it’s pretty heavy.”

 

My arms almost fell off. We grunted and huffed down the driveway and placed it down. Within a couple of days, my lower back got sore, then my right lower leg got weak and numb, then I got pins and needles. I needed a minute and a half to get out of my mom’s car after she drove me home one night. I limped like an 84 year old bricklayer. On really bad days I walked like The Hunchback Of Notre Dame. Herniated disc? Sciatica? I was between insurance plans so I never went to the doctor. I was young so stuffr just heals itself, right?

………………………………………………………………

Until our new lease started in late January, I went home. Just for a month. I could do this. Hopefully my summertime fever had broken in the chilly December air. Clothesline cigarette butts were buried under three inches of pure, forgetful snow.  

 

My Aunt Linda hosted Christmas Eve at her Farmington condo. They had moved from their wood lined house in Bolton with its quarter mile long dirt driveway, a back deck, in-ground pool,  swing set, basketball hoop, black cat, and two Golden Retrievers. It was my dream house before the A-frame. But my cousin Tom, who had Down’s Syndrome, wandered in the woods and got lost when he was nine years old. My cousin Cara finally found him sitting on the generator an hour later. They decided they needed a less rural home.

 

I stayed overnight just before they moved out of Bolton. My aunt and I sat on swivel chairs at the kitchen counter—the kids’ section during holiday dinners. 

 

“I think you’re great with Tom and you have real empathy for people. It would be so cool if you got a job working for people with disabilities.”

 

“Maybe you’re right. I might do that.”

 

But I played guitar! What if, with a little more practice, I was a virtuoso and we just didn’t know it yet? Would you tell Eddie Van Halen to take group home residents to colonoscopy appointments? One summer I read Ulysses with the Richard Elllman handbook explaining Joyce’s billion obscure references! Agenbite of inwit, and no more turn aside and brood upon love’s bitter mystery, Averroes. I had it all down. What if Joyce was a hack compared to me? (Before you die laughing, pleae admit this story makes a little more sense than Finnegans Wake.) Social work seemed too expected. I sat a foot from the TV, but did I want to shape my whole future around that?

 

I floated the idea to Patrick over the phone.

 

“You’re going to have to wipe people’s butts,” he said in an “I’m telling you this for your own good” voice.

 

I wasn’t sure if this particular career counselor possessed a full understanding of social work job duties, but maybe it was true for entry level positions? In the social work game, do you have to wipe your way to the top? I had to admit, wiping people’s butts just didn’t sound like me at all.               

 

The Christmas tree was lit with white lights and an angel which nearly scraped its wings against the ceiling. Lighted red, green, and white tinsel reflected off the frosty windows. Tom and Cara’s kids crowded onto the piano bench and thrashed atonal improvisations. Presents were always opened after the appetizers (cheese and crackers and shrimp cocktail) but before the main course, (ham, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, devilled eggs, ziti, carrots, and rolls.) Wrapping paper was strewn all over the floor. While my aunt was in the kitchen, my uncle was on clean-up duty. The carpet was cleared clean within three minutes of the last opened present. (Tonight it was a necklace from my cousin to my grandmother: “Oh Candy, it’s so pretty!”) Boxes were aligned in perfect order to promote de-cluttering and ensure no one left with someone else’s present: a sweet dream doomed to another year of bitter failure in our Christmas cheer loving Irish family. 

 

Tom said grace.

 

“Dear Lord, we thank you for this meal. And thank you Mom for spending all day cooking. Please bless my sisters. And Dad. And thank you Uncle Bobby for my copy of Home Alone 2. Amen.”

 

“Amen!” we shouted in near unison.

 

“Great speech Tim!” Candy said.

 

“I think Your speeches get better every year!” my Dad said.

 

Tom laughed giddily.

 

“Thank you!”

 

Twelve year old intellectually disabled Tim understood the true spirit of Christmas: always thank the family for gifts you already have. Like a Home Alone 2 VHS tape. After he realized the impossibility of it all, my Dad soon shifted to gift cards.

 

After I turned 21, holidays became a balancing act between getting drunk at a family functions but not so hammered they might suspect I was the problem drinker I was. Like it mattered. My cousins were usually on wine bottle #2 by the time the banana cream pie and homemade brownies rolled out. My teetotaling Dad might notice but I mean once a cop, always a cop, right?  

 

Dad always held court with a cop story which started near the end of dinner and concluded well into desert and coffee. Sort of a digestion aid. It was an impressive, almost acrobatic verbal feat since it’s not easy to segue into taut, heart pounding stories of urban high speed chases, flying bullets at Vine Street sting operations, and dead, drowned children in your arms when everyone had been talking about how crowded Stop & Shop was, Father O’Leary’s beautiful sermon at 4 o’clock Christmas Eve mass, and going to see Titanic the night before. And all over Andy Williams crooning about the most wonderful time of the year on the stereo. But somehow he pulled it off.   

 

“I got a call one day and they said this guy was acting crazy and threatening to kill his family. He was waving a machete around. I got out of my squad car and I told him to put the weapon down but he came at me. I told him again. “Put your weapon down!” (Bing Crosby was dreaming of a white Christmas). But he came even closer. So I fired a shot and hit him in the leg. But he was high on PCP so he just laughed and said, “Now you’re dead!” and ran right up to me when I fired two shots.” (Have yourself a merry little Christmas).  

 

I used to think these stories were a macho flex to entertain my Hartford Insurance working aunt and uncle, briefly freeing them from the monotony of a life where quarterly earnings reports and fax machine paper jams were high drama--a world he fled at 27 when he took the police exam (Aetna: he wasn’t glad he met ya). But maybe it was therapy. He had recurring nightmares. His adrenaline pumping job came with strings attached he might not have anticipated. Like all cops, he wore a tough outer shell, but did workplace tragedies haunt him like the ghost of Christmas past? 

 

”So Col, I hear you’re now working?” Cara asked.

 

“Yeah. Well, I’m doing this job--for now.”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Uh, well it’s just shipping. But I’m looking at other jobs.”

 

I had glanced at the classifieds once. Glancing is a gateway to reading.

 

My little half-brothers Jack and Billy and I watched Adventures In Babystitting upstairs with Tommy. He loved it almost as much as Home Alone and wrestling. 

 

“I’m going to marry Elisabeth Shue!” he announced.

 

“Not if I marry her first!” I said.

 

“Hey Col, did you watch Monday Night Raw this week?”. 

 

“No. What happened?”

 

“Stone Cold beat up Santa Clause!”

 

“He WHAT!?”

 

“It was cool! A Stone Cold Stunner!” He laughed.

 

“Well that just seems wrong. Maybe it’s just me.”

 

“No way!” He whispered in my ear. “Santa isn’t real.”

 

He whispered for the benefit of Jack and Billy—I assume he figured I had gotten wind-- but I wasn’t sure if he whispered softly enough.

 

“Oh I don’t know Tom. I don’t think that’s right.”

 

“Yes it is. Every kid in my class says so.”

 

“I think they might be wrong about that.”

 

Tommy radiated more joy than anyone I knew. Teach me to be like you.

 

There’s a picture of this night on the mantelpiece in my uncle’s man cave. I’m laughing with Jack and Billy. Jack is missing a front tooth. I’m wearing a blue Champion hoodie (only my Sunday best) and I’m still in my heavy hair gel phase. I’m wearing an awkward half smile like the camera is an X-ray into my soul and I’m afraid of radiation. I look flushed. Stupid Guinness. And wine. Which I don’t even like! It was a framer. 

 ………………………………………

On Christmas Day, my mom, grandmother, and I drove to Amherst where my mom’s cousin lived with her husband, a UMass psychology professor. Not much to report here. They didn’t drink. Much. Jeffrey, my potential cousin in law (everyone was on their second marriage on both sides so my family trees were pretty tangled) brought beers from his microbrewery in Maine. I drank one. One! Any more and I would have stuck out like Gary Busey at a Mormon retreat. These get-togethers featured a talk about cholesterol which lasted seven hours, a card game with gift prizes (usually black licorice and a beard trimmer), and movie discussions with commentary like, “The premise was brilliant, but I found the third act problematic.” All this before I knew what premise meant!

 

Half of the Bettencourt clan metamorphosed from poor, non-English speaking Portuguese textile working moths into NPR listening butterflies while the other half retained Old World values like they still lived in remote fishing villages in The Azores. My Aunt Mary shopped for bah-gins like my grandmother and she didn’t trust rotten to the core American institutions. We went to her house in Somerset (highlight: the malassadas, which is pronounced nothing like it’s spelled so let’s just call it fried dough) on October, 25, 1986. We sat at her dining room table hours before the first pitch of Game 6 of The World Series between the Red Sox and Mets. The Sox were up 3 games to 2 but Aunt Mary announced it would go 7 games.

 

“It’s all for TV ratings. It’s all fixed.”

 

 “No sir! It’s not fixed!” I protested.

 

“Oh, you just watch,” she said with a gently condescending tone. So young. He’ll learn.  

 

By midnight, long past my bedtime, the Sox were up two runs with two outs and two strikes and no one on in the bottom of the 10th inning. Sorry, Aunt Mary, things are done a little differently here in the US of A. Then Calvin Schiraldi started throwing fastballs right down the middle. Then Bob Stanley unleashed a wild pitch (or was it a Rich Gedman passed ball?). Then Bill Buckner let a slow, routine grounder I could have fielded bounce between his legs. Someone alert our sponsors! We will see you again tomorrow night, NBC viewers! Same time, same station! And just to think it’s Sweeps Week!

 

Vin Scully, Anheuser Busch, and Ford were ecstatic.  

 

The Curse Of The Bambino had nothing on The Curse Of Aunt Mary.

 

Were marathon holiday gatherings a Portuguese tradition? Within a few hours, Irish families drive home before they pass out. I loved my mom and my grandmother and the rest were nice in a PBS pledge drive sort of way but these days were brutal. They ended like horror movies. No one got chainsawed to death that I recall, but there were six endings before the credits rolled. After the car (finally) got started, “Oh wait, you can’t leave, you need to take some leftover turkey! And take some carrots and stuffing too! Let me find a container. It’s here somewhere!” “Wait, you never tried on that sweateh!” “Hold it, you forgot the baldness curing kit!” Michael Myers had fewer lives than Christmas Day in Amherst.

…………………………………….          

         

For a month, my mom could get in the Diamond Lane so we arrived downtown in 34 minutes. We listened to Craig And Company on 96 WTIC FM. Plenty of over the top laughter between Gar, his newsman John Elliott (“two L’s, two T’s”) and his bubbly Christine Lee. There were prank phone calls galore usually involving pizza orders gone awry sandwiched between Circuit City ads and One Headlight by The Wallflowers. Or Jewel’s You Were Meant For Me. Morning drive radio was an exciting and hilarious place. When he got off air, Gar probably didn’t operate sleeve machines for five hours or miscount brochures.

………………………………….. 

Unlike Greek in the fall, neither Brandon nor Pav offered to come pick me up, so my mom drove me to my new house. I packed my bike.  

 

We lived on the second floor of a white, slightly lopsided cape. It had a beige carpeted living room, a white tiled kitchen and three bedrooms. Make that three and a half bedrooms. Pav parked Jaeger’s cage in the kitchen right next to the fridge.

 

We moved in on Super Bowl Sunday. Packers vs. Broncos from sunny San Diego. Brandon, Joe, and I pre-gamed at Huskies with beer and wings. Jewel sang a passionate heartfelt rendition of The National Anthem. Brandon was deeply moved. 

 

“Jewel has some nice tits.”

 

As if on cue, she placed her hands over the top of her ample bosom, partially obstructing America’s view. A sign of ardent patriotism? Or with her low-cut violet shirt and 36C’s, did her poet’s intuition tell her that in lieu of focusing on what we so proudly hailed in the twilight’s last gleaming, Brandons from sea to shining sea honed in on her gallant ramparts?

 

A flyover from the Air Force’s B-2 Spirit from the 509th bomb wing came next. America. Fuck yeah. Let’s go blow up a banana republic.

 

The Broncos took an early lead.

 

“The Packers massive O line is going to wear them down,” frontrunner Brandon predicted. 

 

Green Bay was the defending champs and the AFC had lost 13 straight Super Bowls–usually in humiliating fashion. Always pitch to a slumping hitter. But a weird thing happened: by the fourth quarter, the speedy Broncos seemed to wear down the lumbering Packers. I gently made this observation to Brandon.

 

 “Yup.”

 

The 11 ½ point underdog Broncos broke the AFC’s curse.  

 

Mere miles away, my brother was probably getting hammered in an Ocean Beach bar. I only drank two beers because my alarm was set to go off at an unholy hour before I had to pedal to my bus stop on a frozen New England midwinter dawn. Low level dread, which even Dick Enberg’s mellifluous voice couldn’t cure, creeped in. By the fourth quarter, I no longer cared about gunslinging Brett Favre’s interceptions, Terrell Owens’ knee buckling cut backs or three time Super Bowl loser John Elway’s late career redemption.

……………………………………………

It was 26 degrees at 6:13 AM when I unlocked my Trek. A bike augmented Arctic gust blew straight into my face, so it felt like 26 below. My eyes watered. My face hurt. It was still just getting light. A thin sheet of black ice covered the roads. Snowbanks partitioned the sidewalks. Hungover Super Bowl revelers drove by and probably thought, “Is he fucking insane?”

 

It seemed like only yesterday when setting my alarm for 7:45 to get dressed, brush my teeth, and take a 7 minute walk across our leafy, rustic campus to an 8AM class was the zenith of man’s inhumanity to man.

 

I locked up my bike at the rack outside the library and waited in the cold.

 

It still beat having nowhere to go. 

………………………………………

“May I have your attention everyone, we’re having a meeting right now with Mr. Trapp! Come to the lunchroom,” Cindy cried.

 

Meeting? They have meetings here?

 

CSB’s Wethersfield office was a mythical mansion on the hill most Industries clients had never seen, so an appearance from the Executive Director down here in the catacombs was momentous. Then again doesn’t The Pope visit Bolivia sometimes? 

 

Clients—and their canes and dogs—ambled into the lunchroom which housed five rows of tables, a snack machine, soda machine, and coffee machine with the world’s worst coffee. It tasted like toxic sludge dipped in pine tar. I grabbed myself a cup.

 

“Thank you for coming, everyone. I wanted to give you guys a chance to share any concerns you might have or offer suggestions on how we may better serve you,” Mr. Trapp said.

 

Instead of standing by the vending machines in front, he made the bold decision to stand on the side, which forced anyone who chose to look over–whether they could see him or not–to turn their chair or crane their neck. Did he want to stay close to the exit at all times? Or establish his apex predator territory? Did he figure, “You people are blind. What fucking difference does it make?”

 

From your legally blind narrator’s vantage point about 20 feet away, he appeared to be a tall 40-something gentleman with a voice gruffer than his goatee. Tall, thin, clean shaven, balding Jim stood to his right. The perfect beta foil.   

 

“Yes, I have a question.”

 

“Your name, sir?” 

 

“Willie.”

 

“Good morning.”

 

Willie was a portly black gentleman with a faint southern drawl and  chuckle like Dr. Hibbert on The Simpsons.

 

“Yes, can you tell me what your view is on us forming a union? A representative came here a few years ago but it seemed like it all got squashed.”

 

“Well, we like to think we are your union. Any issues you have, we are always here for you. But as far as an official union, that’s something you would need to organize on your own, off work grounds.”

 

Hands raised.

 

“Yes, Barbara,“ Jim whispered.

 

“Hi, can you do something about Theresa? She’s always touching me on the van! I tell her to quit it but she won’t stop! The whole way here AND the whole way home! She just touches me!”

 

“Well, that’s something you may need to address with the van driver. Yes, sir.”

 

“Go ahead Bruce,” Jim silently urged.

 

“Hello. Has there been any consideration of us getting a pension?”

 

Bruce was portly and graying.  

 

“Well, that’s definitely something we can address and consider if that’s feasible.”

 

“Yes, Marisol.”
 

“Um, yeah, hi. Sometimes we run out of pens and there’s no one to refill them. Bobbi and the other staff will be outside smoking. Oh and I’m going to beat up Sam!”

 

Laughter all around.

 

“Well, Jim will speak to them about that. Thank you for mentioning it. I’m glad we can have this open dialogue. We want to make sure you guys are getting the best work accommodation possible. That’s why we’re moving into a new building in Windsor where we will all be under the same roof. This should be best for all of us, no matter what The Hartford Courant says.”

 

Moving? How do I get to Windsor? Article in The Courant? Damnit. When was that? I needed to stop skipping sports and entertainment. Just that morning I read about the Super Bowl and weekend box office. The NFC’s dominance ended but would Titanic ever sink at the box office? Why was The Courant writing articles? Was this open dialogue a shotgun wedding?

 

Willie again: “Are we going to get new machines? The sleeve machine breaks down and then I have to wait sometimes 45 minutes or more for Mario to come around. Same with the sewing machines. And the T-shirt machines. Do we need an hourly wage? Is piecemeal pay fair?”  

 

“Excellent question. I will definitely have Jim look into this”.

 

I guess Jim was a real miracle worker.

 

“This has been great! We should do this more often. I’m thinking maybe we can check in quarterly?”

 

Quarterly? Was this a Fortune 500 company after all?

 

Bruce sat back down at his sewing machine and produced the meeting minutes. 

 

 “What a bunch of bullshit!”

…………………………………………….

Chris, Mike, and Dave lived downstairs. Pot smell wafted up through our paper thin floor along with 24/7 Phish. No one else. Not even Widespread Panic. Deep Banana Blackout? The String Cheese Incident? No. Always live recordings because Phishheads wouldn’t be caught dead listening to their studio work. Phish was The Grateful Dead if they went to college. Instead of spiky, twangy, sweet, shitkicker guitar, they delivered smooth, warm, thick, sweet, jazzy guitar. Instead of singing about a secondhand acquaintanceship with Satan, white powder addled mass transit employees, and gunned down outlaws, Phish sang of Golgi apparatuses, AC/DC bags, and samples in jars. Thanks to Phish, I’m pretty sure more 18-26 year old males  looked up “recursive” in a Merrian-Webster dictionary between 1994 and 1998 than in any other epoch of human history. Phish’s Staffordville Road omnipresence meant easy listening music wasn’t just for stuffing boxes. Things were super mellow in Phishland. Musical medicine for a bad trip, even their covers were smoothed over: all the icy existential dread was microwaved out of Life On Mars, the sweaty south of France bordello sleaze of Loving Cup was waxed and scrubbed, and the “cucumber in my pants” cock rock of Good Times, Bad Times received a sonic vasectomy. Phish invited you in from the cold to chill by a warm fire in a Vermont log cabin with some hot cocoa—and weed. Maybe some moly. Shrooms if it was a Friday night. Did this music mean anything? Was Phish more nihilistic than Trent Reznor could even dream of? To non-acid users, it kind of seemed that way. But it was all groovy, man. Trent’s nihilism was cold steel pressing down on your soul (as if you still had one) but Trey and company’s detached, goofy meaninglessness was a hemp necklace wrapped around you by a cute girl in a peasant dress offering veggie burritos and Helping Phriendly Books outside SPAC.

 

Brandon and I hung out downstairs, but Pav chained himself to the couch awaiting Renee’s call. And he hated people so there was also that.

 

Inspired by their chemical and musical muses, our phriends intrepidly explored topics that have tantalized scientists, philosophers, and theologians for millennia.

 

“Dude, The Big Bang is a scam. It doesn’t tell us shit,” Mike opined. “All this matter got packed together and exploded. But where did that shit come from in the first place?”

 

“Nothing in nature can be created or destroyed,” Dave confirmed.

 

“Was the matter always there? If it was, it just shows that nothing ever began. It was eternal. There’s no “in the beginning.” But people can’t wrap their heads around that shit, man.”

 

“Or matter and all that shit was just scrunched together leftovers from a prior universe,” outside the box thinker Chris suggested. “Instead of everything spreading apart and expanding (Split Open And Melt, Red Rocks 8/4/96, played on the stereo) everything got all stuck together by some magnetic force until it got so tight it blew the fuck up.”

 

“Yeah, dude. Hindus are right and we’re just repeating a new cycle in a never-ending pattern that’s existed for eternity. This is only the most recent universe, man.” 

 

“So everything is drifting apart? Gravity is this super glue holding it together—for now--but the force from the Big Bang is wearing it away more and more.”

 

“Yeah, the universe is going to fall apart and die. That’s heavy shit, dude.”

 

A funky Thus Sprach Zarathustra played—excised of the discomfiting eerie majesty of a Nietzschean dialectic, Wagnerian crescendo, or Kubrick sci-fi epic.

 

“Until a new universe gets created.”

 

“With another Big Bang?”

 

“Probably, man. But if everything tears apart, what would put it back together again?”

 

“Dark energy!”

 

The plot thickened. But they had drained the bong and Mystery Science Theater came on, so the boys ended on a cliffhanger.

………………………………………

“I am going to burn this place to the ground. I will get a match and light it on fire. QUIT IT! Gasoline, kerosene, nitroglycerine. I’m going to get them all. This place will be in flames. A pile of ashes. CUT THE SHIT!!! This place will be gone.”

 

I don’t think Mr. Trapp’s town hall meeting had quite the morale boosting effect he had hoped.  

 

Did I just make a new best friend?

 

At the table behind me during morning break sat  Jackie. Like Donny and Shakespearen protagonists, her internal monologues were spoken word events. She was a light skinned middle aged black woman with a cane. Despite her apparent cognitive limitations, she possessed a knowledge of explosive chemicals and just what to do with them that would put an arson expert to shame. Maynard James Keenan dreamed of death by water, Jackie by fire.

 

You get the kerosene, Jackie, I’ll light the match!

 

Willie held court two tables over.

 

“Do you know what I heard? I was talking to Cindy. They’re investigating Mr. Trapp.”

 

“Who?” sweet, gap toothed Connie asked.

 

“The Attorney General. Blumenthal. They say he promoted this gal he’s doing the deed with five times without any job interviews. She’s his Executive Secretary. Probably making $60,000 a year!”

 

“That dirty dog!”

 

“And that’s not the half of it. He screamed at one of the secretaries and told her to “pick up your fucking phone!” She went home that afternoon and had a miscarriage.”

 

“No!”

 

“And they say he likes to touch the gals. He gives them neck massages even if they don’t ask for them.”

 

To Melissa? This creep will pay.

 

“That sleazebucket!”

 

“And do you know Steve? He used to work here. His hands don’t work so he reads Braille with his tongue. Trapp said, “The girls must love him.”

 

“Oh no he didn’t!!!”

 

“And he walked away from a client in the middle of a conversation and left him talking just for laughs!” 

 

“That filthy pig! Ooooo they better get him! God is watching. Judgment is coming for him, yes sir! Judgment Day will come!”

……………………...

Athena struggled to adjust to our new home. Unlike quiet North Eagleville Road, Staffordville Road/Route 44 was a thoroughfare which ran all the way to Nebraska, but Brandon still didn’t leash her. I want to think he valued her freedom but he probably just figured a leashed Rottweiler was less intimidating. So Athena, not exactly the goddess of canine wisdom, chased cars in the middle of the road. From my room I would hear burnt rubber, “Athena! Get the fuck back here!” a smack, and a whimper. Athena and Brandon both live to the end of this story. I can’t understand how.

 

Prodigy’s Smack My Bitch Up was like a musical handshake to Brandon’s soul. It served as both a pack leader dominance anthem and means of seduction with his other pet: freshman Danielle. (Before they “made love” she possibly imagined, God help her). I’d hear footsteps, his door closing, and this bitch smacking ode blasting on repeat for the next half hour. Maybe 25 minutes. Or 20. Brandon probably wasn’t a big foreplay guy. Certainly not a cuddler.

 

Afterwards, they sat on the tan living room sectional and watched Pav’s favorite player Bo Outlaw and the Magic battle the Knicks on TNT. Why does everyone do this? The obligatory post-coital roommate social hour as if that was the reason for her visit. Maybe Brandon just helped her with her Econ homework through his 110-decibel stereo.   

 

“Patrick Ewing is one ugly motherfucker,” Brandon observed.

 

“The Missing Link?” Pav said.

 

“Yep. Would you date Patrick Ewing?” he asked Danielle.

 

“Nooooo-a! I only have eyes for you.” She play-punched him on the arm.

 

Oh God. Danielle, resist his bitch smacking charms. This relationship was like before you lose control of your bike and you realize you’re about to take a spill but it’s too late to stop it. Except Danielle didn’t even see the pebble yet. Hopefully she would get out with just a skinned knee and a commitment to wearing a helmet.   

 

Boyfriend material Pav, on the other hand, talked to Renee every single night.

 

“So how are you doing?.....What kind of food do they serve?.....I talked to my lawyer today…….Do they let you out during the day?.........Try to keep you’re your spirits up, it’s all going to work out…..Okay talk to you tomorrow.”

 

Hold your calls. I think we have the 20th Century’s most convincing love story. Ladies, find a man who will accept your collect calls from prison.

 

“Hey man, are you going to be on the phone much longer?, his speech getting pressured, “I’m expecting a call from Renee.”

 

I assumed he was just a friend with promotional aspirations, but when I floated, “Pav and Renee are just friends, right?” to Brandon on our way to the packie (he had just declared Pearl Jam’s new release In Hiding an “awful song” whereas I thought it could conceivably benefit from repeat listens) he said, “I don’t think so. He’s tapping that.”

 

Sweet Danielle better not run afoul of the law. Collect calls? Yeah right. She’d find herself on Brandon’s blocked caller list faster than he could find another starry eyed high school graduate to serenade with hymms about self-actualized pimps.  

………………………………………

My great uncle Al (who I never met) had ocular albinism. He passed this recessive gene to my mom (perfect eyesight) who passed it to my brother and I (legally blind). If she had girls they wouldn’t have been blind (only moms can pass it, only boys can inherit it) and it was only 50/50 with us. But nature’s Roulette wheel hit twice. I can’t say this ever made me mad. It would be like screaming at the wind. My hair is strawberry blond, my eyes are dark blue, and my skin is beige, but I guess I’m still an albino who carried a stranger’s genetic baton onto his Peter Pan bus to work every morning.

 

The bus was like 50 minutes in first class before I switched to coach for my connecting flight (actually crawl) to Shield Street. Peter Pan buses had soft comfy gray recliners while CT Transit seats were faded blue double seaters which forced you to rub legs with strangers. Peter Pan’s bank and insurance company middle managers contrasted with CT Transiters “eclectic” clientele who occasionally marketed Percs and Bennies on sale while supplies last for a low, low price or overshared plans to break into their ex-wife’s house and kidnap “my” kids. Peter Pan was a library, CT Transit was a DMV. The psychological effects of suburban sprawl and spacious seating led Peter Pan riders to usually stick to “Good morning” and “Have a good night” whereas CT Transit riders chatted and laughed like sheltered workshop clients. 

 

I sat silently on both buses and read  The Ultimate Guitar Handbook: a 543 page encyclopedia of chords, scales, and time signatures. I tried to memorize the various positionings for a E major 7th sus 4 add9 augmented 6th until my brain short circuited. There’s no way Green Day played that in Basket Case, right? Unless you watched shitfaced Slash telling bemused Kurt Loder about his visit to a snake farm in Rio, you would swear only a Mozart, Euclid, and Einstein hybrid could dream of playing the opening riff to Back Off Bitch.

 

The book turned a playground into a labyrinth. It was for Dream Theater fabs, whom Dan’s guitar playing friend Chris thought was amazing while Nirvana sucked. “All he does is play power chords!” But I liked Smells Like Teen Spirit a lot more than Metropolis Part 1: The Miracle. Instead of hiding behind musical math equations, maybe true artists jump off the diving board blindfolded and hope the pool has water.   

 

One day I overheard my dorm neighbor Paul sum up my guitar playing, “Colin will play something that sounds like music—and then it doesn’t.” Because Colin started wishing he could check if he was playing it right in the back of a textbook that didn’t exist.  

 

While I sealed T-shirts, I realized the Ionian, Dorian, Locrian, Mixolydian, Lydian, Aeolian, Phyrigian modes all have the same full step, full step, half step, full step, full step, and half step intervals. They just start on a different link in the chain. Why didn’t the book, you know, lead with that? Like lawyers and postmodern novelists, did they confuse you on purpose? Was this a way to elbow out anyone the genetic gatekeepers somehow let slip past the guards?

…………………………………

Ibsen said if a gun is introduced in Act 1, it will go off in Act 3. I didn’t introduce a gun, but I did introduce a snake. Can you guess what’s coming next, reader? I’m afraid so: feeding time.

 

Pav had transformed overnight from  brooding loner to event planner. He invited Joe and the boys downstairs--possibly the first time he spoke to them. Who knew snakes could unite hippies and headbangers?   

 

“Hey, I’m going to feed a mouse to Jaeger later, do you guys want to check it out at 8:00!?”

 

“Cool, man,” Mike said over—I’m not kidding-- The Squirming Coil, Red Rocks, 6/9/95. 

 

We crowded into the kitchen.

 

“How often do you feed him?” Chris asked.

 

“Every two weeks.”

 

“Where did you get the mouse?”

 

“From the pet store.”

 

“Did you tell them what you were buying it for?”

 

“Fuck no, dude.”

 

Pav took the hapless victim out of a ziplock bag and dropped him in the cage. Okay, I can hear you from here: “So I read this idiot’s crappy story until the snake ate the mouse and that’s when I was like I can’t even. And I looked the other way on a LOT of stuff before then!”

 

So I won’t give you a Jack Londonesque description of this savage scene from nature. I get it. I read Call Of The Wild in 7th grade too and all I remember is, “Buck slashed his jugular. Blood gushed in torrents.”

 

“Does the mouse know it’s over when he gets dropped in the cage?,” I asked.

 

“I don’t know, probably,” Pav said dismissively. 

 

What a stupid question.

 

The mouse soon learned he had definitely not been adopted as a pet.

 

Maybe Pav saw this as an act of love. His beloved python, whom he tenderly wrapped around his neck nightly, was hungry so he fed him, not unlike a mother who draws her newborn to her milky breast!

 

And what do you do when you find a mouse? Get a mouse trap and kill it. Humans adopted cats as pets for their mouse murdering ways! But we also make them pets. We create Mickey Mouse. We just can’t decide how we feel about them!

 

But we’ve issued our verdict on Satan’s secretary who tempted Eve and brought sin into the world. Swashbuckling Indiana Jones feared these slithering creatures more than Nazis. Humans feel no kinship with snakes. (Except Pav and Slash). Snakes are so…... .reptilian, remnants from the pre-human Earth when they ruled over the wordless void. Snakes don’t personify love nor hate. They are pure cold indifference. They are poison. Suffocation. Jägermeister bottles.  

 

“Do you want to put Jager around your neck for a while?” Pav asked me a week later.

 

The answer is no. Just fucking say no.

 

“Sure……maybe for a minute.”

 

He was still running on a full stomach, right? Do they have stomachs?

 

He draped him around me. And Jaeger sat there. Just as Wham! suggested in the Wake Me Up Before You Go Go Video, he chose life despite a year’s supply of food just sitting right there! The biggest dead mouse ever!

 

“Can snakes can smell fear?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Can you take him off?”

 

“Sure no problem, man,” Pav said, losing whatever respect he still had left for me. `

………………………………...

I stepped off my bus one Thursday and went next door to the Co-Op. They arranged books by courses. I browsed aimlessly until I saw Gulliver’s Travels under Renaissance And Modern Literature 1103. Somehow, I graduated high school and earned an English degree without reading it.

 

Ugggh. Swift was the most savage  prose prosecutors of them all. I was with him on Lilliputians: sure, humans are puny, petty shrimps who imagine themselves Noble and Mighty. Big Enders vs. Little Enders? Check. But then Gulliver lands in Brobdingrag, the land of sixty foot giants, where he sees a woman breastfeeding. Her “monstrous” six- foot breast with its “spots, pimples, and freckles'' disgusts him more than a snake eating a mouse. And just to drive home the satire for Duke fans, he adds fair English maidens would look the same through a magnifying glass. Beauty is an illusion of the partially blind.

 

He was almost as bad as Faulker, who said women are a “delicate equilibrium of periodic filth between two moons balanced.” I hope he never bothered to apply at Hallmark.  

 

Not done yet, Swift says alcohol raises our hopes and diminishes our fears. Cheers! It also gives us diseases which make our lives unpleasant and short, we stop using our indoor voice, we laugh uproariously at shit that just isn’t funny, we puke on our friend’s girlfriend’s shoe in amusement park parking lots after Ronnie Van Zandt-less Skynard shows, we pee into empty Sprite bottles in New York City rush hour traffic jams before Pink Floyd shows at Giants Stadium where  a random kid pukes on our sock in a case of cosmic karma (The Puke Equilibrium Theory), we invite hookers into hotel rooms someone else rented, we disappoint callow co-eds and practiced professionals alike in the bedroom, we leap from top bunks and fracture our right foot, we slurringly proclaim our eternal voicemailed love to crushes we hardly know, we scribble John Wesley Harding era Dylan lyrics on our door’s note pad, we lose our friends at Woodstock ’94 and sleep in a hostel for concertgoing lost sheep and take a bus home from Albany smelling of raw sewage, we kick in our dorm’s front window because a hallmate did it and it looked so fun, our RA asks us “Do you remember passing out last night in the hallway on the girls’ floor with a lit cigarette in your hand?”, we awake on strange couches and rush home to wash off Magic Marker renderings of erect penises and elephantine testicles, we frequent dance clubs, we start to think Salt N’ Peppa actually has some decent jams, we suffer Sunday night insomnia, and we crank our amp to 11 while learning guitar until the exasperated girl living below says, “You’re not even that good!”

 

Okay I’m paraphrasing.

 

And after all this fun, Swift says we wake up feeling “sick and dispirited.” Until we do it all over again!

 

This hit a little too below the belt, frankly. Attack haughty kings and pretentious philosophers all day long, but can we leave beer and boobs out of this? Never let a clergyman near a pen. He’ll say nothing is sacred.

………………………………………

“Mr. McDonough! Good morning!”

 

Phil wore a Harley hat with a Harley sweatshirt. Maybe Big Santa was good to him. 

 

“Good morning,” I mumbled, my Dunkin’ coffee in hand. Never a morning person to begin with, even after a two-hour commute I was a zombie until the caffeine kicked in. Like any responsible adult, I was becoming a drug addict.

 

“My guy is showing up at 10 so we need to get these brochures packed up. We’ve been cutting it too close lately. We can’t make them wait.”

 

“Okay. I’ve been going a little slower like you said so I don’t miscount.”

 

“That’s good. But we also have to be quick. Can you get here before 8:15?”

 

“I can try, but I have a pretty long commute from Storrs.”

 

So I balanced speed and accuracy like I was on a zero-gravity see-saw. I pulled brochures from skids, counted, tied a rubber band around them, and placed them in plastic crates. 50 Hammonasset State Parks, 75 Dinosaur State Parks, 50 Wadsworths, 50 Mark Twain Houses. Twain lived in Hartford while writing Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, but he was from Missouri. Even Tom and Huck were Missouri natives. Twain was a Connecticut tourist for 17 years. (The Whalers’ NHL tenure was also 17 years). But never mind because otherwise Michael Bolton and James Van Der Beek would become our most beloved native sons and that was just humiliating.

 

My sciatica often made bending and standing painful, but it never occurred to me to ask for a chair. 

………………………………………

My flannel shirt wearing Modern Novel professor J. D. O’Connor introduced me to the term sciatica. He treated literary study like Navy Seal training. While we read Anne Beattie’s Chilly Scenes Of Winter, he nearly pulled his own back out stretching to tell us he taught her everything she knew while she earned her PhD at UConn. One of the characters had back problems.

 

“Is anyone familiar with back conditions?”

 

Silence.  

 

“Sciatica?”

 

No hands were raised.

 

“Did anyone read the text?”

 

Tick. Tock.

 

Gen X slackers blew off his star pupil’s book!? Without another word, he gathered his notebook and  paperback, headed to the door, and slammed it behind him. Everyone sat frozen for ten long seconds: a chilly scene of winter all its own on this bright cold February morning.

 

“Okay, well I guess we get to leave early today!” a kid in the fourth row said. Everyone laughed. Except me. I wished I said it.

 

A week later I took a floppy disk to the library computer lab. Instead of analyzing the book (which I actually read!) I elected to write a five-page essay on the incident.

 

“Macho stunts like that aren’t cool. It’s what you might expect Bobby Knight to do with Indiana basketball players, but English professors should be above dumb jock culture. We’re not trying to pound the glass against Michigan State here, we’re not crashing the boards against Wisconsin, we’re examining alienation in the modern American family through a crazy mom, a creepy stepdad, and a guy hopelessly in love with a married librarian in Utah. Didn’t you sneeringly say Holden Caulfield didn’t need “the kind of ‘tough love’ you might get from Coach Calhoun”? Aren’t you being the Jim Calhoun of The English Department? Maybe people had midterms? Or they were planning to catch up later? Or they just didn’t know what sciatica was? Maybe only old people know that? Most people grow out of slamming doors after age 16. What if the cleaning lady started slamming doors anytime someone poured a half full coffee into the garbage can? She’d get fired. Cleaning ladies don’t get tenure.”  

 

That was the first paragraph.

 

Obviously, I stopped going to class. But then I made my most insane move yet: I SHOWED UP FOR THE FINAL. I dropped off my booklet and prayed to God he wouldn’t say anything.

 

“Do you know who Anthony Burgess is?”

 

Oh fuck me. He said something.  

 

What a random question. Was this a trap? I had read A Clockwork Orange the previous summer, but rather than outlining my summer reading list, I sheepishly said, “Yes.”

 

“He’s legally blind. He’s written many novels. You have no excuse.”

 

“Okay, thanks.” I half-smiled.

 

“Hang in there.”

 

Postscript #1: he mailed my essay/screed to my home address two weeks into the summer! He attached a note, “I’m too old to read through all of this. But you seem to have a curious affinity for the cleaning lady.” I was too young to read the rest. I rushed downstairs and threw it in the trash. I suddenly wished we had a garbage disposal. 

 

Postscript #2: He gave me a C!

 

But I was never quite the same. I worried I might run into him in the Arjona building’s halls. Would Homer and Milton references follow? I looked up his office number in the directory to avoid the neighborhood. I triple checked professor’s names before I signed up for courses. I prayed he didn’t teach grad courses until the catalog showed of course he fucking did. Was the English Department big enough for J.D. and me? Was he—more than Nabokov and Mr. Chunk Of Change—the reason I couldn’t commit to grad school? 

 

What did he mean by “you have no excuse” anyway? No excuse for being such a weepy little devotcha? Or no excuse to not become a writer like Anthony Burgess and sublimate that ultraviolence into art, not just horrorshow double-spaced diatribes against door slammers and odes to salt of the earth janitorial staff?  

…………………………………………….

Lest you think I was a badass rebel who told bullies to “go ahead, make my day” like a Flaubert reading Dirty Harry, please know I’m a fraud.

 

During October of my senior year of high school, I rested my head against my left arm and laid on my bed with my boombox placed on a chair beside it. Slow Saturday night. I would have watched Jose Rijo dominate A’s hitters with his disappearing slider as the Reds pulled off a shocking four game World Series sweep, but my stepfather—whose voice couldn’t have been more nasally if you surgically attached two fingers to his nose-- usurped the den even though their room had a TV too and the it was always Patrick and I’s territory.

 

My mom said she would be home from her friend Andrea’s at 9PM. (Friendless Jerry never went out). She got home at 9:14. I heard the automatic garage door opener and Jerry’s frantic footsteps down the stairs. Then I heard shouting. I turned up The Smithereens’ A Girl Like You. Until I heard shattering glass.

 

My heart pounded. That little fucking piece of shit! I told myself to run downstairs, but I froze. I went to the den, sat on the floor a foot from the TV, and turned to the game. They materialized on the couch.

 

“I just want to talk about this. You never want to talk,” Jerry said.

 

“I don’t want to talk. You’re sick!”

 

For weeks, months………..years I replayed this incident. I imagined I ran into the kitchen. Sometimes I push him against the microwave, sometimes I take a swing, sometimes I just menacingly wag my finger and say, “I’ve been living here a lot longer than you and you are a fucking GUEST IN OUR HOUSE! You are not to act this way EVER AGAIN, do you fucking understand me? If you can’t behave, you can get out of this house and never come back! I’ll help you pack!” 

 

Did he brainwash me into believing he was invincible? Was I afraid I would make the house feel even more suffocating? Or was I just an incurable pussy? While I rehearsed these retroactive tongue lashings, I talked aloud like Donnie or Jackie. For the rest of senior year I hid in my room and listened to the radio, did my homework under my desk lamp, and played Super Mario Brothers–lured by its optimistic worldview which promised that even after you die from pitfalls, trap doors, and monsters, you can start the game over, remember to avoid them next time and eventually use your hard-won knowledge to rescue Princess Peach from fire breathing Bowser. Why couldn’t my life be like the Mushroom Kingdom?     

 

Two summers late, Patrick watched Wayne’s World in the den. I was in my room. Mom and Jerry were in their room. Patrick ran in to bust up their argument.

 

“Get away from me, Patrick! I’ve been dealing with assholes like you my whole life!”

 

“Patrick is not an asshole! He’s my son!” my mom said through tears. 

 

“Did I hear her say, ‘And that’s when you hit me’, Jerry!? Only pussies hit girls. Oh! And Colin told me she came home a few minutes late one night with a vase and you SMASHED it!”

 

My mom cried more intensely. The walls of the house closed in. I wished I was a million miles away. I grabbed my Walkman and went for a three hour walk.

 

My mom filed for divorce six months later. She said, “I had to think about what I was doing to my two sons”.  Patrick did somersaults. I became clinically depressed. She looked much younger than her fifty years, but she was twice divorced. She was starting the game over, but was there any accumulated knowledge? Would she know to avoid dragons next time? 

 

“Mom is a pretty woman. She will find someone better.”

 

A week after Jerry moved out, I went to Bonanza Steakhouse with my dad, my step-mom Carol, and my little half-brothers. I sat in our booth and thought about my mom home alone watching TV while my dad had this beautiful second family. Instead of a newspaper, this time I used the menu to shield my tears until I excused myself and let it out in the Men’s Room stall.

 

“I think I’m getting a cold,” I announced when I got back.    

 

I wrote a thank you letter to my grandparents in Florida for their Christmas savings bond, but I veered wildly off topic—as I was so wont to do. The world was a cold, gray, desolate wasteland of nothingness, I observed. Or was I more dramatic than that? This got right back to my parents and triggered an emergency meeting. My dad did something truly shocking: he burst into tears and hugged me. I received a letter a few days later. “I have something to get off my chest.” He spoke of “dating women half my age” after divorcing my mom. He had dated a girl named Ramona who (unbeknownst to me) had a cocaine habit, but I thought she was nice! In fact, all his girlfriends seemed fine. My mom’s boyfriends never did.

 

I briefly went to therapy and took Prozac off and on. I only remember one thing my therapist said. “You are a very good looking boy.” She wasn’t auditioning for an HBO crime noir where therapists are always latent sex kittens, she just tried to encourage me to approach girls. I didn’t respond to this latest compliment from a paid professional with, “I’ll bet you say that to all the clients.” (Maybe life actually is like a Mario Brothers game). I stuck to “thanks” and dorm closet mirror time.

 

I walked to class that semester and listened to Music Appreciation pieces on my Walkman as the blinding sun reflected off the snow and an Arctic blast blew through UConn’s hilly, windy campus. The opening strings of The Jupiter Symphony’s icepicked through my soul.

 

But birds migrated back north and the cherry blossoms bloomed. I became non- compliant with my Prozac and stopped seeing my therapist. ………………………………………….

Brandon’s cable box illegally unscrambled every “pay” channel. While I summoned the courage to pedal though another cold, indifferent winter dawn, I ate cinnamon Pop Tarts or Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch and watched movies in ten-minute increments until after a few weeks, I’d seen the entire thing in jumbled order. An underrated way to experience films, actually.

 

In Chasing Amy, Jason Lee wondered what was wrong with calling the Whalers “a bunch of faggots.” Honestly, this Smear The Queer alumnus was mostly numb to the term, but why stomp on the Whalers’ grave like that?? Worse than a Duke fan. Did they film the movie before they left? 

 

Astronauts in Contact searched for alien life. Jodie Foster had better chemistry with Hannibal Lecter than Matthew McConoughey in this space age love story.

 

Both films dreamed of a world where attractive lesbians instantly convert upon contact with rugged male confidence and cleft chins. In the 90’s, Bill Clinton wasn’t the only one from a place called Hope.

 

Our fellow illegal cable box owning downstairs phriends’ screening of Contact sparked—no pun intended—an exploration of interplanetary existence itself and the spacetime continuum itself.     

 

“Dude, life is out there,” Chris dceclared.

 

“Totally,” Joe seconded.

 

“But will we ever meet aliens? Like what if we see them through, what’s that, fucking thing called? The Hubble telescope? But they’re, fucking, 399 billion light years away. How do we find a spaceship to get there?” Mike wanted to know.

 

“Wormhole, dude. They teleport you to another galaxy in like 4 minutes,” Chris said.

 

(Inspired by Phish’s Thus Sprach Zarathrustra, they started watching 2001: A Space Odyssey repeatedly).

 

“Yeah wormholes let you like skip billions of light years!” Mike added.

 

Any hidden wormholes between Staffordville Road and the Homer Babbidge Library at 6:25 AM?

 

“Okay, so we see aliens and they’re 996 billion light years away. We find a wormhole that gets us there by 9. Will the aliens still be there?”Joe asked.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Chris replied, slurping bong water six times.

 

“But light years away means we see what their planet looked like billions of years ago. So we only know there USED TO BE aliens there.”

 

“We could get there and find out they died off,” Chris or Mike said. 

 

“Or if you travel that far, do you go back in time? Maybe we find the aliens—living in the past.”

 

“I think just the light sticks around. If we could get there, you would see what’s there now, not what the light shows us from earth.”

 

“Light is too fucking slow. Find a telescope with a fast forward button or some shit.”

 

“What if aliens are looking at us right now from 66 million light years away and they see dinosaurs? Are they like, “Fuck this Jurassic shit. I’m not getting off my couch just to watch my choice new spaceship get munched by a T-Rex.” So they smoke a bowl of Sirius Space Cadet weed and crash.”

 

I’m no Carl Sagan, but I’ll say this much: the boys raised more thought provoking queries than Matthew McConoughey. I would have even settled for, “That’s what I like about these high school aliens. I keep getting older, but they stay the same cosmological age. Yes they do. Alraht, alraht, alraht.”

………………………………………

I turned right off Shield Street onto dead quiet New Britain Avenue. Snow flurries whitewashed and soundproofed the world. A man and a woman stood inside the bus shelter. I stood to their left. I chose getting snowed on over close contact with the general public. The wind blew horizontal snowflakes in my face.

 

The bus always arrives on time in beautiful weather. It’s always late when it’s cold and snowing.

 

Finally, a blue #37 CT Transit bus arrived. Not my bus. But both shelter occupants stepped forward. The gentleman motioned. Ladies first. The woman grabbed her three bags and boarded. The driver—perhaps tired from his long shift and anxious to get this stupid route over with or perhaps just not paying attention--closed the door and drove away. In vain did our knight in a shining, snow flecked parka cry, “Hey! That’s my bus! Stop! Stop!” as his voice deadened in the echoless white silence.

 

“Fucking asshole!”

 

The fleeing driver probably couldn’t see him giving him the finger through his foggy rear view mirror.

 

“Can you believe that shit?”

 

He kicked the coating of snow. 

 

“That’s tough. Sorry.”  

 

The next bus was due in 33 minutes.

 

I never yielded my place in line. Chivalry is dead.   

 

It was Valentine’s Day.

…………………………………………..

A week later I nose read Gulliver’s Travels at the bus stop. A man pushed his shopping cart and stopped to look at me.

 

“Need a bus token? Fifty cents. It will save you a quarter off the fare!”

 

“Um…..okay. I guess so.”

 

Against my better judgment, I pulled out a pocketful of change and deftly handed him two quarters.

 

He paused in contemplation.

 

“Ohhhhh. You can feel the ridges of the quarters!? Jesus bless you! I hope Jesus blesses someone like you!”

 

Me too.

 

I could have really blown his mind if I told him, praise Jesus, I also have Algebra II sharpened supersonic hearing, but that would have been too much for one day. 

………………………………………

We didn’t have a washing machine. My clothes piled on the floor. Would I ever wear clean clothes again? I briefly considered drastic measures like asking Pav or Brandon to drive me to a laundromat, but I didn’t hate wearing my (non silk) boxers for the 9th time quite that much.

 

But one Sunday afternoon Brandon said, “I’m going to do laundry. Do you want to come with me?”

 

“Okay.”

 

A week before I left for college, Jerry gave me a laundry lesson in the cellar. I ignored every word he said. (Force of habit). But how hard could it be? I’d been accepted to a Public Ivy.

 

During my third week, I filled my basket with clothes—all of them. I grabbed my Tide and hit start on a Grange Hall first floor machine. What the heck is permanent press?

 

“Were those your clothes in the machine?” a girl asked 38 minutes later. 

 

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

 

”Smoke was coming out of the machine so we stopped it. We were afraid it would start a fire.“

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Yeah, you actually can’t put all of your clothes in at once. The machines can’t handle it.”

 

Did Jerry cover that?

 

“Oh.” (Laughs). “I guess I didn’t know that! Thanks!”

 

“We made the same mistake as freshmen.”

 

I doubted that, but she was nice to say it.

 

Would I have listened to Jerry if I realized I might burn my dorm to the ground? I WANT to say yes...

 

I listened to my Alice in Chains’ Facelift cassette and re-washed ⅓ of my clothes while I read about the hippocampus and hypothalamus for Psych 101. There’s no ghost in your machine, this textbook mocked. Three batches took so long! The girls also recommended separating light and dark. There was so much to learn.  

 

“How are things with you and Megan?” I asked Brandon while the spin cycle ran. No Smack My Bitch Up in weeks: a telltale sign of any faded romance.

 

“I dumped her. Chick was crazy. Too emotional. I’m so done with freshmen.”

 

I doubted that. Freshmen were to Brandon what Camel Lights and UConn were to me.

………………………………………

Slapping came from the bathroom stall to my left. It was getting more….. vigorous by the second.

 

“Hey, Darrell! Stop that! You can’t be doing that in here!” Leroy said.

 

“Okay, buddy.”

 

The stall was silent--for seven more seconds. It started up slowly again, like our Gateway computer.  

 

I left immediately. 

 

You call this a resume builder? What kind of a freakshow is this??

 

But as I assembled pens I wondered what the privacy situation was like in group homes. Guessing not that great. Do they even get their own rooms? What about bathrooms? Were those private? Maybe the workshop men’s room was poor Darrell’s only self-abusing sanctuary?

 

I was a late bloomer to this particular, uh, activity. I kind of, sort of did it a few times, but it wasn’t until I viewed one of HBO’s finest late night offerings when things really took flight, pardon the expression. A guy and a girl were getting to be really good friends. She lied down missionary style and the dude started turning into a werewolf! (For an unforgettable decade and a half in Hollywood, any script was instantly green lit if it featured a werewolf metamorphosis–preferably while having sex with a smoking hot babe but even free throw shooting would do). Rather than becoming horror struck by this libidinous lycanthrope, the girl was pretty nonchalant about the whole thing! I went to my room, closed the door, and pretty soon I was more shocked than I would have been had I suddenly grown claws, razor sharp incisors, and non-stubbly chest hair. A strange hot, um, fluid flew out! I thought, “Ohhhhh, that’s what everyone has been talking about.” I sprinted to the bathroom to wash up. My mom still washed my sheets so evidence must be destroyed immediately.  

 

What I’m trying to say is…..what am I trying to say?

 

What I’m trying to say is group home residents are entitled to the same level of privacy as you and me and this matter must be treated with the utmost seriousness. Thanks for listening.   

 

Also HBO, would it have killed you to show The Accidental Tourist once in a while at 11:45PM?

 

Finally, laundry is a critical daily living skill every young man should learn.

……………………………………………

It happened.

 

I opened the front door, walked through the kitchen, exchanged “Heys” with Pav, walked down the sloping and probably about to collapse hallway and started to carelessly toss my backpack on my bed until my 20/400 best corrected visual acuity saved my life.

 

Without a care in his reptilian world, Jaeger lounged on my bed! Nightmarish visions filled my head of the Faces Of Death VHS tape Patrick’s friend Aaron brought over after school which featured a snake infested house. The homeowner had to kill them all, get killed, or sell his home at a rate steeply below market. (I forgot what happened to him–Bob Romano nailed it again). 

 

Pav cleaned the stove with a paper towel. He was a neat freak. He browbeat Brandon and I into pitching in for cleaning supplies which I felt were a complete waste of my finite financial resources. 

 

“Hey Pav, um, would it be cool if Jaeger didn’t go in my room?”

 

“I’m sorry, man. No problem I didn’t know it bothered you,” his voice rising the scale.

 

“Yeah no problem! But yeah…..maybe I’d prefer that?”

 

Pav put Jaeger around his loving neck, his respect for me now plummeted to heretofore unimagined depths. This was the last time a Burmese python and I shared a bed, but I guess you never know what tomorrow will bring.

…………………………………....

You took an olive-green canvas bag from a cart on your left and placed it under a big metal arm and pressed the foot lever. The machine sewed an X with a square around it which looked like a Tic Tac Toe board. If Mr. Madden plotted this entire thing in revenge for defiling his beautiful lawn, he could not have played his hand better.

 

Then you sewed the other side. But the machine was a relic from The Great Depression. Maybe The Civil War. So the needle often got stuck while sewing for no apparent reason. A shift in barometric pressure? A mini-earthquake?

 

“Laverne, have you seen Mario? My machine is broken.” 

 

“He’s working on another machine. I’ll let him know.”

 

I stared into space for a half hour not getting paid. They had almost as many counters as workers so they always knew what you produced. If they got in front of a machine themselves, we probably could have produced more, but there I go again thinking.

 

With no sign of Mario, after 45 minutes, a 30-something black guy named Ron came over.

 

“Hey man, Hector is off today. Want to work the sleeve machine?”

 

“Okay.”

 

This was the workshop’s apex mountain. The big leagues. The sleeve machine was also state of the art antebellum technology. It sat imposingly in the middle of the factory.

 

“Here, let me show you. Just go like this.”

 

Ron believed you teach by doing it yourself, letting your pupil watch, and wondering why he keeps fucking up. You might think this tutorial philosophy would be less common when teaching the blind, but you would be wrong.

 

Using both hands, you positioned brown cloth on a metal belt and let go so it could slide down a conveyor belt. The machine sewed seams before the cloth fell into a large white basket. This required an even more delicate touch than handling a hooker’s boob. If you didn’t line up the cloth exactly parallel to the edge of the belt or if your hand slipped a fraction of an inch when you released it, it crumpled and became a wasted unit you didn’t get paid for. (A battalion of checkers stood to your right). There were many, many wasted units that day. I could sense Ron’s disappointment. I got better but I never perfected it.

 

The next day, I passed Gary in the doorway.

 

“Hi Gary, so….the machines break down a lot. Like the sewing machine. I don’t think I press it any differently but sometimes it gets stuck anyway and then Mario is too busy to come right over. Is there…..a way I can get paid for that time?”

 

“We can’t prorate it, buddy. I’m sorry. Just try to be a little more careful? I don’t know what else to tell you.”

 

“I’m telling you…sometimes they just stop working. Could we get an hourly salary instead of getting paid piecemeal?”

 

“That might knock everyone off their SSI. I hear you but I don’t make the rules, kiddo”. He smiled. 

 

The workshop allowed poor, meek blind clients a chance to chat about Monday Night Raw and church picnics. It gave them somewhere to go. They created this wonderful place for us, so how can we complain about getting short changed by rusty, primordial machines? They’re doing us a favor.  

 

But were we so different from “real” workplaces with their assistants to the assistant regional managers? In “competitive” work, did they create jobs for people and figure out something for them to do afterwards? Like Terry Trapp’s secretary. He promoted her five times and just happens to be banging her? Does her job fulfill an agency need? Any service to blind clients? I’ll bet he wasn’t paying her per fax or stapled budget report either.    

 

And what about him? He worked for SNET. Was this golfing buddy of the Governor’s the best qualified candidate to run a blind agency?

 

Everyone’s getting serviced, one way or the other. They wanted us to think the big people were different. Never let us see we’re the same.

…………………………………………

After Jonathan Swift torched the human race like Jackie dreamed of doing to the workshop, I bought Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With A Thousand Faces. That’s gotta be optimistic, right? Tolland’s public access channel showed his lectures. He dressed impeccably with perfectly quaffed graying hair and a soft, gentle voice. Lolita probably uplifted his soul and deepened his love for humanity!

 

Myths from all cultures tell of a young hero who leaves home to face dangerous, usually supernatural trials alone which, after some struggle, he aces. (Though rarely does he encounter Stats 101: the serpentine water monster of the 20th Century.) He returns home to use his newfound superpowers to save the day.

 

Heroes can turn water into wine but you can’t even turn it into Milwaukee’s Best. St. Gabriel speaks Revelatory Words to Mohammed atop Mt. Hira but he gives you the silent treatment. The hero can smash a flying orb blindfolded with his lightsaber but my workshop mate Barbara couldn’t go to the bathroom without her seeing eye dog. Is the hero so busy being big that he just makes you feel small?

 

And can the hero ever really go home again? My dad exchanged the safety of insurance for the bullet flying north end of Hartford. Instead of laurels and parades, he got two divorces.  

 

“It’s because cops are domineering.” My Dad is soft spoken. But heroism’s off switch is hard to find. When my parents were still married, he turned on his scanner and the 6 o’clock news to hear about shootings, stabbings, robberies, overdoses, murders, and drownings in Hartford. Sometimes he was interviewed. He would say, “Listen!” if we were still talking. Did Hartford never really let him leave?

 

And don’t forget all the overtime cops work to pay the mortgage. It’s cheaper to milk the ones they have than hire more. Could you design a better job to get between families if you tried?

 

The hero is never warned of these things. The brochures promise only service and protection, being all you can be, X ray vision, never bad dreams and joint custody.

 

We actually got to know my dad better after the divorce. One night per week, we stayed at whichever apartment he lived in that year. We ate at Shady Glen, D’Aneglo’s, or Augie And Ray’s and went to a movie. He might have brought his work to the movie theater as well. The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller had to wait until they hit Video Galaxy’s shelves. We saw Hard To Kill and Marked For Death. Dirty Harry implored thugs to go ahead and make his day. Was Charles Bronson over the hill? Not at the Manchester Parkade Hoyt’s Cinema 8 he wasn’t. He charmed audiences in Death Wish 4: The Crackdown and Messenger of Death! And don’t forget Chuck Norris: a dead ringer for my geometry teacher Mr. Crabtree, who I wanted to karate chop after he pop quizzed us on isosceles triangles. 

 

Patrick and I would open my dad’s bedroom window in January to avoid heat stroke. (Never offer him free heat with the rent). Patrick was a snorer,  tosser, turner, and sheet hogger, so no one in their right mind wanted to share a bed with him. I slept in a sleeping bag on the bedroom floor and my dad slept on the couch. He gave up his king sized bed. No divorce judge orders that. This is why he’s a hero. Everyday kindnesses pick up the broken pieces left behind by mythological heroes after they go to their glorious early graves.

 

But my biggest hero growing up was Patrick. I didn’t want to get straight A’s, be Student Council President, or join Scribes (like Mrs. Fitzgerald wanted me to). The band and drama club? Out of the question. I wanted to be a black leather clad chain smoking burnout. I just lacked Patrick’s talent for it. I was afraid of getting in trouble! I started growing my hair but, like all posers, I settled for a mullet. And after Patrick and my mom screamed at each other for two straight years, I decided my job was to protect her sanity. By not getting in trouble. 

………………………………………….

Placing me across the street from a bar was like anointing Brandon the Director of freshman orientation. I walked to Ellington’s Casey’s Café a few summers earlier out of boredom. I did the 4.7 miles in an hour and 15 minutes, but they closed early on a slow Tuesday night. I didn’t think of that. Last call lights shined the instant they handed me my Sam Adams. I didn’t come all this way for my health, so I pounded it and pounded another for the road.

 

Schmedley’s was Mansfield’s Casey’s: Dales and Kyles revved their Harleys to impress the Dawns and Tammys grabbing their stomachs. But my brother hadn’t been drunkenly tossed out of Schmedley’s even once so it didn’t feel like home. Cheapskate taxpayers ($300 per month—gee thanks) kept me home most nights unless I heard a cover band playing Pride And Joy or Simple Man. It beat watching the Bulls pummel the Bucks while Pav plotted Noah’s murder.

 

Going to a bar alone is like going to church.

 

“Hi, I’ll have a Miller Lite?”

 

“Sure, coming right up!”, the bartender/priest says.

 

20-22 mintues later.

 

“Another Miller Lite, hon?”. This is an informal parish. Also they let allow female priests. 

 

“Yes, thanks.”

 

17 minutes later.

 

“Another one?”, but this time her voice is missing that disarming uplift. 

 

“Actually I’ll have a Guiness this time.”

 

She comes back, hands you your change and coolly says, “Thanks” without making eye contact.

 

Our relationship really took a turn somewhere between beer #2 and #3. Something I said? Was it switching up beers? Predicting your drink is like an unspoken language between the two of you, or maybe it just makes their job easier. I didn’t stiff her on the tip if that’s what you’re thinking. Did she see me in the corner by myself? Other parties have had ample time to arrive. It’s become painfully obvious I’ve been stood up or I’m binge drinking alone. And how many beers was I planning to order?? I’m no longer worthy of Tiffany’s warmth. I’m a sinner. This is now a cool business transaction like administering the Eucharist. No longer the man Tiffany once thought I was, I walk home.  

 

The following week I walked over with Brandon.

 

“Guiness is the best beer in the world”, he said.

 

I knew we would agree on something eventually.

 

“It’s like a whole meal. I don’t have to drink many.”

 

Really? I do.

 

“Yeah, totally.”

 

At Celeron, a dreadlocked trustafarian played Sympathy For The Devil on an acoustic. E, D, A the whole song if you don’t worry about the solo or the bongos. But of course they fucking worried about the bongos. If you didn’t own a hackey sack, a massive stereo, or a bongo set you were a zero. A kid in the corner banged away. A cute blonde girl sat on the couch.

 

“It was so hard to write a song!” she said.

 

Tell me about it. I needed to go home try. They instinctively understood no one wants to hear your own shit so played devil’s advocate Altamont anthems that make you want to stab someone. (But always say Jane’s Addiction’s version is better).

 

Brandon’s TEP brothers Miguel and Evans lived across the street in Carriage House. Greek basically lived there. TEP was the stoner frat which hosted Saturday night X-Lot bashes on Spring Weekend since their house sat at the end of a short path down to the woods. 

 

“Dude, check out this jacket I just got. Sweet, huh,” said a short, loud kid. 

 

“Dude, I got 4th row seats to see Rage, it’s going to be sick,” he added. 

 

 “Dude, that chick gave me her number. She’s so hot.”

 

Tyler was less a person than an infomercial. I went back inside. But he still held court on the back porch as someone opened the sliding glass door and I heard:

 

 “That kid is basically blind.”

 

I hate these situations. He HAD to be talking about me. But doubt crept in. What if….I don’t know…..his Wings Over Storrs coworker was basically blind? Maybe he just saw blues rock virtuoso Jeff Healey at Husky Blues? So I pretended I was deaf as well.  

 

“What’s up with Tyler?” I asked Brandon on the ride home. “Does he even go to UConn?”

 

“Nope. He flunked out. But he’s from Storrs.”

 

“So he’s a townie?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Did you hear him talking? He said, ‘That kid is basically blind’. I think I hate him.”

 

“I didn’t hear it. Well that’s stupid. I mean….so you don’t see as well, who cares? I wouldn’t let it bother you.”

 

“Yeah, I know. It doesn’t matter. No big deal.”

 

Townies. They’re losers anyway. Then again, after more than a year after my last class in Storrs and almost a year since I took my last branch class, why was I still here? Was I becoming an adopted townie?

 

Honorary?

………………………………………..

The workshop’s attendance policy was shall we say non-military, but you didn’t get paid if you weren’t there and I was barely scraping by. But when the wind chill was 8 below zero or it was snowing, sleeting, or freezing raining, piecemeal slave wages didn’t seem like enough buck for my bang. If they closed due to a snowstorm you didn’t get paid. Sheltered work is pretty cutthroat.

 

I want you to know I at least tried. I would get up, get dressed, and go outside to unlock my bike. Sometimes I even pedaled against the wind, my cheeks in agonizing pain, before I said, “Fuck this” and turned around for a lovely leeward ride home. Other times I never quite reached the bike unlocking phase.

 

Nothing makes you happier than crawling back to bed on such mornings. I would get undressed, get under my warm blankets, and let the sound of wind rattling the shutters and sleet tapping the windows lull me back to sleep.

…………………………………       

I headed straight to the Registrar’s Office at the end of a long hallway in the Wilbur Cross Building. A woman opened the sliding plastic window.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

“Yes, I think I’d like to apply for grad school. Is there a……form I need to fill out?”

 

“Please complete this and someone will speak with you directly.”

 

“Speak? Oh……..okay.”

 

Eight minutes elapsed. I had just finished.

 

“The Dean will see you now.”

 

“The Dean? Really? I thought I just needed to, you know, hand in a form?”

 

“Yes, well this shouldn’t take long at all.”

 

This tall, graying, and bespeckled woman led me down to a dimly lit office with the shades drawn. Wait a minute……I’m not good with faces but…..no way! I think it’s the Dean from my botched Stats 101 exemption!

 

“Please take a seat, Mr. McDonough. Karen tells me you are considering graduate school?”

 

Wait a minute……I recognize that voice…..no way! It’s the Dean from my botched Stats 101 exemption!

 

“Yes.”

 

“In what line of study, may I ask?”

 

“ English literature, just like my undergrad major.”

 

“Yes, that sounds just fine. Allow me to review your academic file for one moment, please.”.

 

About three hours went by.

 

“I see you earned a 2.8 grade point average. That’s very…respectable.”

 

“Yes, well uh….thank you.”

 

“But your grades dropped rather precipitously your last couple of years, if I may be frank.”

 

”Well I had some things going on in my life. Both my parents got divorced. Kurt Cobain committed suicide. I tried a Bobby Hurley joke which didn’t land at all. I’m sure you’ve been there. But, you know, things are going better now!”

 

“I see you applied for a Statistics exemption. How did that course turn out?”

 

What does she know?  

 

“Well………it……it turned out really well. Thanks for asking!”

 

“Is there anything in your academic history that might embarrass the university in any way?”

 

“No. I don’t think so. N……..No”.

 

Does she know? Should I confess?

 

“I mean……..one time this kid Paul—who claimed he was “180 pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal”--I mean seriously dude? Anyway, he offered me twenty bucks to write a paper on Macbeth for his English general requirement. He knew I was an English major, you see. So, you know, I think helping friends is important, don’t you? So I might have written it for him. But I made sure I did a terrible job! I waited until the Sunday night after Spring Weekend. I don’t think I need to tell you how hungover I was. And I pretended Macbeth was like Finnegans Wake. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time.” I said this shows the sound and fury (signifying nothing) of living in imaginary linear time when you, me, Joyce, Vico and hula hoop manufacturers know it’s circular. “A way a lone a last a loved along the…….rivverun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay,” was the truth but this poor idiot believed in “the last syllable of recorded time!” Wow! Paul didn’t say anything for a couple weeks. Finally. I said, “So how did we do on the paper?” “We got a D+.” What I’m trying to say is cheating is wrong. You’re only cheating yourself. Just ask Brady Anderson. As if those 50 home runs happened without steroids! Do you think I should I grow sideburns?”  

 

“That’s quite enough, thank you. I must tell you, here at this Public Ivy, we consider academic fraud a very serious matter indeed. But let’s move on, shall we? Why are you interested in continuing your study of English literature?”

 

“Well, I love books. I want to teach. Or maybe write. It’s like what Stephen Dedalus said in Ulysses: literature is the affirmation of the human spirit.”

 

“That’s quite intriguing because it says here you viciously attacked several masterpieces of world literature. You really don’t believe Lolita is a convincing love story? I understand soft core pornography involving werewolves is more your cup of tea.”

 

Wait….what? Where did she…..

 

“No, not at all! Lolita is delicious satire. I wolfed it down. I totally get it. It’s about the rape of innocence in our postwar consumer American culture! It’s brilliant! Have you read Pale Fire?” 

 

“I think I’ll ask the questions here. Have you applied for financial aid?”

 

“I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’m hoping the state can pay some of it. (Whispers). I’m a client of CT Services For The Blind.”

 

“Yes I see they underwrote nearly your entire undergraduate career. It looks like they’ve invested quite a chunk of change in you.”

 

“Yes, but……..who have you been talking to? They can afford it! It’s a Dot.com boom! Have you seen our ballooning military budget?”  

 

”What have you been doing since graduation?”

 

”Well, I’ve been, uh, building my resume. I just mastered the sleeve machine, as a matter of fact. I feel my textile background is rather Dickensian so maybe I’m ready to tackle Bleak House. I can’t wait for Dickens 301.”   

 

“How would you say you got along with your professors?”

 

“Really well! Gina Barreca? Forget about it. Do you know her? They used to call her Snow White but she drifted. She loved me. She wrote on all my papers I should talk more in class.”

 

“Did you?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“What about Professor O’Connor.”

 

“Oh…..right. Of course. Sometimes you need tough love. Literature isn’t babysitting here. Great guy”.

 

(Professor O’Connor bursts out from behind the curtains).

 

“YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE! YOU DESERVE TO HAVE SCIATICA!”.

 

(He storms out and slams the door behind him).

 

“YOU’RE A MACHO PIECE OF SH ...!!!!”

 

Then I woke up.

 

Still yelling.

 

“….IT!” reverberated against the walls.

 

The sleet had started to taper down.

…………………………………

I entered the Wilbur Cross Building. (For real this time I promise). From a wooden bench around the corner and out of view of the front window, I heard a woman’s voice. I told myself to go ask for a form. Arjona is big enough for J. D. and me. The government probably spent $1.8 billion on a tank while I just sat here. Chunk of change? I’m pocket change! I can start classes in the fall—if not summer!

 

My feet froze. I walked out after 20 minutes. I’ll try again another time.

……………………………….

Working at Schmedley’s could reduce my commute from two hours to thirty seconds. Subway was a seven minute bike ride away. My Maxell tapes suggested I wasn’t a recording artist but was sandwich artistry still in play? The Co-op! Did someone say $4.99 employee discount Nabokov? They would all offer a massive raise: minimum wage.

 

The Prince Of Denmark’s dad’s ghost told him to murder his cuckolding, homicidal uncle but I just needed to inquire about slapping dough at Sgt. Pepperoni’s. Stop pretending you’re Hamlet!

 

After a liquid courage Guinness, I brandished a $5 to lure Schmedleys’ goateed bartender/owner over.

 

“Another Guinness?”

 

“Yeah, and hey, um, are you guys hiring by any chance?” my voice wavering.  

 

“We’re looking for waiters and kitchen staff.” 

 

“Could I…..get an application?”

 

Instead of filling it out at the bar like a normal person, I found a booth around the corner and hunched my shoulders to further shield anyone’s view before I put the application up to my face and put it back down to write the answers. Under additional comments I wrote, “I have extensive kitchen experience within the UConn dining hall system.” 

 

Goatee guy perused my application for an uncomfortable length of time.

 

“We’ll be in touch if anything opens up.”

 

I thought you said things were already opened up.

 

“Okay.”

 

Did he see me read the application? Was I a cheap tipper? Or did a townie bar not care for my kind? (Blind was fine—UConn was not). Why was I so stupid to out myself!?

………………………………………….

In the Co-Op’s magazine section in the front, I nose read Spin and People’s Sexiest Men Alive edition. I didn’t have enough blackheads anymore to care about Marilyn Manson, but was I the thinking woman’s Matthew Perry? (We’ve established that I’m blind).

 

 “How’s that smell?” a male voice asked.  

 

This comedic genius was already 20 feet to my left before I could even think of witty ripostes like, “Not as good as your mom last night.”  

………………………………………….

The UConn Huskies played the Washington Huskies in a Thursday night Sweet Sixteen matchup.

 

“HAMILTON! NO! ANOTHER TIP! NO! HAMILTON! AT THE BUZZER!!! YES!!!!!!! CONNECTICUT WINS!!!!!!!!!!!”

 

YES!!” I yelled and immediately worried I woke Pav. Before going to bed, he watched the Knicks vs. Hawks in the living room, so I went to Brandon’s room. Brandon was somewhere hitting on NSYNC fans.     

 

Our downstairs phriends didn’t run outside with blue and white paint on their shirtless chests. Riots didn’t break out at Schmedley’s. Granted, this was the hinterlands, closer to Coventry than Gampel Pavilion. Maybe The Jungle and Frats went apeshit, but even they probably stayed chill until the Elite Eight.   

 

Many kids in The Basketball Capital Of The World cared more about spotting a player walking to class. “I saw Kevin Freeman outside MSB today,” or “Donny Marshall was totally macking on some chick at TKE last night.” I had the honor of standing shoulder to stomach with Ray Allen at an Upper Deck urinal. (All others were occupied. I would never break the code—not even for a future NBA lottery pick.)

 

Husky Mania ran wild after they beat Duke in 1994. We all agreed to pretend this relatively meaningless late November win was “revenge” for our 1990 Elite Eight heartbreaking buzzer beating defeat (I ran out of the house and yelled “Christian Laettner must die!”  before Dan and I played a consolation pickup game) and our 1991 Sweet Sixteen drubbing which was only partially redeemed by Rudy Johnson stepping on Christian Laetnner’s face. Ancient history now. Kids burned family heirloom couches to smithereens in the quad to “Fuck Duke!” chants. “Laettner swallows!” rang through the chilly night air even though he played for the Minnesota Timberwolves now. “Show us your tits!” ardent chants followed because bare boobs are the best way to celebrate early season neutral court victories at The Palace At Auburn Hills.   

 

But when UConn played Seton Hall in midseason, couch burners played Madden ’95 or watched The Usual Suspects. 

 

When the women beat Tennessee to win the 1995 national championship one early April Sunday afternoon, campus was like a funeral. The couch burning demographic skewed heavily male and bros weren’t allowed to support “bitch basketball.” You could speculate on Coach Auriemma’s recruitment strategies, however. While Pav, Brandon, and I watched our Man Card allowable four minutes of a game against Notre Dame, Brandon theorized on why Parade All-Americans flocked to Storrs.

 

 “Geno licks their box.”

 

This was confusing, actually, because guys also claimed Lady Huskies were “carpet munchers”. Maybe they imagined a hardwood Chasing Amy scenario? Chasing Rebecca. Contact---With Svetlana. I’ve given this way more thought than it deserves.

 

During my junior year of high school, the men had their “Dream Season.” Since we considered our 1988 NIT championship exciting, a non-Final Four “Dream Season” wasn’t considered over the top. Suddenly a national power after a decade of Big East doormat status and decades of Yankee Conference irrelevance, UConn seemed fun! And it was only two towns away. I applied to UConn, Eastern, and Central. I wasn’t exactly ambitious. I got into all three and chose the best basketball team—I mean academic institution. I crossed out Central because “Fuck Drexel!” chants were never preludes to furniture engulfed in flames. 

 

Two days after we beat Washington, North Carolina summarily dismissed us in a “neutral site” Elite Eight game before 23,000 Greensboro, North Carolina fans who all coincidentally wore baby blue. I guess it was their color.   

 

First the Whalers, now this. Fuck you too, North Carolina.

………………………………………

Pav and Brandon’s TEP brothers Freeman, Evans, Mickey, and Pony hosted a Thursday night Willimantic public access talk show. We gathered around the TV.

 

FREEMAN: The Kentucky Wildcats won the national championship on Monday night, beating Utah by the final score of 78-69.

 

MICKEY: 69. Haha.

 

FREEMAN: That’s correct, Mickey. The Utes scored 69 points. I’m not sure why that’s humorous. Also, this is a family show. Jeff Sheppard was the MPV as Kentucky won their 7th National Championship.

 

EVANS: Great job by Tubby Smith. He inherited Rick Pitino’s recruits, but he took it to the house.

 

FREEMAN: Also, in major league bakeball---er, baseball. Excuse me.

 

MICKEY: (Giggling, puts hand over face).

 

FREEMAN: The Red Sox opened their season with a 2-0 win over the A’s as Pedro Martinez dominated in his pitching da but, er, debut for the BoSox. I read the teleprompter wrong, sorry about that, folks. Meanwhile the Yankees dropped their Opening Day contest against the Angels, 4-1. Oh wait….looks like we have a caller on the line. Hello! Welcome to Sports Zone!

 

CALLER: Um yeah, I just wanted to say the Yankees are going all the way and I want to do Mickey’s mom.

 

FREEMAN: Miller, is that you? Okay………folks, I’m really sorry you had to hear that. Who’s screening these calls? Some immature individuals out there tonight. If you have a question—and can keep it PG, people—please call 486-3948. Okay,  looks like we have another call on the line. Good evening, you’re on Sports Zone!

 

CALLER: Hey Freeman, I have to disagree with that last caller. The Yankees are going to struggle big time. Jeter will get worn down by midseason.

 

FREEMAN: Well, sometimes the dog days of August can tire out shortstops. Great point. 

 

CALLER: Yeah, not to mention the fact that he’ll be doing Mickey’s mom every single night.

 

FREEMAN: Okay! Folks, can we try to stay focused on sports? The Masters are coming up next week. Is this Tiger Woods’ tournament to lose?

 

EVANS: Totally, dude. (Giggles).

 

FREEMAN: Thank you for that contribution. Wait….Pony, who’s running the camera? Can you pan back to me?

 

(Camera pans to an empty chair).

 

FREEMAN: Where’s Mickey? Mickey, what are you doing in the corner? Are you eating Scooby Snacks? What’s going on? Well folks, it’s been another great show, but it looks like we’re getting the wrap signal. Until next Thursday. Thanks for watching Sports Zone!

 

HOT MIC: (What the fuck, dude! Mickey, you’re so bak---).

 

(Cut to a Windham Board of Education Meeting joined already in progress).

 

If you think this show was banned from the airwaves, you just don’t understand public access TV.

……………………………………..

I rode to campus on a mild, gray Saturday and stopped by New Haven, 3rd floor. The eleven Jungle dorms were named after the eleven counties in Connecticut.

 

I walked past unknown baby faces in the hall. Freshman? Uggh should I be here? Strange kids in my old room (311–like the band!) cranked Wu Tang Clan. Obviously Wu Tang Clan ain’t nuttin’ to fuck wit’ but was grunge already grandpa music?

 

My old friends Hick and Butthead were still there. Hick was from Griswold, which made Ellington seem like midtown Manhattan. Butthead (Christian name Timothy) resembled Beavis’s nacho loving sidekick. While I took my last class at the branch, I slept in their room a few weekends. You can’t take the boy out of The Jungle I guess.  

 

“Colin! What are you up to?” Hick said.

 

“I’m living off campus. Working in West Hartford. Thinking about enrolling in grad school.”

 

“Cool. Hey Colin’s back!”

 

“I’m parched. I could use a Dad’s root beer right now.” 

 

“Boy are you in luck. I just stocked the fridge full of them as a matter of fact!”

 

“Ready for some Techmo Bowl, Colin?”

 

“I thought you would never ask.”

 

Techmo Bowl was Madden For Dummies. I still sucked. So I picked the mighty Cowboys or 49ers. Butthead picked the Browns out of pity. The cornerstones of my in-game strategy were Hail Mary’s on 1st and 10 and going for it on 4th and 43 from my own 23. 

 

“Colin, did you hear about the Giants punter who made a rap album? He should have called it Downed At Da One.”

 

“I like it. What will the lyrics be? How about:

 

Yo, all you other homies is wack/

Your weak ass kicks/

Are all touchbacks!

 

I guess the Dad’s was kicking in.

 

“Sweet. Or maybe:

 

My Uzi is a treat and you’re the trick/

Don‘t bother with an on-side kick.

 

They were the nerds I wouldn’t admit I was. Root beer was their elixir, not Car Bombs.   

 

“Do you still have NHL 95?”

 

“Colin…….what a stupid question. Does Biggie love it when you call him Big Papa?”

 

I was the Whalers. My skill level matched that of an extinct team. I played against the computer since my head obstructed human opponents’ view. Sometimes I lucked into a goal. Even the computer probably felt sorry for me.

 

Trevor Finn walked by. Next to his likeness on the hallway bulletin board, someone once wrote, “Trevor “I Get A Hard On From My Hard Drive” Finn.”

 

“Colin? Jesus!”

 

He shook his head and walked on.

 

This was not “Jesus I’m glad to see you,, but “Jesus I can’t believe you’re STILL here.”

 

I finished my Dad’s and never went back.        

……………………………....

American Psycho

 

I bought The Hartford Courant or USA Today. USA Today reported (with a red, blue and green pie chart) the unemployment rate plummeted to 4.3 percent, the lowest since 1970. The Dow Jones rocketed over 9,000 for the first time ever. Welcome to the boomtown!

 

Was I employed? I was pretty sure sub-minimum wage earning SSI collectors didn’t count. But I couldn’t apply for unemployment and ruin the statistical party. Invisible to economists, bureaucrats, and politicians alike, I wasn’t any problem that needed solving.     

 

I strained to hear Melissa on the workshop’s wall phone over the droning din of machinery, shouting, and laughter.

 

“Hey there! A company in Wethersfield is looking for a customer service rep. Are you interested?”

 

“Sure!”

 

“Great! Are you available next Tuesday at 1PM? I can pick you up there.”

 

“Yeah, sounds good.”

 

I wore a red tie, blue shirt, gray pants, and my stepfather’s hand-me-down gray jacket. I can’t believe my lack of money or access to a men’s clothing store led to such debasement. The sleeves were a little short because he was a tiny, tiny man.

 

The beautiful and mysterious Melissa picked me up in her navy Audi state car. I would have preferred a little red Corvette but whatever.

 

“Are you nervous?”

 

“A little.”

 

“You will do great! Just be yourself! And don’t be afraid to sell yourself.”

 

I was fucked. JJ, a wifebeater wearing undergraduate mafioso, used to strut around my floor saying, ‘Who’s better than me!?”. Ron Pavano down the hall wrote, ‘PAVANO IS THE MAN!” on his notepad. I used to say, “Pavano is writing love letters to himself again.” They were born salesmen. JJ kicked in hallway windows, but Pavano’s aggression had more heroic overtones. At 1:50AM one night/morning we waited for calzones from DP Dough—who proudly served shitfaced students shockingly greasy nightcaps. When my Danger Zone and his Combat Zone arrived, I held my dollar bills to my face. The delivery kid apparently made a mocking gesture I didn’t see, but Pavano did. He knocked him out cold with a right hook to the jaw.

 

A month later, with ten of us crowded into a room, he held court with a loud Italian guy anecdote about his dad’s car dealership, I think. Plenty of hand gestures. He started to sit down before he changed his mind—this story was too good for sitting. Twenty seconds later when he finally went to sit he met only air and the floor below. I had pulled his chair. Everyone erupted in laughter.

 

Well, not quite everyone.

 

He shoved me against the wall.

 

“WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM!?”

 

“Sorry. I was just joking around,” I said under my breath.

 

He pinned me for several more seconds and let me go. He thought he was a hero for punching the DP Dough kid. I thought he was a hero for not punching me.

 

He got busted selling drugs, but unlike Pretty Boy Noah, he chose jail over ratting on his friends.

 

I never told him I didn’t like him punching that kid. Maybe that proved Melissa was right: the customer conspires with the salesman to buy what they’re selling.

 

 I still didn’t like it. Vanilla Ice had to sell you on his dope rhymes which were just rhymes about how great his rhymes were. But Bob Dylan wrote Desolation Row. When you can bust dope shit like that, you don’t have to even acknowledge sucker MC’s like Gordon Lightfoot.

 

Except I couldn’t prove I was the Dylan of office clerks or rock a photocopier like a vandal, so anything less than my best sales pitch was a felony.

 

A kindly, graying, bespectacled woman named Susan sat across from us. Cluttered desk. Melissa sat to my right.

 

“Thank you for your interest, Colin. We’re a small medical office looking for someone to handle phone calls, filing, and data entry. Can you tell me about your experience managing records and files?”

 

“Well…..I manage brochures in a warehouse. Just, uh, getting my foot in the door. I count them and load them on pallets. I make sure I’m accurate–and timely–since a truck arrives at 10AM. I’ve memorized which skid has which brochures. Mystic Aquarium is in the middle row 2nd to last, for example. So I feel like this has prepared me to manage files really well. I also worked in my college cafeteria and you had to be quick cleaning off trays because they all arrived at 12:40.”

 

“That’s great! You would also handle patient calls, so we are looking for excellent customer service skills. Can you tell me about your experience working with the public?”

 

“Well, I haven’t actually had the opportunity to work directly with the public yet, but I think I would be excellent. I think I’m a very patient person. I’m sure sometimes you get people that aren’t happy. But you have to remember they aren’t mad at you so you can’t take it personally. They are frustrated by a situation and your job is to, uh, problem solve with them and work on alleviating that situation. I think I would be very good at that.”

 

“Excellent! How are your computer skills?”

 

“Really good! I’ve used Windows ‘95. And email. I created my own AOL email address. I used WordPerfect in college. I wrote all my papers in the library computer lab. Oh, and I use a program called Zoomtext which magnifies the screen and you just move the mouse around. I can work just as fast with that as anyone else using a computer.”   

 

“That’s wonderful! Is there anything you wish to ask me?”

 

“Are you on a bus line?”

 

“I believe we are a few blocks from the bus. About a 10-15 minute walk?”

 

“Okay, that would work I think. So I don’t have a ton of job experience, but I’m a quick learner and I have a good work ethic and I’m eager to develop my skills. You won’t regret giving me a chance.”

 

“Well thank you for coming in. We’re seeing a few other applicants this week, but we will be in touch.”

 

“You did great!” Melissa said in the car.

 

“Do you think I have a chance?”

 

“I do.”

 

Did I sense effort there? Stop that.

 

No word after a week. Then ten days. Then two weeks. Okay, that can’t be normal, can it? Why didn’t I give Susan my phone number? Wait…..my resume had it. Would she call me or Melissa? I left Melissa a voicemail. No response after a day. Then another. Nothing. Then a last one: “I know you’re super busy, but I haven’t heard anything about the job and it’s been more than two weeks and I’ve been anxiously waiting. Can you put aside any other calls? Put aside any other work? Please call me first thing in the morning. Please make me your first priority. Please? First thing! Thank you!”

 

She called.

 

“Susan left me a voicemail last week. They found someone with more experience.”

 

“Oh. Okay. I just wish someone would have told me either way.”

 

My life was their paperwork.

 

We met in the workshop cafeteria.

 

“What do you think your best job skills are?”

 

“Everyone says I’m a good writer. Do you now jobs where I can use that?”

 

“Yes I think so.”

 

“Okay. Sorry about the voicemails, but I was getting antsy.”

 

“No more psychotic messages?” she said smiling.

 

“No. Again…..maybe the problem is I’m going through you on everything. Would an employer think I lack independence?”

 

“No… I don’t think so.”
 

“Does CSB have any civil rights attorneys or anything?”

 

“No”.

 

“Because wouldn’t that help? How do you know someone isn’t scared off by blind people? They can always say “not enough experience” but do you ever know if that’s true? And how can you gain experience if no one else gives you a chance either? Affirmative action doesn’t apply for people with disabilities?” 

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Or ADA? It’s just, like, wheelchair access? But no job access? Employers can discriminate and no one will ever know?”

 

Sweet Melissa probably didn’t know what she wanted to do in college either, so she probably went to Central’s student center and checked off “want to help people” without any more concrete plans than that until psychotic clients asked her impossible to answer, above her pay grade questions.

 

Maybe Susan—who probably got her granddaughter a pretty sweater and volunteered at area soup kitchens around the Holidays—didn’t think it was her job to save the world one blind data entry clerk at a time. And maybe it wasn’t.

 

Did my college degree help or hurt? Maybe Susan didn’t want someone to think he knew more than her. “We need someone to read appointment schedules, Camus readers are serious overkill”. Or was the job considered women’s work? Did my penis, not my eyes, seal my doom? 

 

CSB talked about buying me more equipment, sending me for more training. They served the promise of success like blind vendors serve hot dogs at state courthouses. No need to strong arm taxpaying church goers and PTA members here.   

 

Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire depended on the kindness of strangers. She landed in a New Orleans asylum, I sewed tic tac toe boxes on Shield Street. 

…………………………………

That wasn’t the first time someone called me psychotic.

 

I took a six-week summer course (Math 101 so do I even need to say it sucked?). My heavily promoted resume building cafeteria tray scraping occurred then. I saw Rebecca Lobo on the McMahon elevator.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hi.”

 

You can guess who said hi first.  The tallest people on the elevator were:

 

1.  Rebecca (6’4”)

2.  Her boyfriend (5’10”?)

3.  Me. (5’8”. 5 7 ½” on some defective scales). 

 

A girl in front of me in line at the food truck outside the Co-Op one beautiful Tuesday afternoon turned around.

 

“Hey Colin.”

 

“Hey……Alana?”

 

“Yeah! We’re having a party on Saturday for Fatima’s birthday. You should come! Carriage House 14-C.”

 

“Okay, that sounds cool.”  

 

Multiple non-blacked out eyewitnesses reported Fatima and I hooked up at a semi-formal. (Why didn’t they have those every weekend? We only kissed---I think? My Junglemates mocked me mercilessly as they considered her a beer goggles cautionary tale. I didn’t think she was too bad—black hair, cute fleshy face, big lips. I think she was Indian. Or mixed race? Eurocentric undergrads labeled it another “Asian invasion.” She looked nothing like Jenny Garth, Courtney Thorne-Smith, OR Gillian Anderson-- basically no one in Fox’s entire prime time lineup--so an all-white jury of her peers ruled her a dog.

 

Alana had curly dark brown hair. Last name Petravych. Ooo Eastern European? Or Russian Jewish? I thought she was hot.

 

At 3:42 PM on Saturday, I knocked after I circled around Carriage House for an hour. 

 

“Colin, what are you doing here!?” Fatima asked in I thought a less than elated voice.

 

“Alana invited me. I ran into her the other day.” 

 

“Oh! Well……grab a beer!”

 

They had three kegs, a beer pong table, and Bush’s Sixteen Stone cranking out of the window. Until Fatima put on Jagged Little Pill. Yep, it was a girl hosted party. Fatima, Alana, their old floormate Gina, and this guy Antonio were the only ones I knew.

The guys watched Goodfellas in the living room—a better bro staple than that cartoon Scarface.

 

Fatima’s “what are you doing here?” threw me off for the whole night. I couldn’t drink my way into social ease. But maybe I was in the club? Besides Tiny The Bartender and women’s basketball stars, I didn’t know anyone there that summer.

 

So I pep talked myself into dropping by again. Or not. This was a tortuous decision! I walked there on two evenings only to walk back to my six week summer home. On my third trip I summoned the spirit of my recently deceased grandfather: a cool cat who loved blowing his sax and clarinet almost as much as face melting Manhattans on the rocks mixed in his living room bar. “My body is screaming for alcohol!” he lamented at 5:01 PM if arriving home late. He played in the army band during World War II instead of storming the beaches at Normandy (4-F’d due to a tic). His wartime synopsis: “It was kill, kill, kill!.......on the saxophone.” He scatted “Oh Scooby! Boo bee doo da!” while walking into Saturday evening Mass. He could cat nap and snore through anything life threw at him. Favorite expressions: “Hey, you with the sneakers! Out of the pool!” and “That’s it! I get no respect. I’m joining the merchant marines to get me a geisha girl.” Upon seeing an MTV video by Suicidal Tendencies, this Dixieland jazz loving music critic said, “They keep talking about it. Why don’t they just go through with it?” Put him on his sultry beachside Space Coast balcony with a newspaper, Marlboro Red, loose shirt and stiff drink and he was happy. Would Gramp be afraid of a few girls??

 

I knocked like the wood might splinter if I tapped too hard. Fatima greeted me again. Gina and Antonio watched a Real World Seattle rerun. Irene, the quirky, artsy one, was so done with that toxic house. On her way out the door she informed Stephen–the obligatory combustible black cast member–that he was gay. Stephen ran after her car, opened the door, and slapped her.

 

This was obvioulsy riveting television, but hadn’t we all seen this one before? No one spoke. I hate it when TV creates a wall of unbreachable silence.

 

I heard footsteps on the top of the stairs.

 

“Colin! What are you doing here? I’m naked!”, Alana exclaimed before she fled back out of sight. 

 

They all laughed. I blushed. Was she really naked? It looked like she was wearing something. A towel? I couldn’t see her that well from the couch. Or was that the joke? Did she embarrass me for fun? Or being a tease?

 

Also, did she saunter around stark naked in front of Antonio on Wednesday evenings? I didn’t think they were dating. Was he operating a harem from Carriage House 14C?? Was it pure dumb luck I didn’t walk in on a living room orgy?

 

A week later I ran into him at Ted’s. He was in full Rico Sauve regalia: white tank top, gold chain, slicked black hair. I was gelled up, but I wore jean shorts and sleeves, so not the same thing at all.

 

“So I started dating someone.”

 

“Oh yeah? Congrats!”

 

“Someone you know.”

 

“Oh…....I don’t know. Alana?”

 

“No. You know….”

 

“Gina?”

 

“Yup! She’s a great girl. Great personality, smart, nice smile, great tits, great…(conspiratorial whisper) great pussy.”

 

Everywhere I went, guys kept raving about their girl’s tunnel of love.  

 

“That’s great. Congrats!”

 

“Thanks, man.”

 

The rich got richer. Gina’s girlish voice was maybe a little too pep rallyish for me but she was a cute blonde--although most of my crushes were brunettes. 80’s teen comedies conditioned me to associate blondes with vapid snobbery. Thanks a lot, Kelly Preston.  

 

There’s an alternate theory here right out of Real World New Orleans: Antonio was gay and Gina was his beard. This might explain his Anatomy and Physiology summation and why Alana didn’t care about being naked (or in a towel). Girls love gay best friends! But this didn’t occur to me. In my trigonometry and alcohol addled mind, Antonio was a studly, smoldering Latin lover blowing through Carriage House 14C with hurricane level gale force winds.       

 

Before we continue, can I just say I was drinking nightly (like I’m the first person a math class drove to drink). My summer reading list was Leaves Of Grass. “Do anything, but let it produce joy.” Finally a guy with a pen and a positive attitude! Followed by Tropic Of Cancer to see what all the censorship fuss was about. “O Tania, where now is that warm cunt of yours?” Okay I guess that was it. Then Notes From The Underground. “I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I think my liver is bad.” So much for positivity. I repeatedly listened to Hum’s You’d Prefer An Astronaut. Wouldn’t this put you in a weird headspace too, my ever kind and indulgent reader? 

 

After I got blitzkrieged at Ted’s (a lot of people drink on Monday nights) I stumbled home, and grabbed a pen because writing letters had worked out so well for me in the past. I can’t remember (or did I force myself to forget?) this epistle verbatim but I believe I spun some insane paranoid conspiracy theory accusing…who? Fatima? Gina? Nope, Alana! She was guilty of unspeakable crimes! I accused her without evidence of inviting me to Fatima’s party just so they could all make fun of the blind kid. Then……………I called her a cunt.

 

I walked back down Hunting Lodge Road and let out blood curdling, grunge rock screams. I’d call them barbaric yawps but even Whitman would have disowned me at this point. A cop car pulled up.

 

“Where are you off to?”

 

“Oh, nowhere, officer. Just going back to my dorm.”

 

“Hop in. I’ll take you.”

 

Did I……have a choice?  

 

There’s hungover and then there’s “I went on a 1.6 mile walk at 2AM on a Tuesday to place a letter in a girl’s mailbox calling her The C Word for inviting me to a birthday party before receiving a police escort home” hungover. Trust me, you don’t want any part of this hungover.

 

But I was so steeped in blood that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as to go o’er, so I decided a make-up letter was a super good idea (after another lost night at Ted’s). I apologized profusely. Then, apropos of I can’t remember, I discussed a Liz Phair interview I’d just read. Liz, strong willed indie rock goddess, gushed about her new boyfriend, some old creepy producer guy who acted super cocky. He “played me like a fiddle.” I said this particular Rolling Stone cover story ruined my life. It seemed to prove that all girls--no matter how smart and liberated they seem!--just love cocky jerks. The next night I wrote yet another letter. An apology to the apology. I think it featured a Whitmanesque theme such as we’re all the same deep down oh I sing the body electric.…..thank God my precise memory of this will only surface through extensive shock therapy I pray no insurance company will ever underwrite. Maybe single payer isn’t the answer.  

 

I tried to tell myself it was Axl Rose’s fault. He called his mom the C word in a song! Not a Carriage House resident he barely knew, but the woman who gave him life!

 

And are we just going to sit back and pretend Richard Gere was innocent in all this? He called a girl The C Word yet we were asked to believe he was an officer AND a gentleman. I was just an assembly line product in a misogyny factory. Talk to the foreman!

 

Or so I tried to soothe my aching conscience.

 

It didn’t work.

 

I was starting to sound like Humbert Humbert.

 

Early that fall semester, I ran into Fatima by the Upper Deck pool tables. Lightning Crashes played.  

 

“You write these psychotic letters and then you drop off the face of the earth?”

 

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m not psychotic I swear. I don’t know why I acted like that.”

 

“No more letters?”

 

“No more letters.”

 

She hugged me, believe it or not, which was so much more than I deserved.

 

My next door neighbor Kyle, not understanding the dramatic scene unfolding before him, whispered, “Colin, you hooked up with that” and laughed..

 

What did she mean “you dropped off the face of the earth?” I wanted to believe they missed me, but they probably thought I went away to plot their murder.

 ……………………………………

That wasn’t the worst thing I ever said! In fifth grade I stood outside the LD room. This cool kid named Craig waited too. I dreaded this room like Real World producers dread easygoing black cast members. I was so afraid they would throw me in there. In fact, they sort of did. The recess lady Mrs. Puckett taught me to type. How could they foresee that making it easier for me to write was like handling Jackie a Roman Candle during morning break? I guess they didn’t want me putting my nose to the keys?

 

I became Mrs. Puckett’s pet. I worried she would blow the whistle and let me go every single time in kickball.

 

One day while we took the flag in for the day, aspiring poet Todd Ford recited a quatrain in her honor:

 

Mrs. Puckett/

Went to Nantucket/

Saw a bucket/

And decide to fuck it.

 

I was awestruck. How could someone be so brilliant? This anatomically improbable masterpiece sparked my love of language. 

 

But while I waited for my afterschool bus that day, I decided to prove how non-LD I was. I leaned in the door.

 

“So this is where the retards hang out?”

 

Mrs. Robbins rushed out.

 

“We do not call them retards. That is not nice. They are special needs students.”

 

She sounded wounded, not angry, which made it worse. What a little shit. I meekly said I was sorry.

 

The path to pre-pubescent coolness was filled with booby traps.

………………………………

 

I sat across from George and Marty and folded shirts.  

 

“Oh boy! We are going to have burgers tonight! Yipee!” George said.

 

“Yes, buddy,” Marty said.

 

“And then we are going to the park on Saturday!”

 

Yankees vs. Tigers played on Marty’s  portable radio.

 

“And we’re going to a ballgame this summer too!”

 

“Yes, buddy. But first we have to fold these shirts, okay, buddy.”

 

George was pudgy with a thick, unruly mop of brown hair. Marty was tall, lanky and bald. George was eternally excitable; Don was taciturn with a fixed half smile as he rocked back and forth.

 

The 10:15 bell rang. I waited 4 minutes for stairwell congestion to die down and went up to the lunch room.

 

Cindy led Jackie by the arm to her seat.

 

“I’ll be right back with your soup.”

 

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday dear Marisol!

Happy birthday to you!

 

“Oooooo thank you guys!” Marisol beamed.

 

“How old are you–u-u now?”

 

“Oh shove it, Sam. I’ll get Stone Cold after you!”

 

“Any big dates?” Leroy asked.

 

“I’m going to Bonanza with my mom.”

 

“Better bring us some birthday cake!”

 

Is it better to sail the open seas with a broken compass and battered ship or drift across a pond in a canoe paddled by someone else?

 

Oh shut up, idiot. You can ruin any birthday party.

……………………………………………

The early spring days veered wildly between sunny and upper 40’s, lower 30’s and rain, sub-freezing and flurries, more rain, two perfect spring days, rain, and a Winter Storm Warning. My attendance improved with the weather, but not enough to Phil’s liking.

 

“If you’re not here, I have to do the orders which takes away from my work.”

 

What was his work anyway? Ordering the brochures? Was that like an all-day thing? How did he manage before I got here?

 

“Okay, I’ll try to do better.”          

 

I did try. But two hours each way, five days a week was so soul absconding. On the bus, I listened to Mike and The Mad Dog pontificate about Kerry Wood’s 20 strikeouts against the Astros at Wrigley Field. Wood was just 20 years old. I was also in the springtime of my life, but riding to the bus stop, waiting for, boarding, and exiting the bus before waiting for my overcrowded West Hartford bus just made my life feel like a permanently drained hourglass. This situation wasn’t sustainable. Unless I moved closer, five days wasn’t happening. Want to increase my slave wages? Maybe then we can talk about the Perfect Attendance Award.    

 

The workshop moved to a converted shopping center in Windsor. It was one story, so blind workers no longer needed to scale K2 to eat their lunch. The workshop floor was pale blue with yellow tape running everywhere. The “big people” were in the office next door. One big happy family. And the Windsor bus wasn’t as crowded.  

 

No matter which economically blighted neighborhood Industries decamped in, I could always depend on a walking distance McDonald’s. Ronald makes it magic.  …………………………………………….

Natural Born Killers

 

Spring Weekend was here! It was meant to help students let off steam before the stress of finals rather than help blind textile workers escape their mind- numbing, mechanized workaday life, but was anyone really paying attention?

 

Thursday night was chilly and drizzly. We pregame with the boys downstairs with beers and bongs by a backyard bonfire. This was a rain or shine event.

 

You never saw so many homicidal maniacs in your life than at Thursday night Kill A Keg. Carriage House featured four-unit apiece townhouses with burnt orange brick on the bottom and white siding on the top situated on both sides of a cul-de-sac leading up to the woods. Its long street and large front and back yards created ample space for thirsty revelers, making it UConn’s party epicenter.

 

Thanks to less than flattering local news coverage in previous years and complaints from Storrs residents who previously thought buying a house adjacent to a giant college campus wouldn’t end badly at all, riot gear clad cops patrolled the area like a European colonial power in a Joseph Conrad novel or the LAPD after the Rodney King riots. To assert their dominance, they parted Carriage House Way like the Red Sea.

 

“GET OUT OF THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET,” they bullhorned.

 

While they remembered their pepper spray, night sticks, body armor, helmets, and Glocks, they forgot chalk, so “the middle of the street” was open for interpretation. A girl to my left stepped over this phantom barrier (to hug someone hello, not launch a human grenade against a fascist paramilitary unit) and a rent-a-cop pepper sprayed her in the face.

 

“Oh. My. GODDDDDDAA. He just sprayed me!” she rubbed her eyes.

 

“Fuck you, pigs!” a rugby flanker shouted as cops continued their slow death march down this dead end street.

 

“I SMELL BACON!!”

 

This had the makings of a really fun weekend.

…………………………………..

On Friday kids made a bonfire in the circle by the woods.

 

 “PUT OUT THIS FIRE IMMEDIATELY,” stormtroopers demanded..

 

“Thank you for alerting us to the hidden dangers of forest fires, officer. We know you have a thankless job.”

 

Just kidding.

 

“SUCK MY DICK, PIGS!” was the feedback.

 

They cleared everyone out of Carriage House Way entirely, which created throngs of the drunken undead in Celeron not to mention hordes of thirst quenching savages down dimly lit, quiet residential Hunting Lodge Road, so I’d say that plan backfired.  

 

I sheltered in place in Carriage House 19A. Greek’s only concern was with killing a half barrel of Bud faster than 15D.

 

“Colin, grab a cup, we need to tap this keg RIGHT NOW!”, he ordered.

 

”Fuck 15D! Bunch of fucking pussies!” I, a team player, noted before I pounded my cup in six seconds and went for another. 

 

Hard work pays off in life. If you want something badly enough, the sky is the limit. We smoked those 15D lightweights like they were at a Sea Breeze sipping church picnic. 

 

“Colin, are you coming to Kegs And Eggs tomorrow morning?” Greek asked.

 

“Sure!”

 

“So don’t get too wasted,” he slurred, “No passing out!”

 

Did this mean drinking less? You must be joking. It meant drinking water between beers. All nighters weren’t just for midterms, the professionals managed them efficiently on Spring Weekend too.

 

I’m afraid we’re going to face a narrative gap in our story. What happened the rest of the night? Drinking games? Video games? Card games? Probably. Never ask a first person binge drinking narrator to provide a high resolution photographic image when seventeen kegs are in the vicinity. But drunken nights are all the same. No matter what the teetotalers and the boys in riot gear think, drinking isn’t about puking on yourself, setting mattresses on fire, or even punching people in the face after they spill three drops of their drink on you (not because it was hard to see in the faint amber lighting where thousands congregated or because a billion patrons packed into a 10 x 12 bar, but because they were disrespecting you or—most venal of sins--disrespecting your girl (or would- be girl). No! Drinkers seek the elusive, fleeting, beautiful, warm soft surrender that overtakes you after two to three drinks. Your mind and heart throw its arms around the world and your embrace is tenderly returned. Strangers become friends. Friends become family. Enemies become misunderstood. Treaties are enacted. All striving ceases, Sisyphus takes a lunch break. The flush of your cheeks becomes a mere manifestation of your rose colored soul. There was nothing to worry about after all, was there? Life was always perfect. The world is not an assembly line in a soul crushing factory, we ourselves are master craftsmen, pilots of our own destiny connected to each other with invisible strings. And love is not a cold abstraction or a cheesy Hallmark verse, it’s the warm, enveloping guiding light of the universe and we are its vessels and transfusers!

 

Do three beers distort or reveal reality? Buzzkilling scientists say it shuts off portions of our cerebral cortex, makes us dumber, weakens our reaction time, causes us to tolerate Toto and in extreme cases bleat off-key odes to Africa and that heartbreaker Rosanna. But what if our limbic systems, our lizard brains, our fight or flight primitive selves are lying? They’re useful for fleeing a bear but not for living! Kill a keg and kill fear! Kill our animal lineage which weighs us down! We are not cavemen anymore, there are no bears or panthers in sight, just rent-a-cops in riot gear, so let’s put our shields down and yield to a cherubin like blissful surrender instead of ceaselessly fending off imaginary boogey men produced by our 2PM on a Tuesday minds! There’s only forty ounces to freedom!

 

Of course, after six or seven beers we suspect our three beer magic hour was a staged production with props and ventriloquists, not The Truth. We are no longer floating, we’re treading water, starting to drown.

 

Until dawn when we resurface for Kegs And Eggs. Vaguely accusatory sunshine escaped through the blinds at Ted’s. It felt like an inversion of the natural order. The life-giving spring sun was an optometrist’s flashlight which burned into your retina.

 

The buffet included eggs, toast, home fries, and bacon. They didn’t even pretend anyone would want fruit. Our table of six ordered Guinnesses all around. One more wasn’t going to hurt, right? A vicious hangover, like a storm cloud on the horizon, beared down on us and an early morning Guinness was our gazebo. 

 

“Colin, I’m working on a screenplay. You’re an English major. You must be a good writer, right?”

 

“I don’t know. Kind of, I guess.”

 

“Want to work on it with me?”

 

“Sure, what’s it about?”

 

“Right now it’s about a bank robbery. And a serial killer. But there might be an alien invasion at the end. So it’s kind of like Reservoir Dogs meets Seven meets Aliens.”

 

“Sounds pretty cool. I could try to help with that.”

 

When people hear you’re a student/drug dealer, they hit you up for an eighth. When word spreads a girl is (maybe) a slut, guys become instantly intrigued by her (bullshit non-STEM) major. English majors are cows with their own brand of milk. (Just don’t, in my experience, slip letters in doors under a midnight moon. That milk is sour). Greek thought I had a marketable skill when no one else seemed to. I couldn’t wait to hoist our Oscar.

 

He drove me home and I crashed. I got up at 3. Feeling like new! Or was I still drunk? Round three here we go. It was my last night ever of Spring Weekend (it HAD to be the last) so listening to Pav ask Renee about Niantic Correctional’s Shepherd’s Pie and new volleyball court with Jaeger draped around him just wasn’t happening.

 

The TEP house’s longstanding tradition of hosting Saturday X lot parties was over. Authorities confined partying to an adjacent parking lot. So banished TEP brothers didn’t even go to their frat house. We sat on lawn chairs outside 19A and drank. A joint or five was shared. And a nitrous balloon or three. In other words, a mellow night. Nothing can feel sadder than a Saturday night. After Thursday and Friday’s endless Power Hours, reality’s alarm clock threatens to go off and Saturday is the snooze button.  

 

I got restless and walked down Hunting Lodge and North Eagleville to witness the festivities in the technically-off-campus Farmer Brown’s parking lot. UConn could say the hooligans were off campus so what are you looking at us for? A fifty foot chain link fence blockaded it from X Lot. A drunk girl climbed to the top. I could only tell she was a girl from her voice.

 

“Oh my God. Did someone just THROW a BOTTLE at me?!”

 

“Hey! Cum dumpster! Get down from there!” a safety-first young gentleman implored. 

 

“Show us your tits!”, a mammary gland enthusiast suggested. A pre-med who believed you’re never too young to begin mammogram screenings?

 

“Why don’t you come down here and sit on my face!?”, a problem solver in a backwards baseball hat (to aid face sitting?) recommended.      

 

“GET DOWN FROM THAT FENCE NOW!”, cried a bullhorn.

 

At least cops and students agreed on one thing.

 

Cages can only hold out for so long. Sheltered partiers tore down the fence and charged towards X-Lot. This is what the Riot Squad had been waiting for since Thursday. These overtime workers were about to earn their time and a half.

 

Party lovers fired beer bottles and rocks at their servers and protectors who promptly whipped out their nightsticks for an old fashioned beatdown. Release the hounds. K-9’s barked and bit. Those innocent pepper spray and leashed German Shepherd filled Carriage House nights were just a fading memory now. Were we ever that young?

 

Don’t ask me how, but a couch materialized in the middle of a five-acre parking lot. Obviously, it was set on fire. A Honda Accord got flipped over, perhaps to signify the importance of buying American.

 

This was fun but….

 

A crying girl hugged her friend.

 

“Why was he kissing her!?”

 

“Cassie, he’s trash. You’re way too good for him!” 

 

I passed a couple bros.

 

“Did you see that bitch over there? She’s slammin’.”

 

“She’s a butter face, dude.”

 

“I’m gonna hit it and quit it.”

 

Three bottles narrowly missed my cranium so left this get-together a bit early.

 

Walking away, I heard Sublime’s ode to morally defensible rioting and looting blasting out of a car window. Nice try Bradley, but this turf war over an empty parking lot at 12:30 AM on a Sunday encapsulated 90’s social unrest far better. It was a riot about. nothing. In America there were no wars to fight or protest. The unemployment rate was near record lows. Who wouldn’t be enraged? Who wouldn’t want to burn a compact car? The hippies said, “light my fire.” Our generational spokesmen Beavis and Butthead streamlined things: “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

      

It wasn’t UConn’s fault. (I’m trying to preserve the .01% chance they will invite me to speak at Commencement next year). Spring Weekend’s reputation preceded it, so idiots flocked to Storrs like President Clinton flocked to interns and feathered hair flight attendants. Most kids arrested or admitted to the ER weren’t students. Out of towner rent-a-students battled out of towner rent-a-cops. It was the biggest home invasion since my stepfather moved in the house. Rioters were mostly someone’s little brother who couldn’t  hold his liquor or junior college dropouts who didn’t respect Public Ivies.      

 

By Sunday, my insides had turned to angry molten hot lava and I wished I was dead. My poisoned body placed me in solitary confinement. I drank two bottles of Mountain Mist Gatorade. Brandon was a big fan. I usually avoided Gatorade due to its uncomfortable bro linkage, but these were desperate times. I drank ice water. Then more. Then more. I wore out a path to the kitchen sink. Why did I feel even worse?

 

That’s it. If this malignant hangover ever mercifully loosens its clutches, I will never drink again! This time I mean it!

 

Pav watched The Simpsons. Springfield was celebrating Love Day: a blend of Valentine’s Day with commercialized Christmas-style gift giving. Post-holiday trash piled up in Homer’s yard, so he ran for sanitation Commissioner and defeated the voice of Steve Martin in a landslide with the slogan, “Can’t Somebody Else Do It?”  Even more trash piled up all over town. Homer was deposed in disgrace. Mayor Quimby moved the town five miles down the street.

 

Garbage. Piles of it. Gross. Animated trash was an artistic rendering of my internal organs. Not what I needed! Was this a wicked depressing show and I just started noticing it? Garbage is a metaphor for life down here on this God forsaken planet! That might just be the hangover talking but I seriously doubt it!

 

After a restless night of half-sleep and unsettling half-dreams (my plane was about to crash, I didn’t graduate, I lost my detachable penis) I went to work on Monday, still depleted of vigor and hallowed out on the inside. Definitely not a personification of the blooming daffodils.

 

It was a sleeve- machine day. I overheard Ron talking to Jose 15 feet away.

 

“I think I figured out what that smell is.”

 

“What?”

 

“Alcohol.”

 

I had showered, brushed my teeth, and put on deodorant and (more or less) clean clothes. But all the fun had seeped into my pores.

……………………………………………

Our thick New England winter blood was defenseless against the sudden blasts of hot May air. Finals were underway and our lease was about to expire. I had absolutely no idea where I was going and my feet were stuck in rapidly hardening clay. My life was like that Graviton amusement park ride where the floor collapses underneath you but the centrifugal force keeps you pinned to the wall. Did I have any tokens left for this ride?

………………………………………

Seinfeld’s two part finale aired on consecutive Thursdays. The whole house watched it downstairs—except Pav, of course. Renee. Also Seinfeld was “too Jewish” for him–but Irish humor wasn’t his bag either. One day he complained people always think he’s pissed off.

 

“With your bubbly personality?” I said.   

 

“Is that one of those sarcastic comments?”

 

I guess it was.

 

Yet another time Brandon said only idiots listen to death metal.

 

“I like death metal,” Pav said. 

 

“Case in point.” 

 

How was THAT okay? Brandon’s arrogance was a fifty-foot brick wall. Even Pav didn’t bother with a battering ram.

 

Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer were jailed for sabotaging the lives of everyone they met: the Soup Nazi’s business was in shambles, the Bubble Boy was never quite the same, Terri “” Hatcher now wore sweaters three sizes too big. This episode was real, but was it spectacular? Everyone wanted OJ in jail, not the Seinfeld cast. O for 2, America. Did The Show About Nothing lose its nerve by hinting we should all be kinder? In the era of Tarantino, Seinfeld, and Clinton, moral ambiguity was charming, profitable, and electable! They’re from a place called Hope, they paid for The Big Salad, they love the Royale With Cheese. More crime, less punishment please. Too Russian. Too Marsha Clark. No party crashers, please.

 

“Dude, I read this guy who went to jail for drugs and he ended up studying aeronautical engineering and now he’s a fuckin’ rocket scientist,” Chris said.

 

“Can you play guitar in jail?,” Dave wondered.

 

That’s what I wanted to know.

 

“Nelson Mandela spent years in jail and now he’s the President of South Africa”, Mike noted.

 

“Miguel De Cervantes wrote Don Quixote in prison,” I contributed.

 

“Fuck, man. I want to go to jail!” Chris said.

 

“Just get into a fistfight on Day 1 and Bubba will leave you alone,” Dave advised.

 

It was unanimous. Freedom was crippling our potential. If someone would just lock us in a 7 square foot cell and throw away the key for 5-7 years we might finally make something of ourselves.

 

But do they allow radios in jail? Because I don’t know how well things would go for the boys if their cellmates weren’t Phish phans.

 

“We’ll all be out on parole before that dickweed stops noodling and gets back to the chorus.”

 

“If you don’t stop playing that shit, YOU better run like an antelope when I see you in the cafeteria.”

 

“They’re all in the bathtub together?? Turn OFF that gay shit and put on some Pantera before I cut you.”

 

It’s a long way to the top if you wanna design a rocket.

……………………………………………..

My mom picked me up from the workshop and took me for a Friendly’s birthday dinner. I was older than dirt: 25. I was basically Bob Dole hanging out with undergraduates! I really, really needed to move on. Finally. For real this time.

 

“So I’m not sure where I’m going to be living in a week. Our lease is about to run out.”

 

“Well of course you’re always welcome back home but I can’t take you to work after August. I’m working in our Dublin office for three months.”

 

“Okay, we’ll see. Or maybe with my SSI and workshop money I can afford my own apartment? I’m not sure.” 

 

“ I can take you around to look. And I will lend you money if you need it.”

 

I once took guitar lessons in Mansfield for three months so my mom had to drive through Hartford rush hour traffic, wait for my lesson to finish, drive me back to campus, and driving back home to Ellington. I hated making her do that and figured maybe I knew enough to progress on my own. But she never complained. She also offered to take me to Cooperstown, but I didn’t welcome a three and a half-hour ride just to see a Honus Wagner mural—which she would have to read to me.  

 

She couldn’t chauffeur me out of this one.   

 

She dropped me off. I had told her about my slithery, slimy roommate (Jaeger, not Brandon) so she wouldn’t set foot in the apartment.  

…………………………………………….  

“Happy birthday, buddy.”

 

Word had spread after I placed my mom’s chocolate birthday cake on the counter. Jay handed me a six pack of Bud.

 

“Thanks!”

 

What a nice guy. The kind of kid you’re proud to have sciatic for.

 

I cracked one open. The phone rang.

 

“Colin, it’s Greek,” Brandon said. 

 

“Hey Col, do you have a place to live this summer?”

 

“Actually, no. I might have to go home. Why?”

 

“I’m living at Carriage House. Do you know the girls next door to Miguel? Nina? Nicole?”.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“They’re subleasing their apartment for the summer. Do you want to split the rent with me?”

 

I wasn’t sure what subleasing meant……

 

”Yeah! Definitely!”

 

Remember when I said I was finally moving on with my life? Just kidding. THIS was it. One last summer in Storrs! Carriage House was my Xanadu, my Kubla Khan, my MTV beach house. How could I pass up a chance to live in a stately pleasure dome? I still had a baby face, so no one knew I belonged at a Frank Sinatra Vegas residency, not an all- night rave. And smelly feet and silk boxers notwithstanding, Greek was a roommate upgrade. No reptiles. No attack dogs. No Prodigy. Best summer ever?

………………………………………

Take Me Out To The Ballgame

 

“Col, want to go to the Red Sox-Yankees game tomorrow?”

 

Hell yes! Right away this was way better! 

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

“We’re leaving at 9AM,” he said like an eight grade chaperone before the D.C. field trip. 1:05 PM first pitch. Yankee Stadium. Saturday afternoon.

 

I slept on the couch so we could get an early start. I hadn’t even moved my stuff in yet.

 

Everyone overslept.

 

My wake up call came in the form of someone busting through the unlocked front door.

 

“Freakshow!” the intruder called from the bottom of the stairs. “GET YOUR ASS UP NOW! WE’RE GOING TO BE LATE!”

 

It was public access TV rising star Freeman.     

 

“All ri-i-i-i-i-ght!” was heard from the bowels of the second floor. After floorboards crashed, his crackling feet echoed down the stairwell. Greek rubbed his eyes.

 

“What time is it?” he yawned.

 

“It’s 9:30. Are you eating retard sandwiches? Let’s go! We have to get the beer.”

 

“Colin, we’ll be back in 20 minutes. Be ready.”

 

I put on my jean shorts and white Nikes and went upstairs to tongue brush my teeth with Greek’s Crest. I was a flexible Colgate man.  

 

I was ready.   

 

They got back in 37 minutes.

 

“Wait a second……….where’s the fucking ice?” Freeman wanted to know. 

 

“I thought YOU were getting it!”

 

“Greek! There’s gonna be a homo holocaust right about now.” 

 

Greek laughed his giddy laugh. 

 

I skipped drinking on a Friday night for this? (“Skipped” meaning four beers.)

 

Thirty one minutes later, the icemen cometh.

 

At long last we convened next door at 19A. 10:59AM according to my $20 Timex. There was Greek, myself, Mickey, Evans, Miguel, and, the token girlfriend in every group of guys, Kristin. Everyone else ceased to exist, the room went silent, the clocks froze, and the earth’s rotation stopped dead in its tracks. Kristin wore white shorts and a navy blue Yankees T-shirt with the NY logo over her left breast and number 2 on her back. A furtive side glance from two feet away with my 20/400 best corrected nystagmus eyes revealed dark brown hair and the face of an angel. This stone cold stunner could have converted me to The Evil Empire. What had the Red Sox ever done for me anyway? I might have even considered joining a Satanic cult, exploring witchcraft, or watching Party Of Five if only she would have asked.

 

Best summer ever.

 

We loaded the cooler into Mickey’s van and were off at 11:06! Friday night dreams of getting to our seats by the National Anthem were dashed, but fortunately Mickey interpreted the speed limit as a (bad) suggestion, so the second inning was still in play. The cooler was packed with Long Trail Double Bags, Corona Extras, Harpoon IPA’s and three bags of Nacho Cheese Doritos. Oh and wine coolers. Girls, you know?  

 

We crossed the Connecticut River on 1-84.

 

“What’s the best way to go?” Mickey said.

 

“Go The Merritt, dude,” Evans said.

 

“Or 95 might be faster,” Miguel’s future ex-girlfriend suggested. 

 

“Isn’t the Merritt quicker?” Miguel rudely undercut her. Do I sense trouble in paradise here?   

 

“Fuck it, we’ll go The Merrit. Greek, can you get me another Double Bag?” our designated driver asked.

 

“Sure. Colin, need another?”

 

“Sure. I’ll have a Double Bag too.”

 

“Do we have tickets to the game?” I foolishly asked.

 

“Nah, dude,” Evans said, like I just asked if we were total dweebs. “We’ll get them outside the gate.”

 

First place Yankees vs. second place Red Sox on a Saturday in late May figured to be a sellout, so how much would scalped tickets cost again? I had $63 in my wallet and $102.27 in the bank and we haven’t even considered price gouged beer and hot dogs at The House That Bank Overdrafts Built.   

 

Sublime’s 40 Ounces To Freedom CD played. I stopped gazing longingly at Kristin’s ponytail and watched cars Mickey left in the dust when Bradley Nowell started whining about committed relationships. 

 

“Hey, what the fuck is this?” Evans said.

 

“Is one of the lanes shut down?” 

 

“Are they doing construction?”

 

Construction followed us everywhere. Walks to class were obstacle courses around guys in hard hats, bulldozers, orange cones, and yellow tape. It was all part of UConn 2000: an ambitious, wildly expensive project designed to make campus beautiful right after we left.

 

“Mickey, turn the game on,” Evans said.

 

First pitch was at 1:17 PM. John Sterling gushed about the Yankees. 

 

”After last night’s 6-2 win, the Bombers moved to 37-11 on the year. They’ve won 11 of their last 13! They’re on a pace to win 125 games, a major league record! They lead the league in runs, ERA, and fielding percentage. Mike, it’s ASTOUNDING.”  

 

They grabbed an astounding 1-0 lead in the bottom of the 3rd on a Jorge Posada single off the great (with the Royals) Bret Saberhagen.

 

We hadn’t left Fairfield County yet.

 

“Dude, I don’t think we’re going to make it,” Freeman said.

 

“Should we turn around?” Evans said.

 

Everyone agreed it was a lost cause.

 

I think I speak for the group when I say our disappointment was tempered by our early afternoon buzz. With a stocked cooler and a sunny, 83 degree, 38% humidity Saturday of day drinking ahead, who needed The Bronx?    

 

The Red Sox miraculously beat the indomitable boys in pinstripes 3-2 before 55,191 fans who didn’t forget the ice.

 

And took 95.

…………………………………………….

Mickey dropped me off on Stafford Road. That shithole was ours for one more day. I showered, shaved, got dressed and rode my Trek back to Carriage House. Maybe it was the four beer buzz or the gentle caress of the late spring breeze in my face but life seemed amazing! This beat aimless biking around dead Ellington and uphill pedaling through pitiless January dawns.

 

My life after August was uncharted again, but Bob Romano taught me nothing is ever an end, only a new beginning.

…………………………………………

Brandon returned the keys and walked back four minutes later with our white haired, cane wielding, permanently enraged landlady Alberta for a final inspection.

 

“Why are there divots in the lawn!? Were you drag racing? And is that dog poop not picked up? Disgusting! Is that a crack in the window? What were you doing? Shooting BB guns?? Am I having a seizure or is the floor about to collapse?? What’s that brownish stain on the wall!? Don’t even answer that. Oh that’s going to cost you. That’s going to be a problem.”

 

“Sure. Send us the check,” Brandon replied with such cold indifference you could have sworn Alberta was a freshman who just told him she loved him.  

 

She theatrically pounded her cane as she walked back across Staffordsville Road while Athena, who believed parting was such sweet sorrow, barked her homicidal farewell.   

 

“Fuck that bitch. She’s not getting a dime,” Brandon said.

 

“Weren’t those things there when we moved in?” I asked.

 

“Slum lord!” Pav sneered.

 

Well at least we didn’t get evicted.  

…………………………………………

“Col, I’m setting up the entertainment center. Do you still have your stereo?”

 

“Yeah, but it’s at home.”

 

“Want to take a ride out to get it?”

 

“Sure.”

 

We drove back to Ellington and retrieved my Sony sub-woofing sonic sledgehammer. 

 

“Hi mom, we’re getting my stereo. Remember Greek?”

 

“Yes! Hello!”

 

“Hi, I’m Nick.”

 

We loaded the receiver/tape deck, CD player, glass case, sub-woofer, and floorstanding speakers in the backseat—three trips.

 

“Wait, I have some leftover green bean casserole from when Andrea and Mrs. Breen were over. And take some leftover chicken parm. And I made some brownies. Take the rest. Oh, do you need shampoo? Laundry detergent?” 

 

“No. I’m all set.”

 

I could have said I went a month and a half without washing my clothes, but what would that have accomplished?

 

She prepared the care package while Celine Dion’s heart went on. She bought our living room stereo in 1980.

 

“She likes it because it looks like furniture, not a stereo,” the sales guy said, deftly telling the customer what they wanted and exploiting a mother’s love for her young child to lock down the deal. My brother and I christened it with AC/DC’s Back in Black eight track.      

 

“Did you know this year’s incoming freshmen were born in 1980?” Greek asked on the ride back.

 

“Oh God. We’re old.”

 

My room was now an empty shrine just like my brother’s. Ghosts outnumbered people. She would probably watch a Lifetime movie in her room alone tonight…..

 

…..the title cut faded out in the middle of the guitar solo and left 20 seconds of silence as it switched tracks. Then it slowly faded back. In black….            

………………………………………

 

“Can everyone stop what they’re doing for a minute?”, Cindy shouted over the hum. “Come to the middle of the floor, please.”

 

The workshop brass all lined up: Gary, Jim, Mario. But Cindy spoke.

 

“Some of you may have heard this already, but we have some very sad news. Rosa passed away last night. We will be here if anyone needs to talk. We know this was very sudden. We all feel terrible about it.”

 

Crying behind me.

 

I had probably seen her, but I couldn’t place her. Her obituary in The Courant said:  

 

“Rosa Ines Marquez of East Hartford, died Monday in St. Francis Hospital. Born in El Banco, Columbia South America, she came to Connecticut 20 years ago and made a home with her sister and brother-in-law, John and Matilde Kundra of East Hartford. Rosa worked at CSB Industry workshop for the blind for 13 years in spite of her blindness. She was parishioner of St. Rose Church. ”Rochi” as she was affectionately called by her many nieces and nephews, will deeply miss and remember her. She cared and loved them as if they were her own children.”

 

No walk down the aisle for Rosa? No kids of her own? A bridesmaid. An aunt. Tia Rochi. Did Bogota boys not want the blind girl? She probably stayed in her sister’s guest room in East Hartford: a blighted mill town of abandoned factories and tattoo and massage parlors with “Xclusive” and “orchid” in their names.

 

RIP Rosa. Love, a stranger. ……………………………………………..

I got off my bus in front of the Shell station and beads of sweat formed as I walked the one block to the workshop. I put my backpack in a locker. I was still sweating. 

 

Phil opened the brochure warehouse door and cranked the fan, but by late morning I had to operate the patch machine on the windowless and fanless factory floor and I began sweating again. I wore out a path to the water fountain and threw water on my face. 

 

On Monday it was 96 degrees. Still no AC. I finally worked in a literal sweatshop. Was anyone working on, you know, fixing this? No one made any announcements.  

 

On Wednesday I was on sweatpants separation duty. Black ones in one bin, gray ones in the other. 

 

“Boy Cindy, it’s awfully hot,” Harry said.

 

“I know, dear. Hopefully they will fix the air conditioner soon.”

 

“They better!” Marquitta said.

 

“I know, honey. It’s bad. Three people got sent home yesterday after they fainted. People here have medical conditions. It’s unsafe. One of you needs to go over there and tell Mr. Trapp to fix it. We can’t say anything to him, we’ll get fired. But they can’t fire you.”

 

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Harry said as his aimless blind eyes faced the floor.   

 

Cindy was on a roll. 

 

“That man has never worked with the blind in his life! He came from the phone company!”

 

“Is that a fact?” Harry said.  

 

“He needs to hear from you. Back in our day, do you think they just gave us women our rights? We had to fight for them!”  

 

Plump, matronly Cindy with her dears and honeys. Reading glasses around her neck. Yet listen to Carol Gilligan over there. Was she a bra burner in polyester slacks?  

 

But this was nothing like that. I took a Feminism 101 general requirement course and even avoided saying “FemiNazi” like other kids on my floor. Plus even though he (probably) couldn’t fire me (client, not employee) I didn’t want to die in this rathole. Could he sabotage my chances of getting other jobs? Tell employers about my insubordination, absenteeism, and concerning counting deficiencies?

 

Oh maybe Cindy was right. Was this maybe a little like women’s liberation? Screw that guy. What was he doing over there anyway? Banging his 5x promoted secretary in his temperature-controlled office/bachelor pad? Were the “big people” fainting from passion while we just fainted? I should just walk over. I can pretend to ask Melissa about job leads.

 

The lunch bell rang and I walked down the hall, through their empty cafeteria (beautiful flooring), opened the door, (“Warning: authorized personnel only”) stepped inside and received a cool caress from an air-conditioned paradise.  

 

I turned right, walked down two rows of cubicles, and checked the nameplates for Melissa Dubois.  

 

“Hey there!” she said.

 

“Hi.”

 

“How’s everything going?”

 

“Not too bad. So..any new job leads?”

 

“It’s been a little quiet lately, but I’ll let you know.”

 

She reached for the green sweater which hung on the back of her maroon Steelcase.

 

 “Ooooo it’s cold in here!” She rubbed her hands together.

 

“You’re lucky. We have no AC.”

 

“Oh no. Just for today?”

 

“For almost a week.”

 

“Oh that’s terrible. Well, I hope they fix it soon!”   

 

Melissa wasn’t going to confront Trapp either. That wasn’t even in her “other duties” job spec.

 

I wasn’t going to get out of this.

 

“Do you know where Terry Trapp’s office is?”

 

“Oh…..yeah. It’s down front on your right.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

His office suite was behind glass doors. I circled around for a couple of minutes before I walked back to the cafeteria. Oh stop being a pussy! I walked back and pushed the door open. A (spray?) tanned woman sat at the front desk. His Executive Concubine?

 

“Can I help you?”

 

“Uh, yes. Hi. I work over in Industries. Is Mr. Trapp available by any chance?”.

 

My wavering voice rose an octave. I smiled apologetically like an idiot. 

 

“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting at the moment. May I take a message?”

 

“Actually I think I’d rather speak to him myself if that’s okay.”

 

“Can I ask what matter this is concerning?” 

 

“Well….it’s kind of a long story.” (Another awkward laugh). “Can I wait to see if he gets out soon?”

 

“That’s fine,” she said like she had just misplaced her fly swatter.

 

I sat in one of the two luxurious, beige, genuine leather waiting room chairs. What décor in here! The chairs matched the tan walls. Who was their interior decorator? Are these walls and floors genuine mahogany?

 

Light 100 soothingly played at Crystal’s desk. Air Supply was lost in love.

 

Trapp’s booming baritone escaped through his door. Did you forget about my Algebra 101 honed audiological superpowers? 

 

“Our new staff attorney starts next Friday. Do you know Jim Connelly? These fucking schools just don’t want to play ball. The Randolph-Sheppard Act clearly states blind vendors shall get priority in all state buildings and schools!”

 

“They claim the law doesn’t apply to snack machines if no blind vendor is on site. Typical. Always talking about the ‘spirit of the law’. Pricks!” a tobacco stained voice replied before he laughed like he just told a dirty knock knock joke.      

 

“Screw that! The Governor wants this Coke contract. He made promises. You think he wants these superintendent pricks overriding that? We’re toast if that happens.”

 

“Why do they even care if their school has Coke or Pepsi machines? When I was at Coke we used to deal with this all the time.” 

 

So maybe I was catching him at a bad time? I can come back tomorrow! I walked back through the cafeteria (with three humming Coke machines to my right) and went back to hell. At the patch machine I stayed cool for about four minutes. I walked back yet again and bought a cool refreshing Coke.

………………………………………..

“I’m back!” I laughed pathetically. “Is Mr. Trapp available today?”

 

“Unfortunately, he’s in another meeting.” She did her nails. What a grueling workload. No piecemeal pay for Crystal for sure.  

 

“Well…….I guess I’ll just wait again if that’s okay.”

 

I joined another executive session in medias rex.

 

“We’re all set with the Golinos. I spoke with the Gov. He will get that reform school contract through without a bid. Teddy, what are we going to do with Mr. Golino’s donation? You can’t put it in the bank. Some dickless busybody might subpoena that—not that that will happen.” 

 

“I talked to the Golino brothers. Have you heard of Y2K?”

 

“The jelly?” 

 

“No…I think that’s something else. They think computers and The Web could break when the clocks strike midnight for the new millennium. Bank accounts might get wiped out completely. Could be a disaster. Banks are all going electronic now.”

 

“We’re over a year away from that. You don’t want to put $200K in the bank and watch The Web break? Teddy, you worry too much. Didn’t you go to Orchids Of The Orient like I told you?”   

 

“Yes I did, but we can’t be too careful, right? They’re giving us the money in gold. I offered to bury it in my backyard where it will be safe.”

 

“I always knew you were a team player! Sounds like a pretty good plan to me. Before we hit the links after lunch, let’s go shovel shopping!” 

 

“I went to Star Hardware last night.”

 

“Fuckin’ A! Bald AND brilliant.”

 

Was this real life? I figured I’d better leave before I became an accessory to a crime.

 

Friday morning arrived without AC. I knew I’d worry about it all weekend so I started in the morning to give myself two chances—wait, he’s probably going golfing. Fuck, this was my last chance.

 

I beat my increasingly familiar path to Mahogony Row. A tall, goateed middle aged guy in a red and blue striped golf shirt sat on the edge of Crystal’s desk. Only hard workers get ahead in life.

 

“Hi! Can I help you!?” he boomed.

 

“Hi. You’re Terry Trapp, right? Do you have a minute?”

 

“Absolutely. Let’s go into my office.”

 

He didn’t close the door. I didn’t bring a Coke or a shovel so I guess this wasn’t closed-door meeting material.     

 

“What can I help you with?” he thundered, simply drowning out Simply Red on Light 100. 

 

“My name is Colin McDonough. I work next door in Industries. I also work with Melissa Dubois.”

 

“I know who you are, Colin,” he smiled.

 

Really? How? I only mentioned Melissa to see if he bragged about giving her a neck massage. Bait not bitten.

 

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we haven’t had air conditioning in the workshop for a week.”

 

“Yes I know. That should be fixed very soon.”

 

“Can you say more specifically when that might be?”

 

“Well, I have to talk to the landlord. He has to get the HVAC guys out here. There are a lot of moving parts here. I can’t give you a definitive answer right now.”

 

“I’m sure you can understand why that’s just not acceptable. You see that, right? It’s already been a week. Did you know some clients were sent home early because they fainted? One of them might have had a seizure.”   

 

“I was not made aware of that. I will speak with Jim.” 

 

He’s on the ropes. Time to go in for the knockout punch. No time for pussies. 

 

“Well it happened. I’m sure a lot of people would be interested in hearing about a blind workshop that can’t even provide air conditioning in a heat wave. I’ve heard you’ve been under some scrutiny and I’m guessing you wouldn’t want The Hartford Courant to hear about this.”

 

Oh yeah. I fucking said it. (Can I unsay it?)

 

He brandished his finger like a golf club.

 

“YOU BETTER WATCH WHAT YOU’RE SAYING RIGHT NOW!”

 

Yep, that got his attention.

 

“I’m not saying that has to happen. But you have to see this is not okay. It’s not only morally wrong but I’m pretty sure it’s illegal.”

 

I was just getting warmed up.

 

“And you’re basing that on your thorough knowledge of OSHA standards?”

 

“I’m basing that on common sense.”

 

Look who can think on his feet! Nice try, asshole. Why wasn’t I this good in job interviews?

 

Don’t ask what OSHA is.  

 

“Well, as I said, I will speak with the landlord today.”

 

“Okay, thank you. You’re either going to make this happen or not. Don’t say it’s out of your hands. Or that it’s up to the landlord. Or HVAC. If it’s not fixed I’ll know you just didn’t think it was important. You’re the Executive Director of the agency. I can’t believe you don’t have the power to fix it.”

 

“Well, thank you,” he smiled.  

 

I finally said something he liked.    

 

“Okay, look,” he said, “I have to make a few calls. I also have a lot of work with the budget. Is this my top priority? No. But I will get to it as soon as I can.”

 

“That’s all I ask.” 

 

“I’m glad we could talk about this man to man. There isn’t enough direct communication around here. I don’t like how much lip service you guys get.”

 

“Well, I agree.”

 

“Did you go to the meeting over in the cafeteria a few months ago?”

 

I thought he knew who I was.

 

“Yes.”

 

“That went well. We should have another. I’ll mention it to Jim.”

 

I’ll never see him again.

 

“Sounds good!”

 

He shook my hand. A manly knuckle cruncher, obviously. 

 

I walked back through the cafeteria,  my adrenaline pumped and I felt like a badass. At least as close to badass territory as a blind sheltered worker can get. 

 

It didn’t last.

 

What if he ignores me? I was bluffing about The Hartford Courant, of course. Would I need to go through with it on Monday? How do you find their number? I found Greek’s Celeron number so how hard could it be?!

 

The suspense nearly killed me on my interminable Monday morning commute. I walked through the doors and……………I don’t believe it……it was cool and refreshing!

 

Just in time for the heatwave to break. It was only 69 degrees outside. Whatever. Still a win. Or was it? Maybe they would have fixed it regardless and this was all sound and fury signifying nothing. Stop it!

 

I didn’t tell anyone. I wasn’t trying to be some hero. Like a samurai warrior of old, service was my reward. Oh crap, that’s even more grandiose.  

 

Then I changed my mind.

 

“ I guess they finally fixed the AC?” I innocently noted to Cindy.  

 

She probably saw right through me. I never offered up much more than “okay”, “yup” and “got it.” “That sounds good” when I felt loquacious.

 

“Did you say anything?” 

 

“Yes I went over and talked to Terry Trapp on Friday.”

 

“Good for you sweetheart! Someone has to say something. That man is so arrogant!”

……………………………………………

Carriage House didn’t have AC either but there won’t be any subleasing tenant vs. landlord “man to man” showdowns, I’m afraid. This was just the 90’s.

 

Greek took the master bedroom which faced the front yard. I took the smaller bedroom facing the backyard which provided a skybox seat for beer pong tournaments. My small black fan allowed me me sleep. Greek had a giant, deafening white fan.   

 

The first building on the left of Carriage House Row featured a five star amenity: a laundry room! Easy, ladies. “Oooo that guy by the foosball table staring off into space--his socks are clean!”

 

A different apartment meant a  different illegal cable box. They were more common than Snapple. LA Confidential played in heavy rotation.

 

“Don’t you think I look like him?” Greek surveyed the room.

 

Silence.

 

His alleged spitting image was Russell Crowe, who I’d never heard of. In Greek’s defense, when A River Runs Through It ran on HBO, I wondered if Brad Pitt was THAT much better looking than me but I kept that to myself. (Until now).

 

But if you could only illegally watch one movie that summer, you watched Boogie Nights. The boys memorized it like my Scarface quoting hallmates who found striking parallels between the rise and fall of a Cuban chainsaw wielding, Hawaiian shirt wearing, freebasing drug kingpin and everyday undergraduate residential life. “Say hello to my little friend!”: unveil your bong. Announce “You got style, flash, PIZZAZ” to anyone wearing a leather tie. Offer tough love, self-help advice to any girl within earshot: “You know what your problem is, pussycat? You got nothing to do in your life, meng.”

 

Dirk Diggler was dumber than a bag of rocks, his mom was psychotic, his dad was catatonic, he drifted into porn—the sheltered workshop of the entertainment industry—and got so strung out on cocaine he got fired, which is almost as hard as getting fired from an actual sheltered workshop. He launched a musical career to disastrous results. Desperate and hungry, he dabbled in gay prostitution before double agent homo holocaust inducing frat bros kicked the living shit out of him. After he got caught scamming a coke dealer with baking soda, he fled flying bullets and Sister Christian. Broken, alone, unable to function outside Jack Horner’s structured group home, he came crawling back.

 

Yet according to Carriage House residents, Boogie Nights belonged in the Inspirational Comedy section of Blockbuster.

 

Dirk wore the finest Italian leather, drove an orange Corvette, got paid to have sex with Rollergirl and Amber Waves, REPEATLY won Best Actor at the porn Oscars, and, last but definitely not least, his dick was ENORMOUS. Case closed: Dirk was The Man.   

…………………………………….

“Let’s go play B-ball at the Fieldhouse,” Evans said.

 

 “Have fun, guys. Go work up a sweat!” Kristin said as we pulled out of the parking lot. Were we going to re-shoot the Top Gun volleyball scene?

 

The ancient Fieldhouse was the Huskie’s home for Storrs games until Gampel Pavilion opened in 1990. Its clay-colored running tracks surrounded the court.

 

We played three on three: Miguel, Evans, and Freeman vs. Greek, Mickey and me. I was the third warm body—a warm, sweaty body would the enchanting Kristin say?—who evened out the teams.

 

My shot was rusty. I clanged warmup line drives against the glass backboard which caused bank shots to bounce back too much compared with Dan’s (since destroyed) plastic backboard. But I worried putting too much arc on the ball would lead to airballs and everyone would say, “Does Blind Ambition need to play? What about The Special Olympics? Can’t we get the janitor to sub in?”

 

No worries. Everyone sucked. Getting to 11 took forever. Team shooting percentages were about 20 percent. It turned out bong hits and keg stands didn’t translate to hardwood prowess unless you played for UNLV.

 

Evans stuffed Greek’s shot out of bounds.

 

“NOT IN MY HOUSE!”

 

“You hit me on the shoulder AND the arm.”

 

“Did you see anything, Miggy?”

 

“Nah dude, I didn’t see a thing.”

 

What was I worried about? Everyone in this game was blind.

 

I anointed myself a lock-down perimeter defender. I was small but quick and tenacious! I faceguarded Miguel like Ricky Moore on Felipe Lopez. I dropped a sweet bounce pass to Greek down low for a bucket. Every winning team needs the lunch pail guy. It’s not all about offense! Thank God because my three attempt nearly shattered the backboard. I blew by Mickey off the dribble like he was standing still (actually he was) but  rushed my shot to avoid getting blocked by Evans and missed everything. 0 for 2 from the floor in your box score.   

 

We lost 13-11. Then we won 11-9. Then lost 14-12.

 

It’s not about winning. It’s about showing up. And working up a sweat.     

…………………………………….

“Want to have a party?” Greek asked.

 

“Okay, sure.”

 

It was a rhetorical question and I had zero co-subleasing veto power but why would I veto a party? 

 

Greek sent verbal invitations up and down Carriage House and Celeron.

 

“Hey, we’re having a party on Friday at 19B. Three quarter barrels. Beer pong tournament. Spread the word. It’s gonna be lit.”

 

Attendance figures were critical to Greek.

 

I locked my bike against the back deck at 5PM, went for a run, and drank some water. Then I stopped pretending to be healthy. I grabbed a beer from the big black living room fridge and took it to the shower: a bold move which sent a loud and clear message that you were laser focused on getting hammered immediately if not sooner so you couldn’t afford to waste valuable time bathing beerless.

 

The 1 units had a party too. Dave Matthews’ Lie In Our Graves blasted. I walked across the street with a Harpoon in my left hand and a cigarette in my right so there was no question I belonged. Nitrous balloons, cigarette smoke and pot smoke wafted through the early summer air. Was this heaven? Life was so full of hope and possibilities on this dreamlike June evening. Where else would I rather be?

 

Back over at our place, pyramids of 20 red solo cups sat on opposite ends of two picnic tables pushed up against each other.

 

“Mickey you’re up!”

 

I was the Michael Jordan of early round beer pong. With a massive triangle of tightly assembled cups to aim for, even if you hit the side, gravity bailed you out. It’s impossible to fail even if you’re legally blind. Still, you had to survey the board with a maniacal gleam in your eye and take three practice tosses (minimum) before you sent your ping pong ball on its leap of faith.

 

“Ohhhhh drink, Greek!” Evans ordered after Mickey knocked a ball into a second row cup.

 

Greek dutifully took the wet ball out of the cup, dropped it in the giant white trash bag for balls that died a hero, and chugged. 

 

Evans and Mickey’s superior technique won the day. Evans bounced balls on the tablecloth and into a cup. Spirals through the air were too artsy, too at the mercy of wind gusts, he just liked banging on shit.

 

Thirty kids crammed into our living room. Freeman’s Allman Brothers Greatest Hits CD cranked on my stereo. He kept skipping back to Blue Sky--less for its sweet declaration of love than its beautiful, syrupy, woman tone Dickey Betts outro solo which he frantically air guitarred to.

 

Kids sat on the floor around the coffee table because the couches were full. Twelve conversations blended together. Visitors walked in and out of the open doors. The summer was young and so were we. Well, I was youngish. Life was a million times better than this time last year!

 

“Colin, do you know Kate?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“She lives in 2B. This is her roommate Amira.”

 

“Hi, nice to meet you.”

 

Kate was tall with light brown hair. Amira was short with black hair and glasses.

 

“You’re rooming with Greek this summer?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Cool. Do you know Nina?” 

 

“I actually haven’t met any of the girls who live here.”

 

“They’re cool.”

 

“I saw Joe in the backyard. I want to go talk to him but I’m so nervous!” Amira said.

 

“Oh my God. Will you forget him?” Kate said.

 

“He was talking to Erica. Do you think he likes her?” Amira unforgettingly asked.

 

Kat sighed.

 

I figured Joe was an asshole. Force of habit.  

 

“Well, nice meeting you!” they said.

 

All summer next door. Did I have a shot? Was Kate single? I was clearly no Joe, but maybe a back-up plan?

……………………

Greek, Evans, a kid Martinez and I watched the Bulls beat the Utah Jazz for the second straight year. They won their sixth title in eight years. They just show reruns in the summer, don’t they? The Jazz were so lazy they didn’t bother changing their name after moving from New Orleans–unless they hoped to re-brand Salt Lake City as a horn blowing, reefer smoking, cool cat hotbed.   

 

Michael Jordan stole the ball, faked out Byron Russel (the Seven Mary Three of 90’s NBA players) and sank the winning shot in the final seconds. Bob Costas pretended to be excited. 

 

“Jordan……open…..CHICAGO WITH THE LEAD!!!!!” 

 

Martinez joined in on the playacting.

 

“Jordan is ICE COLD, yo.” 

 

The Bulls’ were a crashing bore. The 80’s Celtics and Lakers beat each other in the finals, but no one beat the 90’s Bulls. Champions need an equal. They need to lose to seem human.  

 

Even MJ’s game put you to sleep. The high flying, windmill dunking, tongue wagging Air Jordan of the 80’s was grounded, replaced by a fadeaway midrange jumper which made him as unguardable as he was unwatchable.  

 

You think I’m joking? I’ve never been more serious. After three straight titles, he quit to go hit .202 as a White Sox minor leaguer. Many suspected Commissioner Stern secretly suspended him for gambling. No conspiracy here. Jordan’s dad was murder and the veil lifted: he was 30 years old and stuck in a dead end job with nothing to look forward to in life except more championships—but not over the Showtime Lakers, the Bad Boy Pistons, or the White Boy Celtics. Nope, JV teams like Clyde Drexler’s Trailblazers or Charles Barkley and “Thunder” Dan Majerlie’s Suns. Detlef Schremph? The Sonics? Who’s next? The Ellington Knights?

 

So he flailed wildly at low and away curveballs in poorly lit AA ballparks for the Barrington Barons. Failure was his antidote to the mind-numbing, soul crushing ennui of basketball glory. Only after his Southern League summer of purgation could he return for three more titles. But he still created fake obstacles like his “flu game” in 1997 when he scored 38 points while reportedly knocking on death’s door. “Bad pizza” Ahmad Rashad told us. Routine winning is so boring you must eat life threatening pizza to still feel alive. . 

……………………………………..

“Mr. McDonough!” Phil said. “Go see Gary.”

 

Why was he so happy?

 

“Oh…..okay.” I guess the morning’s brochures can wait? Or……?

 

I wandered through the workshop until I spotted Gary talking to Shirley. Something about sleeve and T-shirt work orders. Three interminable minutes later, he said, “Colin. Hey buddy. Want to talk in my office for a second?”

 

No glossy mahogany or nail filers here. His office sat right in the middle of the workshop. The din of machinery, voices, and canes leaked through his closed door. It was the eye of a hurricane, not a plush oasis. 

 

“We’re going to take you off brochures for now. Phil has indicated to me you aren’t here enough and we need to get those shipments out on time.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And we can use the extra help in meeting our work orders, so we’re keeping you on the floor for now.” 

 

He made it sound like a once in a lifetime opportunity.

 

“Oh….okay. I live kind of far away and it’s a long commute, so it’s just hard to get here five days a week.”

 

“I understand. Maybe if you move closer or things change…..”

 

“Okay.”

 

Don’t get paranoid here. Phil did complain about my attendance, right? I still wasn’t clear how his life would get easier if I did brochures zero days instead of some days, but never mind.

Would Trapp risk word leaking that I stormed into his office—it’s my story so we’re going with stormed—for a man to man? Might that shatter the virile, secretary banging, contract steering image he had likely cultivated for years? Conan The Barbarian with a better golf handicap. Unless he feigned a sudden deep concern over New Haven’s Union Station getting 100 Quassy Amusement Park brochures in the timely manner they so richly deserved.

 

Once you think you’ve hit the bottom rung, they bring you a new ladder.  

 

Michael Jordan would be so jealous of my life.  

……………………………………..

“Colin, have you seen my wallet?” Greek asked. 

 

“No.”

 

“I don’t know what I did with it.”

 

 “Did you have it at the party?”

 

“Yeah. At least at the beginning,” he laughed.

 

“Dude, it’s that kid Ravi, I’m fucking telling you,” Evans said. .

 

“I must have had $300 in there. Plus my school ID, plus my credit card, and my license.”

 

“Any 10th grade class pictures of yourself, Greek?” Miguel inquired. 

 

“How about a shirtless Marky Mark pic to jerk off to?” Mickey wondered.

 

“Just go up there and ask. We will go with you,” Evans said.  

 

“Like he’s just going to admit it?” 

 

“If we all go up? He’ll be scared shitless. Look at me. I’m jacked!” unjacked beer bellied Evans said. 

 

Greek, Evans, and Mickey--a ragtag posse of wallet bounty hunters—marched up to 11A to interrogate the suspect. I guarded the home front.       

 

They came back in fourteen minutes. Sans wallet.

 

“He’s fucking lying,” Detective Evans deduced. 

 

“He’s totally lying. Who else could have taken it?” Mickey said. 

 

“Never trust an Indian,” Evans counseled.

 

Three days later, Greek reached under his car seat in search of his Boy Named Goo CD and found his wallet inside an empty carton of McDonald’s fries.

 

Are there any crimes the Goo Goo Dolls can’t solve?  

……………………………………

Early one Saturday afternoon, Radio 104 played Harvey Danger’s glorious Flagpole Sitta. This was my Smack My Bitch Up. I cranked my 192 million decibel stereo, sang wildly off key, and danced around the living room like I was just attacked by a swarm of yellow jackets.   

 

The door suddenly opened. A girl walked in. I leaped for the volume button like it was a nuclear reactor ticking down to zero.

 

“Oh hi!”

 

“Hi, I’m Nina.”

 

“Oh, you…uh…live here.”

 

“Yes. You’re Greek’s roommate?” 

 

“Yes, Colin. Nice to meet you. My, um, favorite song!”

 

“Nice to meet you. I just came to check on the place.”

 

“Still in one piece!”

 

We hadn’t quite gotten around to a deep cleaning after the party. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink, empty beer bottles and two overflowing ashtrays sat on Greek’s gaming center--which some might have called a dining room table.

 

But feminine touches still abounded. Nick-nacks crammed the five tiered wooden shelf: family portraits, dance recital photos, athletic trophies, etc. One more party and a lifetime of cherished girlhood keepsakes would come crashing down on the coffee table.

 

“I’m going to say hi to Kate,” Nina said.

 

Nina was petite with light brown hair. White tank top, blue shorts. So many women, so little time. I can tell her I’m still in the brochure game.  

………………………………………

Black kids lived in 19C. Heartbeats synchronized to their subwoofer. It registered a 6.3 on the Richter scale. Oil excavators could have just relied their stereo system. 

 

You niggaz don’t know the half of it/

Smokin’ chronic is an all day habit!

 

I heard this number–okay fine, pun intended– roughly 987 times that summer. The wall shaking volume established a sonic shield from my guitar playing and singing so I loved their all-day habit!

 

Singing For Dummies said sing with my diaphragm. Great. Might as well tell me to think with my basal ganglia. Close your mouth and hum until your lips tingle. They tingled like crazy after four seconds but was this a stepping stone to Bohemian Rhapsody? Did vibrating lips mean my diaphragm was kicking into overdrive?

 

It told me to lift my soft palate: a fancy word for the roof of my mouth–I figured. Zero diagrams. I sang a fully lifted soft palate version of Pearl Jam’s Black but it sounded like I sucked down too much laughing gas before a tooth extraction.

 

And all this book TAUGHT me was

……nothing.

 

I listened to an improvisational performance recorded (while drunk) two summers earlier on a Maxell tape because Memorex sucked.   

 

I can’t sing and I’m a fucking joke!

 

That was as far as I got.

 

I’ll just take a toke. 

 

I’m a wheel and you’re just a spoke?

 

I’m one handsome bloke!?

 

Refreshment is a Coke?

 

No, no, no, and no.  

 

I sounded like nasally Lou Reed and I didn’t think I could compensate with gritty odes to heroin, dirty boulevards, and Andy Warhol transexual hangers on, so I was screwed. How could I de-Lou my voice? Did Andy Warhol know any voice reassignment surgeons?

 

But bad singers can still become great songwriters, so I tried again.   

 

You stole my studded leather bracelet /

What’chu tryna do?

That’s why lovin’ you is like /

Gettin’ a tattoo removed.

 

That Celeron was so right. Writing a song is so hard. 

………………………………………

“What’s your major?” Kristin asked.

 

“Well….I actually graduated already but it was English. I’m probably enrolling in grad school soon. You?”

 

“Finance.”

 

No one’s perfect.  

 

“That’s cool.”

 

“Where are you from?”

 

“Ellington? Kind of a farm town. A lot of people haven’t heard of it.”

 

“I’ve heard of it I think”.

 

So nice of her to say.

 

“Where are you from?”

 

“Madison.”

 

“Down by the shore? My family’s been going to Hawk’s Nest Beach in Old Lyme my whole life. Isn’t there some famous restaurant in Madison?”

 

“Lenny And Joe’s?”

 

“That’s it! We’ve gone there a bunch of times.”

 

“What’s your last name?”

 

This girl is like 20/20. She wants me, right?

 

“McDonough.”

 

“Oh, you’re Irish? You look it.”

 

“I know. What’s your last name?”

 

“Micelli. I’m half Italian and half Irish.”

 

“Ah….Kristin, Irish and Micelli, Italian,” I astutely observed. Is Kristin even Irish? “You look more Italian than Irish.” 

 

“I know. My sister is very fair and blonde like you.” 

 

“You don’t have to worry as much at the beach!”

 

Ugggh. That’s the best I could do?

 

Greek read her copy of Us Weekly.

 

“They gave The Truman Show a rave review. I didn’t think it was nearly as good as Jim Carrey’s other movies.” To Greek, life was no simulation. “Do you think I could write a screenplay?”

 

“Yes, Greek,” Kristin said.

 

Nicest girl ever.

 

“Like Ace Ventura meets LA Confidential. Don’t you think I look like the guy in that?”

 

“A little.”

 

“Who’s that on the cover?” I said.

 

”Ben Affleck and Matt Damon,” Greek said. 

 

“Oh and there’s Gwynneth. She’s so beautiful,” Kristin said. 

 

“Yeah, totally.”

 

Was calling her “Gwynneth” shallow? I called Pedro Martinez “Pedro.” And Donyell Marshall “Donyell”--although we took the same sociology class which he was habitually late for. He cackled with Rudy Johnson and Brian Fair until the accented, untenured professor asked them to be quiet and I worried they’d tell Coach Calhoun to crush his academic career before it even began.   

 

In-depth Us Weekly interviews (if they existed) might tell Kristin more about Gwynneth than she knew about most of her Delta Gamma sisters. Artists and celebrities get naked—figuratively and/or literally—so of course we’re on a first name basis with them!

 

When Pedro threw his disappearing changeup, knee buckling curveball, and exploding fastball, he lived on a more abstracted plane than a beer pong teammate or Tecmo Bowl opponent. Were our friends not archetypal enough?

 

We know their face, voice, dress, their perfume or (if they’re a douche) their cologne. We know their favorite bands and beers, we know they’re from Madison, but that’s not a character in a story, that’s an extra. Are our friends two feet away bigger strangers than characters fifty feet away on sixty foot movie screens?

 

Miguel didn’t share Greek’s Hollywood dreams. Why should he? He had dark good looks, he wore a baby blue and white striped Argentina jersey, he had a a black cat named Whisper and orange, green, and blue fish. He constantly played Doom through a surround sound system which amplified every machine blast and explosion. We haven't even talked about his bottomless bong. He smoked all day and had a smoking hot girlfriend. Fairfield County’s Miguel was smoking the competition. His heart rate never rose above 72. He spoke in a leisurely voice. “What’s up, dude?” “Do you watch the Red Sox every day, dude?” “Where is Greek, dude?” He lounged behind a smoke shrouded rampart of mellowness which Kristin repeatedly stormed. 

 

“Miggy, I said I was okay with pizza.”

 

“But then you said, ‘Sure, whatever you want’ like you didn’t really want it.”

 

“I don’t care. Let’s get what you want!”

 

“Kristin…….do you want to get something else?” his pulse teetering dangerously close to 73.

 

“ I want to get what you want.”

 

“Fine.” Slightly pressured voice now.

 

Miggy’s chillness made Kristin’s blood boil. Where was his anger? His fear? His story? Was her boyfriend a stranger? So she tried to poke holes in his defense like she once snuck white dimpled balls into the net as a Daniel Hand field hockey star, but Miguel was the toughest goalie she’d ever faced. 

……………………………………………

“I’ll have a Big Mac with fries and a Coke, please.”

 

“Would you like to Super Size that?”

 

Fuck it.

 

“Okay.”

 

The Padres were rained out at home for the first time since April 14th, 1984 against the Braves. My mom, my brother and I went to a rained-out Padres/Braves game in April, 1984! At least skies cleared for the zoo.

 

“How about that Mark McGwire?” a guy at the next table said. 

 

“Watch out for Sammy Sosa! He hit two more homers last night. He has 29! Only 4 behind!” his buddy said. 

 

“Yeah, crazy huh?”

 

McGwire slumped in 1991, batting only .201, but he was a fountain of youth drinking Übermensch in the summer of ‘98. Sosa, a Rangers and White Sox castoff, was a late blooming Babe Ruth. They didn’t test anyone for steroids, so on this sunny, sanguine June day, McDonalds patrons dared to believe they just found their batting stroke. Mr. Colangelo was right after all: never pitch to a slumping hitter because he may (or may not) turn to HGH.

 

An older couple sat at a table to my right.

 

“How do you like your meal?”   

 

“Good,” the woman quietly replied. 

 

I looked up. I think they were wearing worn discount department store clothes. TJ Maxx on Windsor Avenue? Or Salvation Army? Section 8 housing? How was lunch? The same as the last 3,494 times. A team of food scientists engineered it in a lab that way.

 

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard in my life.   

 

I got chills. I almost cried.  

 

Did Miguel ask Kristin how her lunch was? With a hot young thing who could bang any guy she wanted (your narrator, for instance, was just waiting for a sign) was he afraid? This lady wore glasses, had shoulder length graying hair, and a button-down dark green sweater. She wasn’t turning Blue Light Special heads. Maybe happiness is just feeling safe enough to care.

………………………………………

The Hole In The Wall Gang

 

“Colin, do you like strawberry daiquiris?” Greek said. 

 

“Yeah….I think so?”  

 

“Cool. We’re having Poker Night on Saturday”

 

Greek and myself vs. Evans and Mickey vs. Miguel and Kristin. 

 

Kristin manned the stereo. She slid my Violent Femmes tape in the slot (even her musical selections were erotic) and pushed play. She sat to my left in a red tank top and sang every word from Blister In the Sun to Good Feelings. Why can’t Kristin get more than zero sexual encounters? Must be vaguely related to fortune. She’s rendered speechless when she’s between your bipedal walking aids.

 

Forget Guns n’ Roses, Metallica and Faith No More at Giants Stadium, this was the greatest performance I’d ever witnessed. Was this even fair? Was Kristin a beautiful and enchanting siren masquerading as a finance major or just a hall of fame cock tease? Who knew lo-fi teen angst anthems straight outta Wisconsin could become so transmogrified?

 

I waited for Evans—a strict Beastie Boys and Slayer man—to say “get this gay shit off” but apparently even he became entangled in her karaoke cocoon.

 

Sublime’s self-titled CD was next. She’s randier than a renowned adult film star, she’s a sensitive lover, she admires the breasts of a nymphet from a very questionable nuclear family.

 

I needed another strawberry daiquiri.

 

“Greek, if you’re in there, can I get another?”

 

“Coming right up! Anyone need a cigar?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Sure.” 

 

Daiquaris and cigars. We were classy like Cuba before they let the guerillas in the swimming pools. Even Kristin grabbed one. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. This is not one of those times.

 

Setback was my family’s Hawk’s Nest pastime. High, low, jack, game. Bidding, trump suits. A simple, honest game. Poker was like a game created by a drunk Texan. Which it probably was.

 

“Wait, so a full house is 3 of a kind and 2 of a kind?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And that beats a strait?”

 

“Yes.”

 

I didn’t have a full house. Until I drew. Then I did.

 

“Okay so I guess I call?”

 

“You lost. Evans has a strait. $17 bucks,” Greek said.

 

“Wait! You said a full house beats a strait!”

 

“No this is a straight flush. Five cards in a row of the same suit.”

 

“Aha. So then a flush also beats a full house?”

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“I thought you said you played poker before, Col.” 

 

I was to poker what Gordon Gano was to sexual prowess and Bradley Nowell was to child protection laws.  

 

“I’ve played. Just not in a while.”

 

Somewhere in the Niagra Falls area.

 

“A straight flush beats a full house. A full house beats a flush.”

 

“So a flush is….wait….so a straight flush is five consecutive cards of the same suit but a regular flush is just five cards of the same suit in any order?”

 

“You got it, Col!” said Evans, like Cindy telling me I put sweatpants in the right bin.

 

“See? I’m ready for the World Series of Fucking Poker now.”

 

Maybe that hilarious line redeemed this low roller in Kristin’s eyes? I’m so bangable it’s not even funny. That is if Kristin and Miguel’s beautiful relationship sadly ran its course.

 

The game went back and forth. We won a hand with a four of a kind!

 

“One. Million. Dollars,” Greek said in his best Dr. Evil voice while hauling in the red and black chips. 

 

That was all Kristin needed. She was shot out of a fucking cannon.  

 

“Hello Mr. Powers. My name is Alotta. Alotta Fagina. A-LOTTA Fagina”.

 

This was getting out of control. 

 

After the third—or fourth—or…..well, I’m not quite sure how many daiquiri refills, everyone became supremely confident about their hands. Greek’s rum hand got heavier with each return trip to the kitchen.

 

“I’ll raise you!”

 

“Same.”

 

“In!”

 

“Okay, I call,” Miguel said.

 

Cards down. Sorry reader, I couldn’t see the cards well enough to tell you who had what. (I had shit). But this writer deduced that Evans was not the winner.

 

“MotherFUCKER!!!” 

 

He exploded out of his chair, did a 180, and kicked the wall. In the biggest upset of the night, Evans’ size 12 white Adidas won this battle. The wall caved in and left a rectangular hole the size of a small pizza box. Either Evans’ right foot was a mighty force of inebriated nature or Carriage House’s walls were hollower than a white chocolate Easter bunny. 

 

We all burst out laughing.  

 

Well, not quite everyone.

 

“Brown, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?”

 

“Relax, Greek!”

 

“I’m not fucking relaxed! This isn’t my apartment! Those girls are going to KILL me” 

 

Evans waved his hand.  

 

“Greek, don’t worry. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

 

“How are you going to fix it? Do you know how?”

 

“Dude, I’ve got tools.”

 

The festive pre-communist Cuba vibe soured considerably. Evans was our Fidel Castro. Even the stereo went silent. We played one more hand. Migeul yawned.

 

“Well, good night.”

 

“Good night. See you tomorrow.”

 

Did Kristin float so much sexual tension in the air that eventually someone had to kick in the wall? Or is that interpretation too Book Of Genesis? 

…………………………………………..

I walked downstairs the next morning to find Greek staring into the hole like it was a wormhole to a distant galaxy he desperately needed to flee to. 

 

“Those girls are going to KILL me.”

 

“Tell Evans to fix it. He said he’s going to, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

We both knew he wasn’t fixing it.

 

“Maybe we can pay to get it fixed? I could chip in if it’s not too expensive. How much does that kind of thing cost?”

 

“I have no idea.”

 

“Well………..”.

 

Was building maintenance even a thing at Carriage House? That seemed like a real Hail Mary.  

 

“Uh, hi, I live in 19B. Our living room wall appears to have collapsed. Maybe it was the humidity?”

 

Not the answer.

 

“Have you ever seen Nicole?” Greek asked.

 

“No. Just Nina.”

 

“She’s HUGE.”

 

“Like……tall”

 

“Cheeaahh. She must be six feet.”

 

“You’re worried she’s going to kick your ass? Like physically?”

 

“I mean KIND of.”

 

I grabbed Mountain Mist from the fridge. Did Greek blend the daiquiris with the top off? Dried strawberry juice lined the sink, counters, and walls. It looked like a crime scene. Amazonian lease holders might sooner break Greek’s spleen over this. Neither Greek nor your narrator made a single move to clean. Call us lazy slobs if you like but when there’s a hole in your wall, you don’t exactly reach for a paper towel. 

………………………………………

The Allman Brothers played at The Meadows in Hartford the following night. I became slightly biased against them after a record club commercial aired throughout my childhood featuring two bandana wearing hippie burnouts saying, “Hey man, is that freedom rock?!” as Ramblin’ Man played. “Hey man, remember going to jail?”. I preferred Duane Allman’s slide work on Derek and The Dominoes’ Layla And Other Assorted Love Songs: an anguished declaration of undying love from heroin addled Eric Clapton to his best friend George Harrison’s wife Patty Boyd. The 70’s, man. Don’t be fooled: ho’s always come before bros. For further study see The Trojan War.  

 

It was me, Greek, Freeman and their TEP bro Pony on a rainy Sunday night. Feeling not so fresh after three straight nights of drinking, I was taking it light. The United States military needed me to sew patches on olive drab canvas bags in the morning. 

 

“Col, have you done mushrooms?”

 

Greek didn’t understand my duty to God and country.   

 

“A couple times, but I didn’t really feel anything.”

 

“Want to take a tab?”

 

Absolutely not.

 

“Sure.” 

 

Listen, I needed a pick-me-up and they don’t call this freedom rock for nothing, man.  

 

We bought lawn seats at the ticket window.

 

“We’re jumping the fence!”. Adidas T-shirt, backwards hat wearing Freeman announced.

 

Do we have to? I will get so booted.

 

“Col, ready to jump?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Just watch us. Go when we go!”

 

Security must have done shrooms as well because we grabbed section 500 seats without incident. It was far from a stormy Sunday sellout.  

 

They opened with Statesboro Blues. This was a good tune. It featured a blues/freedom rock staple: using a girl’s sister to set a jealousy trap. Slide guitar. Another verse. Nice and dry under the pavilion. This was fun! More slide. Nothing can make you feel calmer than 120 decibels of rock. And a 20 ounce Bud Light. And hallucinogenics. Things brightened up. Couple songs I never heard. An endless organ solo which was cool I guess. I’ll bet Schmedley’s bikers were here with their old ladies. Or their “bitch”? Some other bluesy song. Who’s ready for more organ?

 

They launched into Blue Sky. Dickey Betts’s outro solo came with extra butter. Oh man. Are the shrooms kicking in? I started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. This went on for quite some time. My face hurt. I probably looked insane.

 

Then an organ drenched dirge about feeding your ex to an alligator. Not nearly enough to wipe the smile off my face. I laughed at everything and nothing. The universe. The doors of perception opened wide. Life was facehurtingly funny. I thought I might never stop laughing.

 

Hot Lanta made me dumb struck with awe and wonder and not just from pentatonic soloing. I looked down and couldn’t believe my eyes. Hands were absolutely crazy. To think we walked around every day with these things just hanging off us. Why was no one talking about this? The veins, the scaly flesh, the way fingers fold in three—I guess I never even thought about that. And the freakiest thing is we have two of them! Basically identical! I placed my primordial claws side by side and stared transfixed for the length of a southern rock outro jam, possibly even longer. And what’s the point of fingernails anyway? Protect us from…..I was stumped. Did they mention that in Bio? Where was Amber when I needed her?

 

Wait a minute. Wait. One. Fucking. Minute. You get nicotine stains on your hands. Not your hair. Or your ass. Hands! That makes so much more sense!

 

I hazily recall hearing Melissa. No Ramblin’ Man. Or Jessica. At least I don’t think so…. Jam bands don’t just play the hits, man. This ain’t the Goo Goo Dolls.

………………………………………

The next day—reader, take a seat—I didn’t report to work. Outside it was as gray as my soul. 

 

On MTV, Natalie Imbruglia wasn’t feeling so chipper herself. She was torn. She rested supine without clothes in a room presumably without furniture.  

 

“Freakshow!”

 

“Hey Pon”.  

 

“Is that Torn?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Natalie even bewitched Pony. No one escaped her sorceress’s powers that summer.

 

“Feeling alright, Colin. Are you sad because you got so drunk last night?”.  

 

Drunk? Talk about burying the lead.

 

“Yeah,” I moaned, lying clothed on the couch, my vital organs abandoned somewhere in a sewage dump. I felt slightly better after he asked. Pity is the best hangover medicine.      

 

“I’m going to make copies at the library. You guys want to come with me?”

 

We entered Homer Babbidge through the side door near the parking lot. Drivers were so weird. This was about my 1,001st visit but my first through this entrance.  

 

Maybe Pony could drive me to the Registrar’s Office. I could walk. I needed a grad school application immediately. The dream was not dead. No more fucking around. My four day drinking/shrooming/smoking/bong hitting hangover was filled me with such despair Camus and Sartre were Regis and Kathie Lee compared to me. Skipping work just deepened my crushing guilt. Some military man. I deserve a court martial.

 

Grad school. Grad school. Grad school. 

 

Pony made his copies and we drove home. I’ll hit the Registrar on my next day off.

………………………………………

I moved a kitchen table chair two feet from the TV. The Sox played the Phillies at Fenway. Interleague play. Let’s just ruin the mystique of the World Series to boost regular season attendance.

 

Kate and Nina walked in and sat on the couch. 

 

“Hi Colin.”

 

“Hi!”

 

“Is this the Red Sox?” Kate asked.  

 

“Oh….yeah” I said. “You can watch something else if you like.”

 

“No, no, you’re good.”

 

“I saw you riding your bike near the library yesterday,” Nina said. 

 

“Oh, I was probably coming home from work.”

 

“Where do you work?”

 

“West Hartford.”

 

It sounded better than Windsor.  

 

“I’m from West Hartford! Bishops Corner.”

 

“Isn’t that near the West Hartford branch?”

 

“Yes.”

 

I got lost in Bishops Corner looking for campus on my first day. I kept that to myself.

 

“Oh cool. I’m on Shield Street.”

 

I didn’t know the good West Hartford streets to lie about. 

 

“Do you mind if we smoke?”

 

“Oh no! Go ahead!”

 

Any minute, my mom was due to drop off a care package: food, probably shampoo, bath towels, every conceivable mom thing.  

 

They sparked up a joint and passed it back and forth.

 

“Want some?” Nina asked, waving it in my direction. 

 

If I say yes I’ll smell like weed. If I say no the joint will take longer to get smoked. Will life’s dilemmas never end?

 

“I’m good for now, thanks.”

 

“I like baseball. The Yankees. I used to be good at softball,” Kate said.

 

“Oh really?” Nina said.

 

“I played 3rd base. But my coach was a bitch.”

 

This was absurd. How hard would it be to just say, “Actually, guys, can you hold off blazing up for just a couple minutes? My mom is coming over.”

 

This would be super embarrassing. All because I didn’t want to be a “just say no” mama’s boy with two girls who had theoretically not completely ruled out banging me. Hadn’t I already risked getting tagged a hip to be square friend zoned dweeb by just saying no? And this purple polo shirt? That’s two strikes!

 

Tim Wakefield’s knuckleball floated instead of danced, but Curt Schilling wasn’t doing much better. Troy O’Leary (a black guy in Boston who probably adopted an Irish stage name) blasted a belt high slider into the visiting bullpen. 

 

Kate killed the joint in the ashtray. Thank God! What was I so worried about? “I’ll be there at 8:15”. Yeah, right. Mom was always late.  

 

She knocked three minutes later. 

 

“Hi, honey.”

 

“Hi. This is Kate and Nina.”

 

“Hi!” the girls said a bit too brightly.

 

Could mom detect weed? Had she ever smoked it? Unthinkable.

 

“I brought prime rib I already cooked. Just make sure you keep it refrigerated. Cook it at 175 for 15 minutes.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Oh and do you have a bath mat? I brought you one.”

 

Great. Bath mats are a huge turn on. I’m single, girls. She left.

 

 “Colin, why didn’t you tell us your mom was coming? We would have waited to smoke!” Nina said.    

 

“Sorry. Yeah I guess maybe I should have told you.” 

……………………………………..

I worked three days that week but enough was enough so I took Friday off. Phil didn’t need me in brochures. Did they need me at the sealing machine? Or button machine? Pens? Others could fill in. With my $7 one way Peter Pan ticket, $0.75 city bus fare, the Courant, my occasional USA Today splurge, my Dunkin’ coffee, and McDonald’s lunch, I was too afraid to even calculate my net profit. Staying home and collecting SSI was about as lucrative—without the resume building. Or scarlet letter branding. 

 

Blue skies, sunshine, mild temps, and my fifth straight day without ingesting Schedule 1 drugs made my spirits soar. My Rolling Stone subscription somehow kept pace with my fourth address in eight months. I read a Lucinda Williams cover story. Car Wheels On a Gravel Road was their favorite album ever. Should I ride down to The Disc? What’s more money spent?

 

The girls walked in and sat in their assigned seats: Kate to the left, Nina to the right.

 

“Hi Colin! You didn’t have to work today?” Nina asked.

 

Jesus she was getting personal.

 

“No, I took it off. Too nice of a day!”. Just a sheltered workshop Ferris Bueller you see.   

 

“We should go to the beach!” Nina said.

 

“Do you know why there are tides?” Kate asked.  

 

“It’s the moon, right?”

 

“Right but how does the moon cause tides?”

 

Were they blazing again?

 

“Um, I don’t know.”

 

“Colin, do you know?”

 

“I forget.”

 

I didn’t know.  

 

“The moon’s gravitational pull pulls water towards it. But since the earth is spinning, the ocean is closer to the moon at some points in the day, causing high tides.”

 

“How far away is the moon?”

 

“238,000 miles.”   

 

“So the moon’s mass is like a giant magnet?” I blinded them with science.  

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Wow Kate, you’re a fountain of knowledge,” Nina said.

 

“I try to learn something new every day.”

 

Was I learning something new every day?

 

Sitting with them was like heaven. Thank God I didn’t go to that hellhole today! Girls had a gravitational pull too but when my axis spun closest to them I pulled away like I was afraid I would spin out of orbit.

 

But not right now. I wished we could sit like this forever.

 

“Guiliano is having a party tonight,” Nina said.

 

“Ugggh I’m so over him.”

 

“Lover’s quarrel?”

 

“I’m going to vomit. I’ve learned my lesson. I used to jump into bed with any guy who showed me attention.”

 

“But you’re much smarter than that now.”

 

They get so smart right before they meet me. 

………………………………………

Martinez was the clique’s one African American. If you discount NBC’s Thursday night prime time programming, the 90’s were almost diverse.

 

Was he a TEP brother? If I say he was possibly their weed dealer and you call me racist, please refer back to the Caucasian student-dealers we met earlier in our story. College drug dealing was a diverse workforce like the Utah Jazz.      

 

“Did you hear DMX’s new CD?”

 

“No, is it good?” Miguel said. 

 

“It’s t-i-i-i-ight, yo.”

 

I had heard of it in a Rolling Stone review. Wait, I just championed diversity. I mean I read it in Vibe. 

 

“What’s it called?” I asked. “It’s Hot As Hell? No, wait. It’s Dark And Hot: What The Hell?”  

 

“No”, he held weed smoke in, which always sounds like choking to death. “It’s Dark and Hell Is Hot.”

 

A rap album about a sheltered workshop? DMX sounded like he just freebased three lines of coke off a VIP room mirror after pounding ten Jolts and dominating a box of Chips Ahoy before he invaded your personal space on the D train.

 

DMX was too urban for Evans—the suburbs were still processing No Doubt and Reel Big Fish. He tuned the stereo to Radio 104. Matchbox 20’s Real World came on.

 

“I love this song!” Martinez said.

 

“Really?” I said.

 

“Yeah this is my jam.”

 

Last fall at Celeron Greek declared Push his personal anthem. He was the target demo. But Martinez?

 

This Incesticide customer wouldn’t be caught dead buying a Matchbox Twenty CD. I bought Bon Jovi’s Keep The Faith (I’ve finally overshared too much) and the blue haired, noseringed girl at The Disc nearly laughed me out of the store.

 

Except……..

 

Cue infectious guitar hook.

 

It was a pretty good song. This is why diversity matters. Black kids helped white kids appreciate Rob Thomas.  

………………………………………

Roo’s was our hotspot that summer. They specialized in Australian fare--whatever that was. Baked kangaroo? Sauteed koala? I surveyed the exotic five page menu for three minutes before ordering a burger and fries. We don’t need your Men At Work food here.  

 

Four Corners at the intersection of Rout 195 and Route 44 featured a gas station/convenience/lottery ticket store, a package store, Kathy John’s restaurant and fine cuisine from Down Under.

 

We went to pick up the food (and obviously booze). Carriage House was two miles away. Head down Hunting Lodge Road, hang a right onto Bird Road and another right onto Route 44. We made incredible time. We got there in 44 seconds. The world was Mickey’s racetrack. Speed limit 25? School bus zone? Gun it. His driver’s ed teacher apparently taught him to take the speed limit and multiply by four. I should have paid him to drive me to work. My commute would have shrunk to nine minutes.  

 

Dog walkers and bike riders were a passing blur, but Mickey stuck his head out the window—taking his eye completely off the road—and yelled “NERDS!!” or the slightly more diagnostic “YOU’RE GAY!” before burning rubber onto Bird Street. Again, how am I still alive?

 

I bought Camel Lights and saw a tall, graying gentleman two spots ahead in the gas station. 

 

“Just the coffee, thanks.”

 

Faint Boston accent. He sounded like Coach Calhoun! He walked back in my direction and---I didn’t trust my eyes. He left. What would I have said?

 

“Tough loss to Carolina, huh Coach? Neutral court my ass!” 

 

“Is Khalid out of shape or is that just his body type?”

 

“I don’t care what anyone says, coach, tough love works!” 

 

We ate in Miguel and Evan’s living room. Huge portions. Roos ruled.

 

“We have to get working on our screenplay. Colin was an English major,” Greek said.

 

“I can try.”

 

“I fucking hated English,” Evan said. “1984 was pretty good I guess.”

 

“Never read it,” Greek said.

 

“It’s a love story about two people driven apart by society,” the lovely Kristin said.

 

Not a dystopian cautionary tale about a futuristic surveillance state but a love story. Nailed it! Only finance majors can properly interpret literary classics. Winston Smith gets handed a note from a girl he thinks works for Big Brother. He’s sure she’s summoning him to get vaporized into oblivion, but he finally summons the courage to open it and it says, “I love you.”

 

We discussed current events. 

 

“Big Willie Style! Dude is The Man,” Evans said. “I did not have sexual relations with that woman—Miss Lewinsky. Fucking gangster.” 

 

“I’m running for President someday,” Mickey announced.

 

“That chick just wanted to get famous by blowing the President in the Oval Office. A stained blue dress is how chicks get ahead, dude,” social anthropologist Evans said.

 

“Clinton isn’t too bad, man,” Miguel said. “He’s done some pretty good shit like welfare reform.”

 

“Get those lazy fuckers back to work!” Evans said, holding in an unusually large bong hit.   

 

“You don’t know someone’s story. Not everyone has it so easy. Maybe they’re no lazier than anyone else,” Kristn said.

 

When can we end this charade and get married? Please vaporize Miguel immediately.

…………………………………….

Four hour round trip commutes and Ulysses were meant for each other, so on Bloomsday I decided to re-read it for the 3^rd time.

 

I couldn’t decide if it was a love story. It’s set on June 16th, 1904, the day Joyce and his wife Nora went on their first date. Why doesn’t his fictional alter-ego Stephen meet fictional Nora? He’s adapting The Odyssey and Telemachus wasn’t exactly going on Singled Out: The Ithaca Edition so it has to be a spiritual father/son thing, but you’re a literary iconoclast. Break the rules.

 

In the last chapter Molly Bloom seems to decide she likes her husband Poldy better than Blazes Boylan, the dumber than dirt stud she nailed earlier in the day, but was she affirming her love or just settling in a Catholic country without divorce laws? Poldy wouldn’t touch her after their infant son died years earlier so her screwing around was okay...   

 

I had spent hours in the library reading commentaries on Joyce. “Interesting” guy. He wrote Nora letters rhapsodizing her farts in bed. My letters weren’t so weird after all.   

 

He committed his daughter Lucia, once an aspiring dancer, to an insane asylum. She was in her early 20’s. She never left. Samuel Becked had dated her and said any man would come second to Daddy. Finnegans Wake’s hero commits an unnamed crime with a young girl. It’s full of incest allusions. It’s written in an opaque dream language. Four people alive claim to understand the book but they’re all lying. Here’s an excerpt from page 1: 

 

“Sir Tristarm, violer d’amores, fr’over the short sea, had passencore rearrived from North Armorica, on this side the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight his penisolate war”.

 

No wonder I got a D+ on that Macbeth paper.  

 

Did Finnegans Wake’s obscure language hide his confession? It was so hard to have heroes! Was the Eddie Van Halen of language a drunk perverted creep?

 

Ray saw me reading in the workshop cafeteria.

 

“That’s a really big book, man.”

 

“Yeah, it’s a lot.”

 

“What’s it called?”

 

“Ulysses. It’s like a modern retelling of The Odyssey. By Homer.”

 

Okay now you’re taking down….

 

“What do they have you doing this for? You went to college, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“But they threw you in here.”

 

“Well, it’s kind of a long story.”

 

“Keep your chin up, man. This is your cross to bear. You’re too smart to get stuck in this place.”

 

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

 

To seem less elitist, I could have told him Ulysses is in Back To School. Rodney Dangerfield’s blonde professor quotes Molly’s closing lines about the first time she did it with Poldy:  

 

 “nd first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfumed and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.”

 

“YES! YES!” cried Rodney.

 

Yes. 

……………………………………..

New plan: get a job interview without involving Melissa. Show employers I’m a big boy.

 

“Looking for an experienced auto mechanic.” No. “Searching for a front desk receptionist, experience preferred.” Maybe? “In Waterbury.” No. “Data entry clerk. Complainers and clock watchers need not apply.” Next. “Cracker Joe’s Tattoos is looking for an experienced tattoo artist.” Dear God. “Subway Sandwich Artist needed. Previous experience in food preparation, and/or customer service is desirable but not essential because you will receive full training and undertake full various University Of Subway courses.”

 

A Portrait of The Sandwich Artist as A Young Man? Rodney wasn’t the only one going back to school. Subway U here I come. YES!

 

No.

……………………………………… 

Action Sequence

 

Tyler The Townie was back. Then again do townies ever really go anywhere?

 

Kate, Nina, Amira and I went to a Celeron party. Tyler chatted up the girls on the walk back.

 

“I just got a new ride. Red Ford Taurus. It’s pretty sweet. Power steering, air conditioning, Blaupunkt system with a graphic equalizer.”

 

“Oh God he’s so annoying,” Nina said under her breath.  

 

“How do we get rid of him?” Kate said.   

 

“Hey, do you guys have beers at your place? I’m all out.” He smacked his backpack to provide incontrovertible proof.

 

“Ummm, I could check,” Nina yawned.

 

“Cool! Can I grab one? I’ll get you back I promise.”

 

He wasn’t even close to taking a hint.

 

We entered my/Nina’s apartment. She opened the black living room fridge.

 

“We have Bud Light, Corona, and Harpoon.”

 

“I’ll take a Harpoon if that’s cool.”

 

One of my Harpoons. This freeloader grabbed our bottle opener and took a sip from the beer I earned through the sweat of my brow or a government handout. It all went into the same Bank Of America checking account so who could say for sure? That’s not the point.

 

He leaned back and pulled out the armrest on the blue couch against the window like Nina was subleasing the place from him.  

 

I grabbed a Harpoon and sat on the gray couch. There were three couches total. I wasn’t sure which ones belonged to Nina and her roommates vs. Greek imports.

 

“You should come watch my band. I play guitar. We’re kind of a ska/punk/hip hop fusion band. We’ve got some choice gigs potentially lined up.”

 

Yeah me too. Come check out The Blind Melonheads potentially headlining Madison Square Garden, ladies. I play a Mexican fat Strat and sing. Does Lou Reed mean anything to you?  

 

He segued into a discussion of his ex-girlfriend who moved to Boston. He wished her well–it just didn’t work out, sadly.  

 

“She’s a sweet girl. She just had a fucked up family.”

 

What a sensitive guy.

 

I drank 5 cups of keg Bud at Celeron plus maybe 3 ½ Harpoons? Who knows. We already know I can barely count. I wanted to lay this groundwork before we proceeded any further. 

 

“Hey Tyler,” I said. “The girls think you’re annoying but they’re just too nice to say it.”

 

Silence.

 

“Oh, and do you remember a few months ago? I heard you next door when you said, “That kid is basically blind.” I might be blind but I’m not deaf, dude. I think you should leave.”

 

We had never spoken before. That was my icebreaker.

 

Interminable silence. 

 

My pulse was well above 72.

 

“Okay,” he said like he had asked for  Coke and I said we only had Pepsi. He walked out.

 

“Colin, that wasn’t cool!” Nina said. 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Did he really say that!?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“I need to leave for a minute.”

 

“Okay, I’m sorry!”

 

Oh what did I do? Petty revenge disguised as valorous chivalry once again! When will I learn? I wasn’t sure if I even cared about his blind comment anymore. I only brought it up because a package deal opportunity had unexpectedly arrived!

 

Nina returned a few minutes later and sat on the blue couch.

 

“Nina, I’m sorry. I probably should have kept my mouth shut.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

I wanted to crawl under any of the three couches.

 

I desperately wanted to go upstairs to bed but I didn’t want to make it obvious. I took a couple last swigs of my Harpoon, gently placed the bottle on the coffee table like it was made of paper, fake yawned, and said, “Good night.”

 

“Good night.”

 

I brushed my teeth and headed for the safety of my/her room. Did she hate me?

 

This was all Joseph Campbell’s fault.

………………………………

I pushed open the workshop door.  Marisol tapped her cane and smiled.   

 

What do you do when a totally blind person walks towards you? I usually just froze. 

 

But she heard me.

 

“Is that Sam?”

 

“No. But I have the door open. Just keep walking this way.” 

 

“Oh, thank you. What’s your name?”

 

“Colin.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think I know you. My name is Marisol.”

 

“I know, Marisol”.

 

“Do you like wrestling, Colin?”

 

“Yes I do.”

 

“Can you smell what The Rock’s got cookin”?”

 

“I think I smell it!”

 

She laughed uproariously.

 

“Did you see him beat up Mr. McMahon last night?” 

 

“I missed it. What happened?”

 

“Ooooo Mr. McMahon got handcuffed to the ring. But he slapped The Rock with his other hand so The Rock beat him up!”

 

“Well deserved!” 

 

“It was nice meeting you, Colin.”

 

“You too.”

 

Mr. McMahon was the boss from hell, but was our boss an even bigger heel? Can we get Mr. Mahogany in the squared circle for a no holds barred steel cage match? Marisol and I could form a tag team. The Blind Blitzkriegers? Her cane and my hardcover copy of Ulysses could really do damage at SummerSlam ’98 at MSG.   

 

Wait a minute…..where does The Gold Digger live? I needed to buy a shovel. Or maybe Geraldo Rivera could redeem himself after that Al Capone’s vault fiasco.  

………………………………………

Four florescent grass colored lamps overlooked the foosball table at Ted’s. I stood to Greek’s right, subbing for Freeman after he left to get cigs next door at Dairy Mart with his girlfriend Jenny.

 

Foosball is basically impossible. You push metal rods with wooden blue and red action figures (I learned much later they’re tiny plastic soccer players). I usually flailed wildly and hit more air than ball. Any contact whatsoever constituted a moral victory. Zero goals in my foosball career.

 

With practice time, maybe competency was achievable, but I always just got subbed into the heat of the action. Talk about pressure. This particular civil war battle between TEP and TKE threatened to upend the entire balance of power of campus Greek life, so header the ball with your plastic soccer guy or stumble away from the table right fucking now.

 

I was elated when Freeman finally returned. Greek also took a break, so Freeman and Evans carried the TEP standard.

 

I didn’t give a shit, so I watched girls in short shorts walk to the bathroom to my left and listened to the acoustic cover guy in the far right corner telling us all about his semi-charmed life.  

 

“Hey! That’s bullshit, man!” Freeman said. 

 

“What are you talking about, bro?”

 

“You shook the table. You thought I wasn’t looking? That goal doesn’t count!”

 

“You’re high, dude. I didn’t shake the fucking table,” the TKE combatant protested.

 

“Bullshit. Cheating asshole.”

 

“Say that again!”

 

“You heard me.”

 

“Wait….Freeman. Guys, relax, it’s cool,” UN security council member Greek urged. But like all UN members, he was ignored.   

 

“I’ll bet you don’t come over here and say that shit to my fucking face!”

 

Freeman came over there and said that shit to his fucking face.

 

It was on!

 

TKE swung first and grazed Freeman, who swung and connected. I think. It was hard to tell in a dark bar with the lamps rattling wildly and bodies converged when you’re half blind. Were you expecting Jim Lampley here? Pretty soon everyone held someone back or fought to get free, arms flailed while lunging at their opponent. A few more punches sailed through a sea of arms. Evans got pushed into an adjacent table with four foot bar stools and toppled it over, taking five drinks with it. Glass shattered.

 

“Hey, ASSHOLES!” a drenched girl at the upside-down table cried. She was also ignored by the perpetrators, but her two male companions, bound to defend her honor, commenced operatic yet somewhat mannered “Hold me back!” performances.     

 

We had ourselves an old fashioned foosbrawl.

 

 “Tommy, calm down!” Jenny cried. 

 

Tiny The Bartender barreled over with more catlike agility than you might expect from a 300 pound interior lineman.  

 

“Break it up! Tommy, back off!”

 

“This asshole started it!”

 

“I don’t care. Everyone out, NOW!”

 

Back at 19-A, Freeman held an ice pack to his left cheek.

 

“I have to keep my composure better when I drink,” he insightfully reflected.     

 

Everyone went back the next night. What else was there to do? And did Tiny ban them for a month? A week? A day? You mean ban their most loyal customers during the slow summer months? You don’t need an MBA to answer that question.

 

TEP and TKE played a rematch. No punches were thrown. Their mutual love of foosball conquered all. Also, you took whatever summer opponents you could get.    

 

“Hey man, I might have overreacted last night.”

 

“No worries, man.”

 

They tapped their knuckles.  

 

Ignore the hippies, 1998 was the Summer of Love.     

………………………………………

Rumor had it Freeman and Nina hooked up. Before or after Jenny? In the room I was sleeping in? God  I wish I was an omniscient narrator sometimes.

 

Did I need an Adidas T-shirt? Backwards Red Sox hat? Public access show?  

………………………………………

I heard screaming.

 

This happened occasionally.

 

Cindy, Eddie, or Bobbi would clasp their arm around the client and lead them off the workshop floor. The drone of machinery never stopped and everything resumed like nothing had happened.   

……………………………………………

I had once concluded that joggers on tropical July days truly hate themselves, so I only ran around Woodside at midnight, occasionally drunk. (Physical fitness and binge drinking were part of my balanced lifestyle.)

 

But now I stared into the bottomless pit of my mid-20’s and hoped to avoid an old man’s beer belly, so I went for late afternoon runs—sciatica permitting. I ran down Hunting Lodge Road, turned onto North Eagleville Road, ran past The Jungle, ran up and down the hilly next door graveyard, turned onto Rt. 195 and ran past East Campus. Or I turned off Hunting Lodge and ran past the Math Science Building, Student Union, Fieldhouse, and Gampel Pavilion to South Campus. I sweated profusely and, despite my transition from Marlboro Reds to Camel Lights, I often wheezed like an asthmatic. But suddenly I enjoyed the torture. Sweat purified more than soap, shampoo and Communion wafers combined. The clean on the inside feeling running provides is baptismal. Running is religion. And it doesn’t hurt as much as twenty Our Fathers or “Mass has ended now, please go in peace” before eleven more minutes of community bulletins.    

………………………………………

“I had another nightmare about Nicole last night.”

 

“Greek! Don’t do this to yourself!”

 

“We’re not having any more parties. OR poker games. I can’t trust Evans!”

 

“Was she literally beating you up?”

 

“I mean she was getting ready to.”  

 

“Careful. If she smacks you in your dream, I heard you wake up with a black eye. I still think you should tell Evans to pay for it.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So remind him.”

 

“Nicole is going to kick my ass!”

 

“Just tell her Evans did it! How can you control your guests? Is it a crime to invite neighbors over for an evening of daiquiris, cigars and cards? Is that the kind of country we want to live in? That’s no bridge to the 21st Century I want to cross. This isn’t Cuba! Greek! Your only crime is your hospitality! We’re like the fucking Native Americans. Invite people to share a peace pipe and they kick in your teepee and spread malaria or no wait……. SMALLPOX. They spread a ton of shit! The point is she will totally understand!”

 

I was on my fourth Double Bag. 

 

“Maybe you’re right.” 

 

Of course I hadn’t encountered The Colossus Of Nicole. But Greek was right about one thing: Evans was a dead end. I loaned Ben Daly a dollar in seventh grade. He said he’d pay me back the next day. Next day: no money. I couldn’t believe someone would borrow money and just not pay you back like that. I started saying, “Where’s my money?” half- jokingly every day in cafeteria study hall until he said, “Shut the fuck up!” like I was the one at fault. I shut the fuck up after that.

 

Wall kickers and money borrowers run the world. Greek and I lose all the sleep for them.  

………………………………………

Nina started coming around more. Either West Hartford was boring, she was in love with me, or she worried her apartment would get burned to the ground. She seemed over the Tyler incident. Besides, Greek took my place as the subleasing problem child.

 

“Why is there a pizza box taped to the wall!?”

 

This was embarrassing. It was Dominos. Not even Sgt. Pepperoni. 

 

“Oh…..I’m not sure,” I laughed.

 

Nina and Kate removed the box. Scotch tape barely even puts up a fight.

 

“Oh. MY. GOD. There’s a hole in the wall!”

 

“What the hell?”

 

“Do you know what happened, Colin?”

 

Evans? Nowhere in sight. Greek? MIA. OF COURSE I’m the one facing the firing squad.   

 

“Evans did it! We had a poker, um, just, you know, a card game. Just a few of us. Miguel, Kristin, Evans, Mickey. Evans had a bad hand. And maybe one too many Daiquiris? We were listening to the Violent Femmes. He kicked a hole in the wall!”

 

“I’m going to KILL Greek!”

 

“Well, Greek feels really bad. He’s been having nightmares! It’s just that Evans is you know…..and he has no tools!”

 

“We told Greek no parties!”

 

“Well again, this was a pretty quiet evening before that, actually. I mean…we had a party the week before but nothing got broken! And Greek said no more parties for the rest of the summer!”

 

“AaaaarRRRRRGGGgghh!!!”

 

Prosecution is so much easier than defense.  

………………………………………     

“Nina was here earlier.”

 

“Oh God. Really?”

 

“Yeah, you keep missing her.”

 

“I went home for my dad’s birthday.”

 

“Well……………..maybe you should sit down.”

 

“She saw the hole!”

 

“The pizza box didn’t fool her for a minute.”

 

I almost added, “HDFR majors are smarter than you might think” but now was not the time.

 

“What did she say?”

 

“She said ‘I’m going to have Nicole tear out his pancreas. Just kidding. I don’t know….she was kind of annoyed I guess? I blamed it on Evans and said it wasn’t your fault.”

 

“Thanks Col.”

 

“I don’t think she heard me.”

…………………………………………

Greek wasn’t a fighter with Evans. Orr Nicole. Or his academic advisor. Or his mom who coolly asked for “Nicholas” when she called. But he fought for his right to party. Avoiding further destruction to 19B (was the roof next to go?) he invited us down to East Lyme for the Fourth of July. It fell on a Saturday! We all piled in Mickey’s black van.

 

To avoid the same mistake made by Nina and Tom Cruise’s parents in Risky Business, Greek’s mom and dad hosted/chaperoned. They served pigs in a blanket. They showed us the bathroom and the bins to discard empty bottles. Good, clean, parentally supervised, sunny, 82 degree day drinking fun.  

 

Greek’s house was white like mine-- but wood. The garage stood to the left instead of the right. There ws a back porch instead of a breezeway. And an inground pool.   

 

“Greek, is that a croquet set?” Miguel asked.

 

“Yeah, want to play?”

 

Look who cleaned up well. A Saturday afternoon lawn croquet match couldn’t possibly end with someone getting kicked or punched, could it? Ellington residents wouldn’t be caught dead with a croquet set at a corn field kegger or backyard pig roast, but I was amongst shoreline elites now. 

 

From what this cow tipper could tell, you hit a red, yellow, black, or blue ball with a mallet through a wicket several feet away. Is that where “through the wickets comes from”? I love the smell of manure in the morning, so you got me.       

 

Miguel paired with Kristin, another shoreliner, against Greek and Mickey. The backyard inclined down to a raised white concrete semi-circular barrier, so preventing balls from falling off the edge was half the battle.

 

Kristin’s turn provided a socially acceptable permission slip to stare at her for several seconds! You could plausibly argue I was a croquet fanatic glued to his lawn chair, Long Trail in hand, enjoying this barnburner. She arched her back, mallet in hands, and stared down at the wicket for a solid thirty seconds. She wore a white sundress with blue and red flowers. As she posed in Greek’s backyard on America’s 222nd birthday with a summer breeze and Closing Time on Radio 104, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She was Rosebud. She was the daydream that inspired someone to invent reality as a sad substitute. She was beautiful like only a near stranger can ever be.

 

She lifted her mallet and struck the (just reporting the news) blue ball which wobbled across Mr. Ganicopolis’s immaculately landscaped lawn. (Mr. Madden would have warned him to keep me off his property.) Thin blades of grass cradled it from falling down the hill before it split the wicket. She handed the mallet to Miguel and grabbed her Bacardi.

 

Corona in hand, Miguel watched Mickey take his turn. He didn’t even look at his angelic girlfriend! He was a Powerball winner who forgot his ticket in the dryer. Did Kristin intrigue him any more than his beer, weed, or Check Your Head CD? Was she a dream he had awoken from? Was he never even asleep? He had seen her without her sundress on. Maybe he saw her lift it over her shoulders that morning. It might get crumpled on the floor tonight if they got the guest room. Maybe he just saw it as Filene’s merchandise she bought on winter clearance at the Connecticut Post Mall, made in a Taiwanese sweatshop filled with wrestling fans.

 

Kristin and the dress harmonized into an ethereal, symphonic whole, but of course, unlike Miggy, I hadn’t seen her naked. Or looked for Q-tips and seen her box of Tampax. Was her dress  beautiful wrapping paper silhouetted by multicolored Christmas tree lights that loses its mystical powers five minutes after you unwrap it in on a cold, gray December morning?

 

Or did her enchanting charms still hold him captive but he felt like an impostor just like me in 5th grade. Heather Jones moved to town a month into the school year. As she was introduced by Mrs. Robinson, she stood at the front of class with her long brown hair draped over her maroon Superior Propane jacket. I was in love. When she was absent two weeks later Amy Hawthorne changed my life.

 

 “Heather likes you,” she said in art class. Would shy Amy pull my leg? Miracles don’t happen to me.

 

There were two problems.

 

1. Was it socially acceptable to like girls yet?

 

2. She liked a fictional character.

 

On the fourth day of school, Ben Daly invited me to sit at the cool kids table in the cafeteria. To my utter surprise, that (along with ditching my dorky horn rimmed glasses) was all this painfully shy kid needed to metamorphosize into an overnight class clown sensation led by an invisible hand which told him to wear his I Love Rock And Roll T-shirt with a gray zip up hoodie for the class picture and embrace the camera with a beaming pre-orthodontic consult “My mom leaves for work much earlier than you sweater wearing dweebs’s mom” smile. An elementary school renegade, I blended the bad boy charm of Hawkeye from syndicated MASH reruns and David Lee Roth from Hit Parader interviews. 

 

But look closer. I was still the same kid deathly afraid of rec football coaches who cried the most when his parents divorced and overheard his mom on the phone wondering aloud if she should take him to see a counselor. Fearing Heather confused the wrapping paper for the gift, I kept it under the tree.

 

She placed a pink Magic Marker “I love Colin M” note on the outside of her desk’s shelf. She recited her letter to her Texas pen pal: “I have a boyfriend named Colin. He’s very cute.” If I walked by the water fountain, she (reportedly) said, “I should have kissed him right there!” Ditching glasses (except when science class dictator Mr. Fazzalari made me) had spiraled out of control! The earth reversed its axis and made me dizzy. To puncture my rehearsed indifference, she resorted to more aggressive tactics and handed me a folded note:

 

“Colin, do you like me?” 

 

There were three options: yes, no, and maybe. Boxes were beside each one. Every choice was a trap! I didn’t grab my #2 pencil. Instead, I handed this ultimatum to Ben Daly. “Hey Ben, check this out!” I forced a hollow laugh--the first time in my previously Oscar caliber performance the director would have yelled “Cut!” and demanded another take.     

 

By Easter, she hated me.

 

The next year in junior high, after a long night of trick or treating, our group stood on the corner of Cedarwood and Pinewood. She whispered in Dave Daughtry’s ear.

 

“She said she likes Patrick,” Woodside’s Love Connection host announced.  

 

My heart broke. The late October wind froze my soul. She had moved on. To my brother.  

 

The next day after school my mom and I went through my bureau and threw away clothes I had outgrown. I burst into tears.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Come on, honey.” 

 

I could barely get the words out.

 

“This girl I like…..she likes Patrick. He’s at her house on Cherrywood right now.”

 

“I’m sorry, honey. Welcome to the cruel world of love.”

 

Three days later, unannounced, Heather moved back to Rhode Island to live with her dad. My heartsickness lasted two years. I stumbled through junior high in a fog. She came back periodically. She jointed The Woodside Crue on its aimless wanderings through the snowy woods. I was a balloon about to pop. I wanted to take her aside and say something, but I was a mute.

 

I wasn’t convinced she liked Patrick. Only Heather and I understood what was happening: a brilliantly executed revenge plot. Much later, I shared this theory.

 

“I don’t think so. She let me finger her on the front lawn last Thanksgiving.”

 

I still retained my doubts, but admittedly “fingered in the front lawn” is a pretty tough one to come back from. A true checkmate debate ender.  

 

I wrote her a non-proofread, stream of consciousness 24 page letter and confessed everything.

 

In the UConn computer lab sophomore year.

…………………………………………

Greek’s dad grilled burgers and dogs. His mom brought out potato salad, baked beans, devilled eggs, Lays chips. Greek made a Cherry Bomb. It was six o’clock and we had been drinking since one. Was Evans a human cherry bomb readying to blow up this lawn party?  

 

“Thanks Mrs. G, everything is great!”

 

Look who turns into a choirboy around parents! He would probably make $20 million a year running a Fortune 500 company.

 

Greek’s brother arrived with his blonde girlfriend Sarah. Was little bro less scared of girls? It’s always one or the other.  

 

The night gets murkier but I can confidently say Evans and Mickey got baked out of their minds in Greek’s pool house.    

 

“I want a place like this by the time I’m 28,” Evans said.

 

“I don’t care. As long as I can get crunk,” Mickey giggled.

 

“We should go swimming.”

 

“I don’t have a suit.”.

 

“I told you guys to bring suits!” Greek said.

 

Did Kristin bring one?

 

“I remembered the weed! I can’t remember everything!” 

 

“You better not go in my house for a long time. Use this lavender air freshener. My mom will freak the fuck out.”

 

“Relax Greek!” Evans bear hugged him.

 

“Get off me, you homo!”

 

“Oh Greek, you’re so sexy when you’re angry!” He planted a kiss on his cheek and cackled wildly.  

 

“Ewwww GROSS!” He wiped it off. 

 

“Are we going swimming or not?”

 

“Not without a suit. I’ve got one you can borrow”

 

“Fu-u-u-ck no. I’m not going anywhere near where your balls have been.”

 

“It’s been washed.”

 

“There’s not enough Tide in the world.”

 

I think you’re supposed to wait a half hour after getting crunk, but Evans gave the Surgeon General the middle finger, unleashed a barbaric yawp, (“AAAAAAAAAAARRGGHHHHHHHH!! FUUUUUC-----") and belly flopped fully clothed into the shallow end, barely escaping with his life.

 

“Shit for brains! You just got us soaked!” Miguel said.

 

“Sorry guys.”

 

“Shhhhhhhhh! My parents will hear you,” Greek said.

 

“Ask Mr. and Mrs. G to join us!”

 

“Miguel, Kristin. Come in! The water is nice.”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Colin, are you coming in?”

 

“Nah.”

 

They threw me in.

 

The waves slowly subsided and the filter splashing settled down. Greek’s kidney shaped in-ground pool was like the world (2/3 water!) settling back to a state of equilibrium after we cannonball it into a frenzy. Yup, I was crunk too. I treaded water until I got dangerously close to sober. 

 

“Hey, Col. Here’s a towel.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

I draped Greek’s sailboat patterned towel around me. Never swim with jorts. With luck, they will dry off before Labor Day. I rubbed frantically. The blue denim (now black) was unimpressed. I drank a Double Bag (a bit heavy at this stage of night) followed by a Corona. I was wet, but once again too drunk to care.

…………………………………………..

Though separated only a hallway and cafeteria, Industries clients considered the office a Forbidden City while office staff approached Industries like social workers in graffiti and bullet ravaged inner city housing projects: a place to visit rarely, briefly, and for work purposes only. To see an office staffer on the workshop floor was like bumping into Queen Elizabeth at a Pizza Hut.

 

I didn’t worry about running into Mr. Trapp (I didn’t golf) but I couldn’t always avoid Phil. I’d open the door and see a terrifying black beard. I wouldn’t say anything. He would just say, “Excuse me”, his head bowed down, clipboard in hand, and head on his way, the story of my once promising shipping career now a missing brochure on the skid of life.

……………………………………………

June is green grass, blooming azaleas, twittering robins, and bottomless kegs. But when the strawberry moon sets, the buzzing cicadas and chirping crickets whisper you’ve arrived at your destination so best start planning your departure. June whispered sweet lies of eternity but July starts winding the alarm clock.  

 

Back home? Or a lonely one bedroom apartment where widowers and spinsters won’t be very receptive to Bulls On Parade blasting at 12:49 AM?

 

But for now, our 19C neighbors still had an all-day habit. Singers should “just breathe” but if millions of years of evolution hadn’t taught me already what chance did The Complete Idiot’s Guide To Singing have? I gulped air between every line like a deep-sea diver without an oxygen tank. Did they mean inhale before lines or exhale during lines? Sleeve machine instructors were clearer. I’d exhale just before a line but I sounded like I was sighing or just after the first syllable, but I sounded like I just remembered something super important.

 

Make your mouth a tunnel and push air through your chest like you’re filling up a water balloon. Sometimes I forgot and sounded like a dying calf. Your chest (diaphragm?) holds your voice airborne until gravity sinks it. Singing is aviation.

 

This explanation sucks but not as much as The Complete Idiot’s Guide To Singing: $19.95.  

 

I drunkenly improvised a solo in G mixolydian. Some aimless masturbatory fretwork. A bit of Phish’s Guyute thrown in.

 

“Is someone playing guitar?”. Freeman said, climbing the stairs with Mickey.

 

“Hey guys. Just messing around”. I waited for them to say please fucking stop. 

 

“Sounds good!” Freeman said.

 

His ear goggles were fully inserted by 10:45PM on a Saturday but I’ll take it.

 

“Is that a Fender?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Let me try that. I can play!” Mickey said.

 

“Mickey, you can’t play shit. You don’t know any chords.”

 

Against my better judgment, I handed over my guitar. Mickey stood, not bothering with the strap, and savagely thrashed atonal avant-garde solid state distorted rock UConn’s WHUS would have played it constantly.

 

“Mickey, stop! I think I’m bleeding internally,” David Fricke said.

 

My guitar banged against the carpet (I should have insisted on the strap) as his composition reached a final dissonant, non-chordal crescendo.  

 

“Mickey! Can I have that back?” I asked.  

 

Just a little out of tune. Buy Mexican. 

 

I was the Eddie Van Halen of 19B, but if Mickey auditioned for Pavement, he would have gotten the gig.  

………………………………………

Greek finally stood up to Evans at the beer pong table.

 

“Greek, it wasn’t your turn.”

 

“You’re not the boss of me!”

 

“Yes I am.”

 

“Don’t touch me, man. I know karate! You know what? I’m the biggest star here, man. THAT’s the way it is! I wanna fuck, it’s my big dick. You’re not my boss! You’re not the king of me. I am the king of Dirk! You’re nothing without me, Jack. You’re fucking nothing Jack!”  

 

“We’ll just get Chest Rockwell to sub.”

 

So Greek just re-enacted Boogie Nights but you must walk before you can run.

 

Storrs had its own d boogie nights.   

 

“Col, do you remember last night?” Greek asked. 

 

I was on the couch, more dead than alive.

 

“Yeah. Where did…….we go?.

 

“Hopkins’s place. Do you remember doing cocaine?”

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah.” He laughed.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“You did.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I’m positive.”

 

“Oh God.”

 

We’ve reached our story’s nadir, my rock bottom. I was a cokehead. Where was the VH1 camera crew? Behind The Sewing? I couldn’t just say no? Nancy Reagan wondered why she ever fucking bothered.

 

The living room fan blew hot air which suffocated more than hugged. Domino’s pizza boxes spread everywhere. I ate a slice. Never eat leftover Dominos after a coke binge. I drank Gatorade. Do antioxidants work on blow?

 

The Orioles got out the brooms and swept the Red Sox four straight. 

 

“And good riddance to Baltimore” Sean McDonough signed off.

 

It was so hot.

 

I took a chair out to the lawn with my Washburn and strummed the A and weird G chord intro of Tangled Up In Blue and very quietly sang the opening verse. 

 

It was the dog days of summer.  

…………………………………………

“Col, I’m going home for the rest of the summer. I’m doing landscaping. I’m leaving the place to you.”

 

“Okay. I’ll try to guard it.”

 

”I’ll still come up a few times.”

 

Didn’t anyone realize this was my last summer on earth? Evans ruined everything. No one seemed to mind me hanging out without Greek, but was I subleasing his friends too? I’d probably never see them again. Just like when brother’s friends became my friends until they weren’t.

 

I went up to Miguel’s room and sat on the floor. 

 

“Hey,” I said.  

 

“What’s up, dude?”    

 

The heat was getting to everyone.

 

“Miggy, can you turn that down? I’m trying to read,” Kristin said. 

 

“Kristin, it’s not even loud.”

 

“It’s those explosions every 10 seconds. It’s giving me a migraine.”

 

“Kristin.”

 

Should I leave?

 

Orange, yellow and green fish placidly swam in their huge tank, blasé about machine gun fire and lover’s quarrels.

 

“Kristin, do you really need dead silence for Us Weekly? How are Brad and Gwynneth?”

 

“It’s Brad and Jennifer now! You play that stupid game all day and night!”

 

“Okay, I’ll turn it down. But you don’t have to be a bitch about it.” 

 

The orange fish swam ahead of the yellow one. Were they racing? 

 

“Oh, that’s nice. Well maybe you don’t want me around anymore. I’ll go fuck someone else.”

 

You don’t say.

 

“Kristin.”

 

No, I don’t think the fish were racing.

 

“Well, talk to you later guys!” I said.

 

So…..any leading “fuck someone else” candidates? Bros before hos? I wasn’t even in Miguel's fraternity. I could hear our Violent Femmes duets already.

 

Did she say that for my benefit? Stop it. 

 

If teases are drugs, Kristin was my cocaine. 

………………………………………

Last summer’s panic was gone, which just goes to show if you replace your mom’s broccoli casserole, fresh garden tomatoes, roadside stand corn on the cob, and a tall glass of milk with cigarettes, “ice” beer, Jaegerbombs, Car Bombs, Cherry Bombs, Subway steak and cheeses with extra mayo, super sized Value Meals, bong hits, psilocybin, nitrous oxide, and (alleged) cocaine, your mental and physical health can turn right around. 

 

People help too, even would-be domestic terrorists whose love for fire  made Beavis look like Smokey The Bear, money laundering leaders of the blind, snake charming metalheads, and townies—no wait, townies don’t fucking help at all. 

 

Dan called one afternoon. I took Greek’s white phone to the back deck. I thought cordless phones were a solution in search of a problem, but like speedballs, I’d try them once.  

 

“What’s up Jake?”

 

“Why so somber, Dan? Did Carrie Bellinger finally tell you she’d rather get ebola than have sex with you?”

 

“Very funny Jake. I just got some bad news.”

 

“Oh no. What?”

 

“Have you heard of chiari malformation?”

 

“Um, maybe.”

 

“Basically your skull is too small so your brain pushes into your spinal canal.”

 

“Oh man. You have that?”

 

“What a detective.”

 

“How did you find out?”

 

“I’ve had headaches and dizziness for a few months. They did an MRI. You’re born with it.”

 

“What can they do about it?”

 

“I’m having surgery next month.”

 

“Oh wow. Are you scared?”

 

“Jake, THEY’RE GOING TO OPEN UP MY SKULL. Any wild guesses here?” 

 

“Okay, sorry. I’m sure you will be okay. They probably do this surgery all the time. Do you know Jackie Decker? She had a brain tumor. This isn’t as bad as that, right?”

 

“I guess not. Doesn’t really help me much, though. It’s better than a brain tumor. Let’s have a kegger!”

 

“After you recover, let’s have one. I’ll buy the beer. And maybe Carrie will do you after all. Brain surgery survivor is a classic panty dropper.”

 

I finally made him laugh.

 

“How’s college life? Oh wait…..didn’t you graduate a year and a half ago?”

 

“I might still go to grad school! Or back to Ellington in September. I don’t know.”

 

“I’m sure you will have five more addresses before Christmas. I hope my card gets to you.”

 

“I think we both know a card isn’t happening.”

 

“You never know Jake. This could be the year.”

 

“Good luck with the surgery. But I’m sure you won’t need it!”

 

“Thanks. Hey, you still owe my dad money for the backboard you broke and the lawn you wrecked.” 

 

“I’m so glad those won’t be your last words. Thank God we’ll have the pleasure of many more conversations. Plenty of room for improvement.”

 

“Talk to you later, Rob Reiner.”

 

“Later—and don’t worry it’s going to be fine!”

 

Dan had married parents, an unnecessarily firm handshake, a 6’9” vertical, and a former paper route—I was just the sub. The script writers kept inventing barely plausible plot twists. 

………………………………………

Nina started hanging around so much we could have asked her to chip in on rent if we weren’t subleasers from hell. Greek came back too. No one could resist Carriage House’s gravitational pull. Had they also found their hometowns deserted? Was UConn their only social circle now? Or was I the only one this happened to?

 

Pony pulled up in his red IROC-Z. Two parking spaces were available. He parked on the lawn.

 

“The world is my playground!”

 

“Pony. You’re ripping up the lawn!” 

 

“Freakshow! Shannon and I are going swimming at Ashford Lake. Want to come?”

 

“Okay. Colin, want to come?”

 

“Sure.”

 

It was a hot Sunday afternoon. Any guesses what I did Saturday night? A swim might nurse me back to health. I went upstairs and changed into my blue bathing suit.   

 

Miguel and Kristin didn’t go—either not speaking, fighting or having passionate makeup sex. My dreams of seeing her in a bikini were dashed once again. 

 

Storrs/ Mansfield wasn’t exactly midtown Manhattan, but Ashford, twenty miles east, was squeal like a piggy territory.

 

We fought trees and branches down to the lake. I didn’t see a beach. Were we supposed to be here?

 

“Want to swim out and back?” Pony asked.

 

The lake spread out further than my weak eyes could see. We took off our shirts, socks and shoes and dove in. It felt nice on this muggy, hazy day, but could you die swimming with a bad hangover? We turned around at the far end—maybe I saw a beach fifty feet to the left?--and started back. The way back seemed even farther. Was the expanding universe using this lake as a trial balloon? Were my companions all former swim team captains? This was my penance for another weekend of punishing my body, mind, and soul. Wash away your sins at Ashford Lake. I was so done with drinking–assuming I lived to set foot on dry land.   

 

When I was five, I took swimming lessons at Sun Valley in Stafford Springs. My dad went on to too many calls involving drowned city kids who couldn’t swim so he wanted us to learn early. He needn’t have worried. Long after I masteredg the butterfly, the crawl, the breaststroke, and floating on my back, I was too scared to swim over my head and let’s not even talk about the water slide. I climbed the ladder, glanced gingerly down at the treacherous whirlpool below, and, frozen in terror, aborted mission and descended back down to the safety of sea level—my head bowed in shame as the brave kids cleared space for the yellow haired, yellow bellied wuss in a yellow bathing suit.

 

After encouraging words from my mom and brother (his motivational pitch was “Colin, stop being such a baby!”) and countless self-actualization themed interior monologues sprinkled with Journey and Triumph lyrics, I chanced instant death.

 

The waterslide was the greatest thing I’d ever experienced. The bubbling water hugged you before gently splashing you into the welcoming lake below. No treacherous enemy after all, water made you happy! It was almost impossible to fall off the slide and plunge to your death! Soaring with confidence, I swam out to the raft and, like a budding deep sea diver, touched my feet against the slippery, sandy bottom ten feet below!  

 

Too bad water was going to kill me after all. Thanks for trying, Dad. Wait twenty four hours to swim after a last call jack and cranberry. Of course drinkers just try to recapture the thrill of swimming over their heads for the first time.   

 

I lived.

 

“Man, that was farther than I thought”, I casually noted as we got dressed.

 

“Gets out the cobwebs,” Pony said.

 

Shannon wore a dark purple bikini. She wrapped herself in a towel. I guiltily looked away. No wonder the world was Pony’s playground. She wasn’t quite Kristin (who was?) but she was a cute brunette with a slim alabaster body. I’d be the luckiest sheltered workshop worker alive if she was my Playscape partner. Girls were like waterslides I turned my back to, rafts I was afraid to swim out to. And before you say these analogies are unhinged and wildly problematic, something you might expect from 2 Live Crew and Van Hagar lyrics, get your mind out of the gutter. This is family entertainment. I’m in preliminary talks with The Disney Channel on a heartwarming adaptation.    

……………………………………           

I could only read so many box scores, Saving Private Ryan previews, and “real” news stories: a Dallas diocese paid $23.4 million to nine sexually abused altar boys, Rusell Weston stormed into the Capitol and killed two cops, the Oval Office blowjob investigation was about to get blown wide open, and Japan, the US, and Russia launched--thank God--a probe to Mars.

 

I force fed classifieds. The Old State House was hiring an Executive Assistant. My bus stopped right in front! Processing invoices, answering phone calls, filing…..

 

“I need to write a cover letter. Can I use the computer room,” I asked Melissa.

 

“Oh great! No problem!”

 

She got the key. Did she think I was showing her up? Stop.

 

I wouldn’t tell them I’m blind. I’ve never even met a blind person, have you? If cornered, I was prepared to say Songs In The Key Of Life sucks and Helen Keller was an America hating Commie. I worked for the State Of Connecticut, Department of Economic and Community Development, Brochure Shipping and Handling Department as an Associate Manager. I hoped to, planned to, eagerly anticipated expanding upon my professional skills managing brochure shipments in a timely and efficient manner. I carefully tracked inventory and loaded/unloaded skids in a fast-paced work environment. 

 

They bought it.

 

Naturally, the one day I wore a long sleeved shirt, tie, and sports coat, it was the hottest day of summer! I spilled coffee on my pants after the bus driver gunned it before everyone was properly seated. I got body slammed by a 350 pound-gentleman. Dunkin’ lids are a joke.

 

A glass sign in State House Square commemorated someone, but I couldn’t read it. This narcissist didn’t care. I peered around the words and, like the back of a CD, treated it like a mirror. 2:30 interview. Only 2:12? I looked pretty good. If I wore a suit every day would I constantly get laid? 

 

“Hi, I’m here for my 2:30 interview.”

 

“Your name?”

 

“Colin McDonough.”

 

“One moment please. (Picks up phone). Linda, your 2:30 is here.”

 

The ping of an elevator preceded the echo of high heels.

 

“Hello Colin! I’m Linda Smith. Care to follow me upstairs?” 

 

Middle aged blonde hair. We climbed a beautiful winding, golden staircase to her office. The scenic route.   

 

“Have a seat.”

 

Immaculate desk.

 

“Thank you for your interest in our agency.”

 

“Absolutely!”

 

“Did you have any trouble with parking?”

 

“Actually, it wasn’t too bad today, believe it or not.” 

 

As she outlined the job duties I focused on maintaining perfect eye contact at all times like the sighted job applicant I was. It felt like staring into the sun without sunglasses. You don’t need good vision to have good eye contact, you just follow the voice, but I had shy habits disguised as blind habits. My forced unwavering gaze probably made me look like a serial killer. Or possibly I just fractured my cervical spine?  

 

“Why don’t I let you read the job duties and then we can discuss them.”

 

I almost dropped the paper out of fear of dropping it. I frantically swatted it four times before securing the catch. I gently placed it on her desk and peered down intently for a minute and a half. It was two feet away: one foot and eleven inches too far for me to read it. 11 font Times New Roman. No money in the budget for sensitivity training? My one semester of Drama (a nightmare) finally paid off. I moved the paper further away gradually while I fake read each item until it was almost halfway across her desk before I “finished.” Stanislavsky would have applauded this method acting masterclass.     

 

“Do you have any questions?”

 

“No it looks pretty self- explanatory.”

 

“You would be working for Mr. Fundy, the Executive Director.”

 

Would I need to call him Mr. Fundy?

 

“We manage a $200,000 budget and spend a considerable amount of time lobbying the legislature. Mr. Fundy periodically must fight to keep us open. You would answer calls, run spreadsheets. Are you proficient in Office?”

 

“Yes, I’ve done spreadsheets in Excel.”

 

I played around with it. Incel, excel. Macros were a bridge too far.

 

“Would you like to take a tour?”

 

“Okay.”

 

She led me to a golden room with large two- tiered windows and oversized chairs placed around a long table. Massive portraits of Founding Father guys in white wigs hung on the walls. The room was a butterscotch daydream.

 

“Wow, looks nice!” I noted, demonstrating both my fine-tuned aesthetic sensibilities and hawklike visual acuity.

 

“This is a replica of the 1789 General Assembly when Connecticut ratified the Constitution.”

 

Ellington’s rep’s vote was, “Oh hell no!” Get out of his face with that Federalist crap. Ebeneezer Something. The guy was such an Ebeneezer.

 

“Wow!”

 

“It’s part of our recent $9 million renovation. Let’s take a walk down the hall.”

 

A giant ship sat beside a large sign with text I couldn’t read. I prayed for no pop quiz.   

 

“This is a replica of The Amistad. The trial began here in 1839.”

 

A slave revolt. White saviors fixed everything. Spielberg’s legal drama played ceaselessly on illegal cable. I watched ten minutes. It was no Boogie Nights. Any Rollergirl lifesize replicas?

 

“Oh yeah, Amistad. I’ve been meaning to watch that. It looks good!”

 

“It’s fabulous. Let me introduce you to Mr. Fundy.”

 

THE Mr. Fundy?

 

A graying gentleman in a red bow tie sat at his desk. I was feeling better about my coffee-stained pants all the time.

 

“Colin is interviewing for the assistant job.”

 

“Greetings, Colin!”

 

He stood up and shook my hand.

 

“Nice to meet you!”

 

I’m never getting this job.

 

We went back to Linda’s office.

 

“We will be in touch. We have a few more candidates to interview this week.”   

 

An Amistad stowaway form Sierra Leone would have stood a better chance. Maybe Mr. Fundy wanted his own Monica. You don’t lace up a bow tie unless you’re planning to give the ladies the vapors. Man cannot live on historical preservation alone. Blue dress applicants only? 

 

I got home (much) later and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. Kate and Amira stopped by at 7.

 

“I saw you walk home all dressed up. What was the occasion?” Kate said. 

 

“Just to see you, Kate.”

 

“Oooooooooo,” she gushed.

 

Whoa. That didn’t sound like mockery. I didn’t expect that. Best thing that happened all day.

 

“I had a job interview.”

 

“How do you think you did?”

 

“Okay I guess.”  

 

I received a letter a week later with some very exciting news.

 

They planned to keep my resume on file. 

 

My clever ruse probably fooled no one. My eyes move involuntarily. Nystagmus. At the first grade bus stop kids called Patrick and me Cylons: the evil alien robots from Battlestar Galactica intent on destroying humanity. Their single red eye incessantly moved from side to side. We were blue eyed Cylons open for discussions on earthlings’ survival.  

 

I heard back from William H. Fundy--in the Courant’s editorial page. Regionalism is a calamitous idea. Our 169 independent New England villages, the envy of De Tocqueville, must be preserved. West Hartford is not obliged to bail out Hartford because they can’t keep their own financial house in order. Shared property tax proposals are misguided and reckless. 

………………………………………   

“Hey, have you heard any new job leads?” I asked Melissa two days later.

 

“There’s a job fair in New Haven if you’re interested.”

 

“Okay.” 

 

A short, weary looking woman walked over.

 

“Hi Donna!” Melisssa said.

 

“Adam wants me to ask if you can serve on the interview committee for the new clerical.”

 

“Oh sure! I’d be happy to!”

 

“Great. I’ll let him know.”

 

“You’re hiring clerical? Would I…..qualify for that?”

 

“Oh….yeah! I think so. I would say you are very qualified. We’d love to have you over here!”

 

I wrote another lunch break cover letter. I was getting more prolific than Stephen King. Lying about brochures was a non-starter obviously, but I made sleeve machine operation sound like designing the Apple II with a screwdriver, which actually wasn’t too farfetched.   

 

A week later a short, bushy haired, heavily cologned guy in a white shirt and red tie stopped at the patch machine.

 

“Hey there Colin. I’m Adam. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m the Voc Rehab director. Janet from our clerical staff is going on maternity leave in two months. Would you be interested in filling in to gain job experience?”

 

“Umm……sure that sounds good.”

 

“Human Resources screened  the applications for the Clerk/Typist position. You just didn’t have the experience.”  

………………………………………

A random girl walked in. Turns out this happens a lot when you’re subleasing an apartment.

 

Blonde and extremely tall. Uh….oh.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hi.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

“I’m Colin. And you?”

 

“Nicole.”

 

I leapt from couch #2 and positioned myself diagonal to the back wall.

 

“Where’s Greek?”

 

Was she The Terminator?

 

“He went home I think.” 

 

Actually he was around the night before and might still be, but it seemed wise to place him forty miles from the crime scene.

 

“Let me look at the hole!”

 

So much for Operation Human Shield. 

 

“What the FUCK!?”

 

“Yeah Evans should not have done that. He got a bad hand and kicked the wall? The guy’s got anger issues!”  

 

“Uggggggh! Greek is paying for this!”

 

Did she not hear a word I said? It was just impossible to throw Evans under the bus. He was 6’4”, pudgy, and beer bellied with a lazy, lispy drawl. He lived in golf shirts and sandals. He cackled at his own bad jokes. After I said I felt like a train ran over me he said, “I’ve never been hungover in my life. If I get enough sleep, I’m fine.” And he was NOT a responsible social drinker. Was it because he was bigger or did his invincibility reach biochemical levels? If alcohol couldn’t get to this kid, what chance did we have?

 

Meanwhile Greek was nervous, he giggled, he feared his mom, he strained to impress with silk boxers, entertainment systems, and fruity beverages. He knew right from wrong. An easy target!

 

Evans lounged behind a bullet proof wall of lazy confidence which was FAR more impenetrable than Carriage House’s postwar drywall. Kick it and you will only stub your toe.  

…………………………………………..

I started hanging out with Kate and Amira in 2C. Look who wasn’t afraid of girls!  We watched Great Expectations on (legal) cable. 90’s Hollywood made literary classics fun and sexy. Leo DiCaprio and Claire Danes transformed Romeo and Juliet into a steamy yet suitable for pre-teens music video, a blank verse version of INXS’s Suicidal Blonde. Now Dickens got the extreme makeover. Pip and Estella became Finn and Estella. I was with Ethan Hawke in Dead Poet’s Society, I grew concerned with coo coo for Cocoa Puffs goateed, Winona seducing Troy in Reality Bites, but Finn in an adaptation of my favorite freshman high school novel was the last straw. Mrs. Bass said Pip and Estella didn’t end up together in Dickens’ original version, but outraged Victorian readers demanded a happy ending. So his class system themes took a backseat. Chimney sweepers needed a convincing love story, not a sooty mirror.

 

Before Finn and Estella did it, Gwynneth said, “I want you inside me”. Do girls say that in real life? They usually said to me, “I want you outside me” but of course I didn’t have a goatee. Before she marries a rich dork, Finn stood outside Estella’s high rise and drunkenly shouted, “I DID ALL THIS IS FOR YOU!!” Okay, psycho. Can’t you just write an incoherent letter and slip it under her door at 1:30 AM like a proper gentleman?

 

“This is getting wayyyy intense,” Kate said.

 

“I think I’m about to have a seizure,” Amira seconded.

 

Me too. It was 10:49 PM and I had to get up at 6:05 AM.

 

“Well goodnight.”

 

“Good night Colin!”

……………………………..

We went to keggers at Blue House and Knollwood Apartments. We often ran into Mike Guilinao: a tall, bespectacled former Jungle floormate. Kate’s ex-boyfriend—or hookup. College “relationships” eluded easy classification.   

 

We stood in a circle, red Solo cups in hand, as someone blared the new Beastie Boys CD Hello Nasty out the window.

 

“I can’t believe they let Iranians here! Can I see your Green Card?” Guiliano shouted from across the yard. 

 

“Die, Mike!” Amira laughed.

 

“Please don’t get mad. I don’t want you to firebomb my house!”

 

Mike believed xenophobia was the ultimate aphrodisiac. 

 

“You’re Iranian?” I said. She had black hair but I thought she was, I don’t know, Italian? I’m blind.

 

“Yes.”

 

“But you don’t have an accent. Born here?”

 

“I was born in Tehran but we moved when I was four.”

 

So exotic.

 

“Have you gone back to Iran?”

 

“Ear-On”.

 

“Sorry. Ear-On.”

 

“Yes, in high school.”

 

I didn’t ask if she was afraid of getting firebombed but maybe that’s just if you’re a blond, blue-eyed infidel? See? I was no better. Good thing I was only on my second beer. I just knew the Shah was a jerkoff—at least that’s what everyone said when I was 7. Carter couldn’t free the hostages but gunslinging Western star Reagan rode into town—or something like that. Oh and the Persians were the only ones the Romans could never conquer.

 

Who would conquer Dorna? The guy who pronounced her ancestral homeland correctly or the one who put her on a terror watch list? You never knew with girls!

 

Not that it mattered. Joe had firebombed Amira’s heart.

 

“Oh my God, he’s here!” 

 

“Amira! Get a hold of yourself,” Kate said. 

 

Joe coolly smoked a cig. He was another Rastafarian with starter dreadlocks and a background in lacrosse and Bob’s Big Boy employment.

 

Kate drove me home and we passed Giuliano going the other way. He leaned out the window and barbarically yawped into the tranquil Storrs night, “YEAHHHH!!!! KATE! COLIN! PARTY NAKED! WOO!!!!! FUUUUUUUCK YEAH!!!!!!!!”

 

This was ALL FOR YOU, KATE. HE DID IT FOR YOU. 

 

“I can only take him in small doses,” she said.  

 

“Yeah, I can see that.”

……………………………………………

I met my with mom the next day. I stayed up past 2:30AM and set my alarm for 11:40AM, so let’s call it brunch. Kathy John’s : proudly serving earth’s greasiest burgers since 1968. Grease cures hangovers, right?  

 

“Are you staying in the fall?” 

 

“No, the girls we’re subleasing from are coming back.”  

 

“You can come home anytime, but how will you get to work?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Are you feeling okay?”

 

Did I look ashen?

 

“Yeah, I went to a party last night. Just tired.” I yawned.  

 

Holy crap I had a stage V hangover. Kill me. I had to stop drinking like this. I just needed to eat. Why was it taking so long? Were they killing the cow out back? Why were the kids at the candy rack sooooo loud? With mom lunch plans, I intended a very light drinking night (I know you’ve heard this one before) but the best laid plans of mice and keg killing men fade in the summer sunset.

 

“How are you doing?” I said. 

 

“I’m good. I’m leaving for the Dublin office in three weeks.”

 

“That should be good, right?”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

My refuge from the silent, spooky labyrinth of Woodside Acres was Storrs and my mom’s safe haven was Dublin.  She was Stephen Daedalus in reverse.   

 

“I had Andrea and Mrs. Dawson over for last week…..”

 

I was happy she wasn’t always home alone in the empty house. I couldn’t even think about that. 

 

My Greaselover’s Special arrived. Help me, grease, you’re my only hope. Does it work because, while it might cause your heart to give up, at least you’re not hungover anymore?

 

The check took a thousand years. I couldn’t wait to take a nap, go for a run, shower, and drink water. I’d feel like new before I poisoned myself all over again--drowning both my Maplewood past and my blank future. Party naked!

………………………………………

Kids congregated on the lower-level outdoor foyer in Celeron to drink and smoke. I saw Joe. We had never spoken.

 

“Hey dude, I’m Colin. I’m friends with Amira.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“She really likes you, you know.”

 

“I know. But she’s kind of weird.”

 

He exhaled and deftly flicked his ash.

 

“But that’s what’s cool about her.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

I was a poor defense attorney and a worse matchmaker. Well I tried. Now the real challenge: don’t tell Amira. Do not imagine it’s “for her own good.” Keep your stupid mouth shut for once buddy! 

…………………………………………

I sewed patches and listened to The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Aeroplane on Radio 104. This song shouldn’t have left the runway, but they played it constantly.   

 

I received a tap on my right shoulder. I jumped ten feet. My second coffee--- the lunchroom’s Ethiopian Motor Oil blend—didn’t help. I took off my headphones. A smiling, bespectacled middle aged Asian gentleman handed me a yellow piece of paper and motioned to please read. 

 

“Hello. My name is Triem Vu. I am Vietnamese. I am war refuge. I came to America to make better life for my children. I am blind. I was exposed to a deadly cemical Agent Orange. But after many trials and tribyoulations, I came to this country with my wife and too children. I am getting divorce. I love my children so vary much. I want to find better life for them. I have good job skills. I work as an pharmassist in Vietnam. I am a hard worker. I am in Voke Rehab. Moolissa is my cownselor. Thank you for reeding. Thank you. Sinsearly, Triem Vu”.

 

Either English was Triem’s second language or his prose style was heavily influenced by Finnegans Wake.

 

I held the paper to my face, stalling for time. Can he speak English? Otherwise, what’s with writing a letter? Wait, look who’s talking.     

 

“Um, very good. I can help you with your spelling and grammar if you like?”

 

J.D. O’Connor to his Anne Beattie without the door slamming. 

 

I handed it back.

 

“Have a good day,” he said.

 

So that was a no? Not going to write their term paper or their screenplay? Literally no one wants the help of an English major.

 

Was it a plea for money? Divorce lawyers? Child support? No one opposed Cold War foreign policy more than me. The Best and The Brightest was totally on my reading list. I’d read some Chomsky, even going as far as to look up “hegemony” and declare it a dirty word on sight. I’d watched every Vietnam movie including Hamburger Hill. I told myself REM’s Orange Crush wasn’t vastly inferior to Green deep cuts. But I had $42.33 to my name and $7 of that would go towards my Peter Pan bus. Crawling towards pay day, I couldn’t foot the bill for discredited Domino Theories.   

 

Fuck off, Robert McNamara.

………………………………………….

“They want you over at sweatpants,” a guy said. 

 

“Oh, okay,” I said.

 

“You’re supposed to press down that hard on the foot control,” he added with a rubbery, Jim Carrey smirk.

 

“Okay……thanks.”

 

He was probably in his early 30’s and he did not appear to have cognitive deficits—just ask him. My brother in arms was probably yet another employable blind young man in a Dot.Com Boom slowly sinking in quicksand.

 

I considered him highly suspect.  

………………………………………….

“Are you going to Dave Matthews?” Kate asked.

 

“Uh…..I want to but I don’t have a ticket. And I’m kind of broke.”

 

“You can go with us. A lot of people are just going to tailgate.”

 

“We’re going with my cousin’s friend Bill. He’s 26,” Amira said.

 

What a dinosaur. I would have sooner told them I had herpes or loved Michael Bolton ballads than my age. I was a cradle robber. Bill and I could reminisce about watching Eight Is Enough in primetime and Reagan getting shot. These 21 year olds just wouldn’t understand. 

 

“It’s so hot. I don’t even know if I want to go,” Amira said.

 

“I’m sweating my balls off--not that I have any,” Kate said. 

 

I found this kind of hot. A verbal confirmation that, just as you probably suspected, she has a vagina. The heat was getting to me too. 

 

Fuck it. It was August 1st and we had paid our final month’s rent to Nina. The ATM machine by the Co-Op said I possessed a king’s ransom of $432 after my SSI check cleared. Eat, drink, and be merry, tripping billies.

 

Bill was tall with an Ethan Hawke goatee. When you’re that old, you might as well grow facial hair. I clung to the baby faced look but was this Watergate Baby really fooling anyone?

 

We arrived at 4:30. No one asked me to chip in for parking so… The lots were filled with cars and grills as far as my weak eyes could almost see. Kids tossed footballs. DMB shows were parking lot parties with a live band performing at night. For some.

 

“Colin, we need a sub. Bill and Alcia went to the bathroom.”

 

“Okay.”

 

My farsighted eyes could see the sloping board 10 feet away. I could even see the holes at the top. After four mandatory practice tosses to prove how seriously I took cornholing at jam band concerts I tossed my red beanbag through the soupy air. It landed on the left board northwest of the hole and rested there for nearly as long as the Jimi Thing jam on a neighbor’s car stereo, but gravity had other ideas. The bag slid off and lied defeated on the ground.  

 

“Oh so close! Good try Col!” Amira said.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“I wonder where Joe is parked. I think he said Lot E. Who wants to go for a walk?”

 

“Amira! Let him find us. And your bra straps are hanging out.”

 

To stay hydrated in the dangerous heat I twisted off my 4^th alcoholic beverage.  

 

“Anyone know where the Port-A-Potties are?”

 

“Walk straight down, they’re in the back right before the trees. Want me to show you?” Kate said.

 

“I think I can find them, thanks.”   

 

I followed the long gravel runway. If I went with guys, I would have done the manly thing and pissed at the car—behind an opened door to show class.   

 

The endless line was 80 percent female, 20 percent poser. Another car stereo ran through jammed out versions of Rapunzel and Don’t Drink The Water from Hersheypark before my turn finally arrived. This was the greatest moment of my life. Once inside, you turned the plastic handle to the left to indicate a red light, but I had an irrational fear of locking myself in a Port-A-Potty and being left for dead and this was night two of DMB’s stay, so this green plastic powder room was a biohazard. So I adopted a hybrid strategy: press my right leg against the door to create unexpected resistance for any green lit intruders. Contorting myself this way while peeing probably aggravated my sciatica for life.  

 

“Someone’s in there?!”, a scandalized girl observed while pushing in vain.  

 

“Be out in a minute!”

 

”Oh. My. Goddda. Why didn’t he just lock it??” Her friends laughed.   

 

I see my hell is a Port-a-Potty I’m stuck inside/

Can’t see the light/

And my Heaven is an/

Icehouse in the sky.

 

“I GOT YOUR TICKETS HERE! PAVILION AND LAWN!”

 

“Hey, do you know if the show is sold out?” I asked hackey sackers. 

 

“We’re just here to party, bro. There’s some hot bitches here!” a shirtless, lecherous young man in a backwards Dallas Cowboys hat said. 

 

“Okay, thanks.”

 

Chad Dog was a dead end. I saw a tie-dye T-shirt wearing graybeard. Had to be a scalper. Poor freedom rockers were reduced to selling DMB tickets to Gen Xers while their sugar magnolias wilted in the blistering late afternoon sun.  

 

“Hey, do you have one lawn seat? I have $50.”

 

“$60, man. That’s the cheapest price you will find. Believe me.”

 

I wasn’t sure I believed him, but I still gave him the money that should have gone to a Vietnamese agent orange victim. Are we sure hippies stopped the war?

 

I walked into two wrong rows before I found the car.  

 

“If we get separated, we’re in lot B. Red Acura,” Kate said. 

 

I took a Sierra Nevada for the line at the front gate. I wasn’t exactly a concert going rookie.

 

“Fuck yeah! DMB Woooooooooooo!!!!!”

 

“Warehouse!.”

 

“Show us your tits!”

 

“Sit on my face!”

 

I knew Warehouse. Were Show Us Your Tits and Sit on My Face Under The Table And Dreaming B-sides?  

 

Boy was everyone excited to see their favorite tenor sax and fiddle playing band under the stars! Will this line ever end? Was my ticket even legit? A gray-haired woman scanned it. It beeped.

 

“Enjoy the show!”

 

I’ll never doubt a hippie again.   

 

There were endless beer stands, a merch stand, a wine stand, a popcorn stand, and a wristband table lining the outside walk area. Kids sat on a small grassy knoll. Nothing beats a concert. There’s no better place on earth. I got separated from Kate and Amira after four minutes. I can’t believe it took that long. No problem. We were in D lot. Or was it B? C? E? Damnit, why do so many letters rhyme?

 

I trudged up the hill to the lawn with thousands of my drunkest friends. The pastel-colored fried dough stand beckoned on my right. It smelled so good. There was no way I’d still have bus money on Monday. I took a spot near the bottom of the lawn as the lights went out and they launched into Seek Up. My favorite DMB song!

 

Right in front of me, two beverage lovers settled it with their fists.

 

“You stepped on my blanket, asshole! Watch where you’re going!”

 

“Or what?”

 

I moved twenty steps to my left. I became a blanket stepper myself fifteen minutes later.

 

“You stepped on my arm, shit for brains! Are you blind?”

 

“Basically.” 

 

A conversation to my right during a lengthy fiddle solo.    

 

“I’ve got a studio in Vernon. You should come visit.”

 

Artist? Musician?

 

“Okay, we’ll see.”

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

Tall, balding guy; young, thin blonde in a white tank top.

 

“Have you done shoots before?”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you willing to do nudes?”

 

Wait….what?

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Do you have The Web? I have a website. You could make a lot of money.” 

 

This loser probably didn’t know a single word to Pay For What You Get OR Cry Freedom. Jack Horner here, probably a Molly Hatchet fan, came to recruit fresh meat!

 

I was on Beer #6. Roughly. A $12 Sam Adams Summer Ale. RIP SSI. Any guesses how I handled this typical situation?

 

“You’re an ASSHOLE! What are you a porn guy? You’re a fucking CREEP, man!”

 

It’s not a party until moral indignation kicks in.     

 

He sized me up. Then shoved me. Hard. I crashed into four people and fell to the ground, my beer 83% lost.  

 

“What the FUCK!? Asshole, you just spilled my beer!” a girl said.  

 

A domino theory finally proved correct.   

 

“Sorry. That lowlife pushed me. Don’t talk to him. You’ll end up like Rollergirl!”

 

I moved thirty more feet to my left to avoid getting my ass kicked defending the honor of a girl who possibly felt her honor was getting her nowhere in life. Somehow I hung onto my binoculars: my concert and sporting event lifeline. The band still looked like Lilliputians at the bottom of a hill, but it beat low definition Brobdignabians on the giant video screens. There was a tap on my left shoulder during the Crush sax solo.

 

“So you use those to see everything?”.

 

“Yes, I have bad eyesight.”

 

“I need some of those. I can’t see good either!”

 

Should I tell him Industries is looking for a new brochure guy?

 

“Yeah…….you should get some!” 

 

He re-tapped during The Stone. 

 

“How much to buy those off of you?”

 

“Well I don’t……know. How much would you pay?”

 

“I’ll give you $100! No wait. (Reaches into wallet, thumbs through). I’ll give you $140!”

 

Nope. I definitely don’t think he’d accept a Industries pay. Midas is probably from Simsbury like Brandon.

 

My binoculars survived getting thrown in a giant puddle at Woodstock ‘94 while mud caked Nine Inch Nails apocalyptically raged about marching pigs. I couldn’t let them go. He was a fool to offer so much. I only paid $40. But weeks of Peter Pan fare? More beer? Is this the exact kind of thinking that lures nubile girls into nude photo shoots in shade drawn Rockville studio apartments?

 

“Are you sure you need to see better? Look, He’s up on the video screen!”

 

Dave plucked his black Gibson Chet Atkins Special. Even I could almost see beads of pixelated sweat.

 

“Come on, man.”

 

“Okay, Deal.”

 

So the show became a big screened Pay Per View event. I bought a 30 ounce Coors Light with my blood money.

 

On to the cringey Lover Lay Down. Another tap. This time a tall dude in a blue golf shirt. Hugo Boss? Izod over here.

 

“How much did he give you?”

 

“$140.”

 

He reached into his (black genuine leather) wallet.

 

“Here’s $200. I’ll give this to you right now. Just go over there and say you want to buy your binoculars back. You will still come out $60 ahead.”

 

“This is one of the weirdest things that’s ever happened to me.”

 

My satisfied customer was grinning ecstatically. I tapped him. Leroi Moore’s silky smooth flute solo helped negotiations go more smoothly.

 

“These are pretty awesome!” 

 

“I know but hey dude, I changed my mind. Can I buy them back from you? I can’t see the show without them.”

 

“What did he say to you?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

He looked deep in thought.

 

“No! I like these! I think I want to keep them!”

 

I walked back to my spot—now occupied by four stumbling lovers struggling to not lay down. I moved behind them.

 

Tap.

 

“What happened?”

 

“He wouldn’t sell them.”

 

“He’s just really fucked up. Go back over there and say, ‘I want my fucking binoculars back’. He’ll back down. If he still says no, get security and say he stole them.”

 

These didn’t sound like good ideas at all. I‘d already been shoved to the ground by a pornographer, was a black eye from a binocular enthusiast next?

 

“I think I’ll just let him keep them. He seems to really like them!”

 

I handed him his $200 back. I hoped he might decline due to my emotional distress, but he was a much better financial planner than either his buddy or me. Pay Per View it was. I was getting far too drunk to care.

 

Dave strummed the opening weird B chord to Crash. Any girls want to make out? This is what we paid for!

 

I guess not.

 

Then a Bob Marley cover. Three Little Birds? Kind of a blur. Finally, All Along The Watchtower.

 

20,000 kids stumbled towards the lone Exit sign like inebriated, single-file cattle, an eerie scene straight out of Dylan’s John Wesley Harding era. The army of Meadows staff from the afternoon had apparently all gone home. Finding lot D (B? Not C I don’t think) proved difficult. High up on posts, letters were displayed which I couldn’t read without binoculars. I really needed to start thinking ahead. Ants marched to their cars to sit still in traffic. Where were the tailgaters? If you’re lost and legally blind, sit still and let your party find you.

 

I did the opposite. 

 

There was a car dealerships enclave: Land Rover Hartford, Midas, New County BMW. There was a ruckus across the street. So Much To Say blasted from a car stereo. I didn’t think we crossed the street this afternoon, but I was plum out of ideas so I sprinted across. Drunk, midnight, visually impaired: don’t do that. 

 

A brown brick building displayed “Hartford Jai Alai Fronton” in letters so huge even I could read them. It had recently closed after it had provided a two decade long gateway drug to legalized gambling. They replaced it with Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun Casinos—glittering, rural cathedrals owned by Native Americans to appease any white guilt (over gambling, not genocide.) Goodbye dark, dirty urban dens of sin. On a dime everyone lost their passion for a 14th Century Basque sport featuring two guys smashing a rubber ball against a wall.

 

But on this night, the spirit of jai alai was still alive on Weston Street. In lieu of balls or cestas, beer bottles flew at high velocities before they shattered on the ground or found their target: an officer of the law. 

 

“STEP BACK NOW!” a bullhorn demanded.

 

“FUCK YOU PIGS!”

 

A rock flew by. 

 

Every time I left the house, I stumbled into a riot.

 

Cops returned jam band fans’ volleys with rubber bullets and pepper spray. The match was underway. How can I place a bet on the cops? Oh, an overturned car was on fire, just to state the obvious.  

 

Kate and Amira didn’t seem like the rock throwing types (the jury was still out on Bill) so I cheated death and jaywalked back.

 

“COLIN!!!!”

 

“HI!!!”

 

“We were so worried we lost you!”

 

“Sorry—I couldn’t find the lot.”

 

“That show was awesome!” Amira said.

 

“Yeah. Thanks for inviting me!”

 

“It wasn’t as good as SPAC last Friday. Two Step was sick,” Bill said. He was such a 26 year old.

 

We got home at 2AM.

 

“See you tomorrow!” Kate said.

 

“Good night!”

 

“Good night!”

 

The 19A lights were on.

 

“Where did you go tonight?” Evans said. 

 

“Dave Matthews with the girls across the street.”

 

“We were too to tailgate,” Freeman said. His elevated left foot had a bandage wrapped around it.  

 

“Good show. What happened to you?”.  

 

“I got stitches at Windham Hospital.”

 

Jenny sat next to him.

 

“I can not drink anytime I want. But when I start, I can’t stop.” 

 

Join the club.

 

“What happened?” 

 

“ I stepped on broken glass running barefoot. Bled like a motherfucker.” 

 

I had darkened Windham Hospital’s door myself. At former dorm-mate Jen’s Carriage House 6D apartment, red, blue, yellow, and green birthday balloons floated everywhere. I sat on the beige carpet by the coffee table and tapped a red balloon but I failed to see the coffee table’s razor sharp metal edge. My blood thinning fourth beer probably didn’t help matters. 

 

“Colin, let’s go upstairs and I’ll get you a Band-Aid,” the birthday girl said.

 

“Okay. I’m not sure if a Band-Aid will  be enough,” I fatalistically replied. Don’t invite me to your birthday party unless you want a trail of blood on your carpet. The infirmary called an ambulance. Nine stitches.

 

“I’ve got to start making smarter decisions,” Freeman added. 

 

Don’t we all.

 

Maybe I needed to finally leave this place after all. I was like a long overdue library book.  

………………………………………

……………………………..

A green and orange sari clad chatterbox sorted sweatpants at my table.

 

“Who is Dave Matthews?”

 

I wore a white DMB baseball T-shirt with black sleeves (dress down Monday). It was a post-binocular sale impulse buy. I was going to die broke. 

 

“He’s a musician. I went to see him this weekend.”

 

“Where do you live?”

 

“Storrs. Near UConn.”

 

“You grew up there?”

 

“No, I moved there.”

 

I hid my UConn background in the workshop. I hid my workshop background in Storrs. Like my narcotics plainclothesman dad before me, I worked undercover.       

 

“I grew up in Ellington. Small farm town.”

 

“I’m from a farm town too. In India. My name is Ayesha.”

 

“Hi. I’m Colin.”

 

“What church do you go to?”

 

“Oh—I haven’t gone a lot recently. But I’m Catholic—basically. Are you Buddhist?”

 

Never discuss Indian religion with a white American who took Eastern Philosophy And Religion (A, spring semester 1994). He will be 2,500 years behind.

 

“Muslim.”

 

Muslim?

 

“Oh,” I said.

 

Damn. I wanted a tour guide on the path to nirvana. I might have even settled for a Jain. Not Hindu? Nothing against Muslims--all those crusades and jihads were just Big Enders vs. Little Enders pissing contests. Half the Bible prophets are in the Koran! And both faiths tell you to obey your way to heaven. I thought obeying just meant shattered vases and no air conditioning. But Buddhists say unclutter your mind and connect to a cosmic energy force through the dial-up modem in your head.

 

One cool late April morning I walked up the hill from East Campus and passed a group of ten kids coming from two other directions. This sidewalk convergence triggered an indescribable feeling. My mental walls collapsed. I ceased existing as a separate, solitary confined prisoner and they came out from under their foreign, far-off, foggy shadows. I was them. They were me. And the only drug in my system was the sugar from two small glasses of orange juice with ice I’d drank at the Whitney dining hall. This mystical moment lasted two or three seconds. I tried so hard to retrieve it. I couldn’t. So it was off to Deviant Behavior.

 

Later that day I saw Metallica in Hartford with Dale and Trask. We jumped the fence to get on the floor but a cop grabbed my shirt and kindly escorted me back to my assigned seat, yelling the entire time. He probably said he’d kick my punk ass out of here if I tried crap like that again but I couldn’t hear a damn word--what with Metallica playing. This was the world unpurged from fear and possessiveness, without a dialed in connection to the sacred harmony within all things: a cop screaming orders you can’t hear over Creeping Death.

 

I guess Windsor Avenue bodhisattvas were too much to ask. I forgot they had Muslims in India. Weren’t they persecuted? Outcastes? Dalits? Or did non-Hindus rank even lower than UConn’s football team? Industries must have been a smooth transition for Ayesha. The highest caste, the Brahmins, were scholars, not warriors or kings. But the lowest caste were laborers, artisans, sleeve machine operators. Maybe I was a Brahmin in Shudra clothing, but do the clothes remake the man if he doesn’t find a new tailor?

 

If a higher caste member touched you, they are stained, banished down to your level for life. You’re an Untouchable. You have next level cooties. Was there an Unfuckable caste? I knew a sex worker and a semi-formal attendee who might want to nominate me.   

 

But in America your caste lets you out on parole for good behavior. I could find the Brahmin river again if I just got over my fear of J.D. Connor and reluctance to considering pedo gut busters great literature.

 

Besides, fairy tales are our religion. If a princess kisses a frog she doesn’t turn into a frog, he turns into a prince.

………………………………………

“Oh my God,” Nina said. “I just looked at the toilet and it’s BLACK.”

 

“Ewwww, boys are so gross!” Kate said.

 

Was it Greek or me? Were they thinking that? We both drank heavily. Neither of us considered toilet bowl cleaner a solid financial investment. It was probably him but…..I pretended I didn’t hear her. 

 

If pressed, I would have thrown Greek under the bus. I was a loyal friend about the wall, but let’s not get crazy here.

…………………………………..

Man is a social animal. He will watch Sportscenter on a neighbor’s couch even though he can barely see the TV instead of sitting two feet away next door by himself.

 

White Sox vs. Tigers highlights from Comiskey.

 

“That’s deep and I don’t think it’s playable,” Dan Patrick said. 

 

“Ever since he came out of his slump, Albert Belle has been tearing shit up,” Evans said.

 

“Yeah he’s on fire,” I said.

 

Evans noticed too? I felt like less of a baseball dweeb.

 

God fearing, hot dog eating, flag in the front yard homeowners loved Mark McGwire and (maybe) Sammy Sosa that summer, but this agnostic lawn wrecker preferred to watch the angriest man in baseball wreck baseballs. Belle got arrested for chasing teenagers in his car and threatening to kill them for egging his house on Halloween. In the minors he hit a heckler in the stomach with a ball. He refused to shake hands with American League President Bobby Brown (not the My Prerogative one.) He exploded on NBC’s Hannah Storm for milling around the dugout. He smashed the clubhouse thermostat after a teammate turned it above 60 degrees so they called him Mr. Freeze. 

 

He stood in a dead-still stance with a  diagonally cocked bat and forged iron stare that incinerated a pitchers’ soul, daring him to foolishly throw a pitch. Exchanging the Indians red, white, and blue for the White Sox silver and black in the South Side only made him scarier! I should have hated this cartoon stereotype of an Angry Black Man but why didn’t I? Would Fatima and Melissa say he was my kindred psychotic spirit?

 

He was once Joey Belle. Opposing fans still launched “JOOOOOOO-EYYYYY” chants. Did he worry Joey wouldn’t hurt a fly let alone a Trick Or Treater? Behind scary Albert was there a scared little Joey? And I thought girls were too loyal to jerks!

…………………………………………..

Musical Interlude

 

Nine drunk kids crowded in a car and sang Tubthumping. What a time to be alive. Parked outside Knollwood, I almost felt connected to near strangers I’d never see again in three more three weeks. Thank you, Chumbawuma.  ……………………………………….

Eight of us crowded into Mickey’s air conditioned 14-D bedroom, beers in hand, for a drunken sing-along/air guitarathon to Metallica’s One. I’m surprised the ear bludgeoning volume didn’t shatter the windows. It was 12:22 AM. Carriage House’s quiet hours were from 4AM to 2PM and even then they looked the other way if you refrained from flying DC-10’s over the complex. Where would I find this in September?

…………………………………..

From my living room, I could hear Tesla’s Love Song playing across the street.

 

I walked in Kate and Amira’s open door as Jeff Keith crooned his final reassuring lines about love’s return.  

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Good song. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Tesla fan.”

 

“I love Tesla. My brother got me into them. Who did you think I was into?”

 

“I don’t know…..the Dead, Phish.”

 

“I like lots of stuff.”

 

“Me too.”  

 

Kate seemed lonely. Amira was lovesick. Kristin’s man was a constant disappointment. Was every girl unhappy with her love life? Why couldn’t I take advantage? Sometimes you don’t need a full food service vendor, a Coke machine will do.

 

After returning from my run, I carried a cleanish glass of water up to my room. I took off my sweaty clothes and, like a less hot but no less torn Natalie Imgruglio, I chose the floor. I imagined Kate there. Also naked. But she still seemed sad. Or was that me? Downstairs, Radio 104 played The Barenaked Ladies’ One Week, which could make Dirk Diggler go limp. If you’re not a Beastie Boy, don’t attempt rapping, white boys.   

 

So I imagined Amira but she just moaned, “Oh, Joe!”

 

I heard the shower running in 19-A through Carriage House’s “walls” so I summoned from the bullpen the complex’s dominant closer: Kristin. In lieu of Hells Bells or Enter Sandman, One Week had to do.

 

Please God don’t tell me Evans was in there.

……………………………………….

Last Call

 

Another night, another party at Knollwood. Or was it Briarwood? Blue House? Maybe Tree House. Amira drove me home.

 

“Joe ignored me the whole night. Then I saw him laughing with that girl Trish! I asked if he wanted to stop over tomorrow and he said, “I have to work” and looked away. He’s obviously going out of his way to ignore me.” 

 

She started to cry.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m just freaking out right now. This just really sucks, Col.”

“It’s alright. Joe sucks. What’s so great about the dude anyway? Dreadlocks? Bongos? Who’s he kidding?”

 

She laughed.

 

“He has all the personality of a stoned Carson Daly.”

 

I was rolling out the A material. 

 

“I know. I’ve been obsessing too much. I need to forget about him.”

 

“It’s his loss.” 

 

She parked in front of my apartment.

 

“I’m sorry for being so dramatic. I’ll be better tomorrow I swear!”

 

“No problem. Want to come in for a second?”

 

“Oooooo…okay!”

 

“Do you want a beer?” 

 

“No, I’m good.”

 

Guess she wasn’t the 2AM nightcap type but I sure was so I grabbed a blue and orange Harpoon from the living room fridge which supplemented the kitchen’s fridge. My work commute was a sloth dipped in molasses but my fridge commute was a bullet train. 

 

She sat on the couch against the window, I took the one facing the entertainment system.  

 

“So, um, I’ve noticed Kate kind of bosses you around a little.”

 

“Oh…..really?”

 

“Yeah. I mean she’s always like Amira stop talking about Joe, or you have something on your shirt, or oh Amira you should drive slower.”

 

“Yeah….you’re right!”

 

This was sort of true. Like a non- sibling, girl version of my brother and me? But how relevant was this, actually?

 

“ I don’t know, it’s like she almost acts like your mom.”

 

I wish she would have a beer.

 

“Yeah.” She paused reflectively. “It’s like she’s my mom and I’m her daughter!”

 

“Sure I can’t get you a beer?” I took a swig.

 

“No, no. I’m good.”

 

Can we rewind the tape and discuss the elephant in the room? Why did she say, “Ooooooo okay!” after I invited her in? I heard that right, didn’t I? Did she think I asked her in for….other reasons? She had to, right? Was she already forgetting Mr. Buffalo Soldier? Probably…..but you might as well have told someone the earth wasn’t flat in 5,000 BC.  

 

“Yeah it’s just something I noticed. I don’t know if it helps or not.”

 

How do I abort?

 

“Tou’re right. Well I’m glad we had this talk!”

 

She wanted Dirk Diggler and I gave her Miss Manners. 

 

“Great! Me too!”

 

She wanted Chest Rockwell. I gave her Ann Landers.

 

First Joe, now me. What did this girl have to do to get laid?

 

But consider my recent Barenaked Ladies incident. What if an actual barenaked lady didn’t help? I was no Peter North. On a good day I was Colin North By Northwest.  

 

“Well, it’s getting late. I guess I better get to bed,” she yawned. 

 

“Yeah, me too.”

 

She gave me a hug. Not a boob crusher, but a solid “feel her bra strap through her shirt” hug. I finished my beer. How does someone get to be this much of an idiot? Still like this at 25! I wished they could re-program me like Alex in A Clockwork Orange. Please strap me to a chair and play Oprah episodes and Tony Robbins infomercials until I scream bloody murder and promise to never give helpful advice again! It’s the bra strap through the shirt of human interaction.

………………………………………

My bus companion was Radio 104’s Kevin The Afternoon Guy. His party anthem was Thank You, Jaegermesiter. This song was about the drink, not the snake. 

…………………………………….

Freshmen and sophomores didn’t get campus parking spots, so The Rape Trail was the thruway for those not yet mature enough to drive drunk to off campus parties. But with kids home for the summer, it mostly became just the final leg of my thirty mile, two hour epic journey home. After a long day of sewing machine breakdowns followed by two slower than a TKE brother buses, it was a great relief to finally operate an efficient piece of machinery which yielded to my every command. I rode faster than any helmetless, partially blind cyclist ever  should.

 

Sun glared through the trees as the trail veered slightly left. As I turned, a jolt nearly knocked me off my bike. I slammed the brakes, my tires squeaking on the gravel. I looked back and saw a navy blue backpack on the ground beside a keeled over kid grabbing his leg.

 

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah,” he whispered. 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You’re good.” He motioned me on. 

 

The entrace to The Rape Trail read, “PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.” Not a single person assumed this referred to blind Tour de France wannabes, but life is like a box of chocolates.

 

I went slower.

………………………………………

My parents came over to discuss August and everything after. My mom’s idea. It was happening. 

 

Cardboard no longer hid the hole. The mainstays of our interior decoration were overflowing ashtrays, skunked beer bottles filled with cigarette butts, empty pizza boxes, and strawberry daiquiri stains which STILL lined the kitchen walls. My dad would be horrified. He always fired up his Hoover seconds after we finished our Jiffy Pop in front of the TV. We were only allowed under strict parental supervision into his red Plymouth Duster with white interior.

 

I couldn’t find any cleaning products.

 

Next door?

 

Screw it. 

 

They sat on the opposite side of the kitchen table.

 

“You have to be out of here when?” asked my dad, pen and notepad in hand.

 

“When the girls come back for the school year. Maybe they will let me stay a couple days longer but basically by the end of the month.”

 

“Okay, so September 1st.” A big note taker, he adorned his fridge with all caps memos like, “NEED MORE PEPSI” and “HAIRCUT NEXT TUESDAY.” 

 

“September” gave me a chill. 

 

“So you work in Windsor. You need to live on a bus line. Somewhere going to Hartford.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So…..you can’t live in Ellington. But maybe Vernon/Rockville. Or Manchester.”

 

“I think so.”

 

“What kind of rent are we talking about? How much do you make a month?”

 

Boy, Dad, you know how to hurt a guy.

 

“Well…I get $300 per month from Social Security and I get…..it varies. Like……….$900 per month from work?”

 

This sunny estimate assumed that along with winning a Perfect Attendance Award, they replaced the antebellum machines with Bridge To The 21^st Century bleeding edge technology in a revitalization project that would make UConn 2000 look like replacing a flashlight battery.  

 

“So (more writing) we’re looking at $500 to $600?”

 

So long Harpoons. Forget even Bud Light? I only paid $400 by splitting the rent with Greek. Where do you even find illegal cable boxes?

 

“You can look into Section 8 housing,” my mom said.

 

“Okay,” I half-heartedly said. More disability themed options.

 

“I’ll start making some calls,” my dad said. “And I’ll put an ad in the classifieds. I’m sure many people going into Hartford would drive you. You can pay for that?”

 

“Probably.”

 

I couldn’t imagine any driver happening.

 

“You’ve got a lot of work cut out for you,” my mom turned to my dad. They got along well. The friendliest divorced couple ever.

 

“ I’ll try to work my magic. Oh and Aunt Linda might have an opportunity at The Hartford.”

 

“Great. Yeah, it seems like everyone is hiring.”  

 

“She wanted me to ask you one question, though: ‘Is Colin ready to get serious about his life?’”

 

Okay so maybe the debauched scene of non-recycled beers, collapsed drywall, and superfluous refrigeration didn’t exactly paint a picture of a laser focused young professional ready to scale the corporate ladder, but I rode my bike through January ice to work in a textile factory for sub-minimum wage. If my life got any more serious, John Updike might write a novel about me. 

 

“Tell her yes.”

 

“Okay, we have a game plan!” Dad clapped his hands. He loved game plans.

 

“Colin and I are going to lunch at Kathy John’s. Do you want to join us?” my mom said.

 

“I have to pick up Jimmy at swimming lessons. But thanks.” 

 

“Well guys, thanks for coming over. I appreciate it.”

 

“Is your cleaning lady off this week?” my Dad asked.  

 

I knew he couldn’t resist.

 

“I think she’s at Hawk’s Nest.”

 

I had scheduled a job interview so was getting my own apartment so hard? But I dreaded it with all my soul. I could probably schedule a root canal too, but would I?

 

My dad had to do it.  

 

It was ending. This time for good.  

…………………………………………

Brandon was a smart engineering major but he bet wrong on the Packers. Frank was a (maybe) smart Fortune 500 rising star but the ’97 Dolphins would dominate the league instead of go 8-8. When Cassandra warned the Trojans of their doomed fate they said she was off her meds. Humans are awful at predicting the future. Maybe people love gambling because a win provides such a thrilling illusion of mastery over time and fate they can just ignore all their losses.

 

Marriage is also an attempt to predict the future. On her wedding day, my mom didn’t predict she would become a cop’s wife. (They were only 25!) Two years later my dad enrolled in the police academy. The police brochure probably hyped heart pounding high speed chases and protecting innocent women and children from the bad guys, but did it mention the nightmares or all the overtime required or the job’s unyielding choke hold that can make a pristine suburban home seem less real than the decaying, siren blaring streets of the city? Once you hold a dead eight year old child in your arms, the victim of a hit and run, or dodge a bullet to your head, does it become much harder to turn off Cop Made than turn on your scanner once you change out of you uniform and put away your gun? There’s no punching out for the day. Your time clock runs until retirement.

 

Even prophetess Cassandra would have flipped a coin trying to predict a marriage.     

………………………………………   

Although summer was winding down,  chronic smokin’ still commenced diurnally unabated in 19-C. REM’s Don’t Go Back To Rockville was in the key of E. I printed out the chords from Miguel’s computer (Rich kids).

At least it was a peppy tune unlike their increasingly dour 90’s work. I recorded a few versions. Was I crazy or would my voice no longer make someone puke? 

……………………………………….

“I got a job,” Miguel said. “Some brokerage firm in Fairfield.”

 

“Congrats, dude.” Evans high fived him.

 

“Thanks. Stoners can get jobs.” He laughed.  

 

I needed to find a dealer.  

 

“Colin, are you going with us to Phish?” Evans said.  

 

“I didn’t know you guys were going.”    

 

“Yeah, me, Miguel, Mickey, Greek, Hopkins…. Should be pretty sick.”

 

“Okay I’m in!”

 

“Cool, dude.”

 

The Lemonwheel. Loring Air Force Base in Limestone, Maine. One last lost weekend with Trey and co! I never heard Phish playing in 19-A. I probably knew more of their songs than them. Of course, Freeman didn’t listen to Dave Matthews either. That didn’t stop him from walking on broken glass.  

 

We loaded everything up on Thursday night. Phish wouldn’t play until Saturday. Unlike Yankees vs. Red Sox, they almost over planned!

 

“Col, Do you have a sleeping bag?” Greek said. 

 

“No.”

 

“I brought an extra”.

 

See what I mean?

 

They packed eight bags of Doritos. three bags of Fritos, two bags of Lays (plain and Sour Cream and Onion,) a West Coast rapper’s supply of weed, and an Irish funeral’s supply of beer. Four coolers. This would be a weekend to not remember.

 

Hopkins was still packing when we went to pick him up in Briarwood at 9PM. So maybe preparations weren’t quite Eagle Scout level. Greek and I waited in his car. I had $298. Obviously we would jump any/all gates before considering paying for tickets, but what about price-gouged concessions if our Fritos supply ran dangerously low? Additional beer? Gas money? Soon I would have to start paying my own rent. And electric bill. Phone bill. Cable was probably out of the question. Can I really afford to go? Kristin wasn’t even going! A jam band sausage fest. Three days of Evans titty twisters and bearded, braided moly hunting hippies wandering through an abandoned Air Force base. Lost with the lotus eaters.  

 

“Greek, I can’t go.”

 

“Okay. Why?”

 

“I can’t afford it. I’m almost broke.”

 

“Okay, I’ll drive you back.” He went up the door and said, “Hey, I’ll meet you guys back here.” 

 

I had never seen 19A and B shuttered up and dark. A wave of melancholy smacked me in the face. 

 

“Thanks Greek. Sorry for the hassle.”

 

“No problem, Col.”

 

“Have fun. Don’t do anything Evans would.”

 

The Red Sox moved to 70-48 after they beat the Twins 8-7 at Fenway. They were having a good season if you ignroed the Yankees (an obnoxious 88-29.) I would have to get used to watching games by myself again.

…………………………………….

Kate walked in the next day.  

 

“Hey, I thought you went to Phish!”

 

“I changed my mind. I’m broke.”

 

“Banana is having a party at Knollwood. Amira and I are going if you want to come with us.”

 

“Okay, sure!”

 

This actually sounded better than a six-hour car ride smelling Evans’ farts. It was a glorious sunny late summer day with low humidity. After my run, I voluntarily put on jeans for the first time in a couple of months. (I wore pants to the workshop like it was Goldman Sachs.) My purple Izod and white Nikes completed this killer ensemble. Shirt tucked in. No belt. Settle down, ladies.

 

As Kate, Amira and I stood in the backyard with our red cups, The Beastie Boys’ Intergalactic blared through speakers out the window.  Kate sang along and pinched the right side of my neck. Like Mr. Spock. Unlike Ad-Rock, I smiled. Without even being told to.

 

“That guy over by the keg in the blue shirt is hot,” Amira said.

 

“Oh Amira,” Kate said.

 

“Maybe girls are full of shit. We don’t want to find the love of our lives, we just want ass!”

 

Someone sure seemed over Joe all of a sudden. Had she cried him out? Had I accidentally cured her with my invite in….? Ah forget it.

 

“Hi Colin.”

 

A girl to my right stepped into our circle. I took a quick glance. Was it……it couldn’t be. Clara Boucher?? The Ellington ballerina from New Haven 4th floor? It was! I think…. I tried to say “Hi Clara” but my lips froze.

 

“Clara Boucher.”

 

“Yes, I know! Hi Clara!”

 

“Do you know Rob?”

 

Rob was Banana.  

 

“Yeah. A little.”

 

“I just met him last week.”

 

“Cool. Uh, this is Kate and Amira. This is Clara.”

 

“Hi!”

 

“Hi! Nice to meet you!” 

 

 I was so proud to introduce my two female friends. They made me seem so normal, so respectable, so non-psychotic. 

 

“I know, Amira. Can I tell you the same thing happened to me….”

 

Look at her. An Ellington girl had already committing an Iranian name to memory. They’re instant best friends! She was so polished. Don’t ask me what they were talking about--I couldn’t focus. She wore a tucked in black shirt with jeans, her black hair was pulled back in a bun. She was keg party royalty. No cup in her hand. Did people actually go to keggers merely to socialize?

 

Looking at her, I noted she wasn’t quite Kristin beautiful. But better somehow. Cute. Girl next door hot, not sell your soul to Satan hot, not make you howl at the moon hot. Although with me I guess you never knew.   

 

“Where are you living?” she said.

 

“Carriage House. Just for the summer. My old Jungle roommate and I subleased it from these girls. You?”

 

“Coventry Lake. What have you been up to lately?” 

 

“Not too much! I’ve been working. I graduated last year. I’m…..finally leaving here in a couple weeks.” I laughed. Uggh. “I may still go to grad school. I’ve been trying to decide.”

 

“I know what you mean. I just switched my major. I don’t know when I’m ever going to graduate, Colin.”  

 

“Really? What was your major?”

 

“Agricultural science. I’m switching to Computer Science.”

 

“That sounds like a good choice. Was it your farm town background that made you go for Agricultural Science?”.

 

“Basically,” she said. “Have you talked with any Ellington people lately.”

 

“Just Dan Madden. Do you know him?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

I guess he didn’t make quite the same impression on her.   

 

“We were neighbors across the street growing up.”

 

“What neighborhood did you live in?”

 

“Woodside Acres. You?”

 

“Meadow Brook Road.” 

 

“Oh. But yeah, I kind of lost touch with most of them.”

 

“Well that’s a good thing, Colin.”

 

Did I just fall in love with her? I pegged her as a school spirit girl with a purple and gold heart. Could she feel anything close to what I felt last summer? Not possible.  

 

“What about Ben Auerbach?” I said in a phony lighthearted tone. I was getting dangerously close to putting my foot in my mouth and ruining everything.

 

“Why do you make fun of him so much?”

 

Jealousy, obviously. They dated in high school.

 

“I don’t know. Just kidding. He’s actually a good guy.” 

 

Maybe I was the problem. Did I think I was smarter than him? In class he loved to say, “Ohhh hairPIE”, in a Long Duck Dong voice. The day after the Twins beat the Cardinals in the World Series, while he sat across the cafeteria table he said, “My favorite Twins player is Randy Bush.” Grow up, dude. Never mind I had also taken note of this utility outfielder’s name. 

 

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” she said. 

 

“I have one older brotherPatrick.”

 

“Oh I’ve never heard of him I don’t think.”

 

“And two younger half-brothers who live in Manchester. How about you?”

 

“I have a sister and a brother.”

 

“Are they younger or older?” 

 

“Younger.”

 

She was three years younger than me so her siblings were almost from another generation.  

 

“Colin McDonough!” she suddenly blurted.    

 

Was this real? Was she excited to see me!? 

 

“Clara Boucher! Clarissa. Do you like being called that?” 

 

“No.”

 

“I think it’s nice.”

 

She joined another group. Why was she being so nice? How often did I act like an idiot around her? I wrote drunken messages on her board. It pained me to even think the humiliating stuff I must have written! I passed out on her floor with a lit cigarette in my hand (I think) right outside her door. Did she find me withmy left thumb and index finger an inch from burning the entire building down? What must I have slurred to her? Unthinkable. A human fire hazard, she should be avoiding me yet here we were chatting away with her, Kate and Amira fast friends! Why was she giving me a twelfth chance?

 

I sat away from the crowd in a lawn chair as dusk arrived. It was mid-August when you first notice it getting dark earlier. When the cool breeze blew I was glad I chose pants. Sad harbingers of living alone in my $500--$600 one bedroom apartment.

 

She probably stood in the circle of kids by the house. Or what if she left already? I would never see her again. I needed to go over there and say something. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Why did I have to see her here!? She had no idea I was now a slave laborer who was going native more and more by the day. I was sinking in sheltered workshop quicksand, probably never to be seen again. Kids at the party weren’t my peers anymore, if they ever were, never mind my polo shirt and hair gel disguise. Marisol, Jackie, and Donny were my peers now. Clara was so nice to connect switching her major and her Ellington ambivalence with me but there’s no way our lives were in the same galaxy. She was a princess. I was a frog. 

 

I took slow sips. She couldn’t see me  pounding beers. I wanted her to think I wasn’t like that anymore. I finally walked back over to a group gathered in the dark, their faces lit by the house light. She stood next to me.

 

“Colin, I have an event tomorrow morning at 10 at Gampel Pavilion. You should come watch!”

 

Was she trying to prevent us losing contact with each other?? Was she thinking the same thing as me? Did she know I would never do it myself?

 

Or did she invite everyone?

 

“Oh, sounds cool. Yeah! I can ride my bike down there.”  

 

“Yeah. Great!”

 

Oh my God. I should stop drinking. A screaming hangover would just become my excuse to not go.

 

Nina materialized. Where had Amina gone?

 

“We’re going to Ted’s but we can come back and pick you up later,” Kate said. 

 

“No, I’ll come with you guys.”

 

I had plans with Clara tomorrow anyway.

 

Nina and Kate stood at the bar. I sat in a tall swivel chair a few feet away. I could barely hear their chatter over Everclear’s Santa Monica. I unconsciously moved my lips. I was converting this unexpected lucky break into a catastrophe! This was the best thing to happen all summer! I would be five hundred miles away if Hopkins had packed sooner.   

 

But I’ll tell myself this means she likes me. She’s a dancer and they all want people to watch them, right? What was happening at Gampel on a Saturday morning in mid-August anyway? I didn’t think they had any events. Campus would stay a ghost town for another two weeks. Was it only a test? A ruse? Did she invite Banana too? What if I found him lounging in section 11, row A, seat 2?

 

“Oh hey Colin, did you have fun at my party last night?”

 

“Yeah it was pretty good. Hey, why do they call you Banana anyway?”

 

“Why do you think they call me Banana?” 

 

“Oh right.”

 

“Clara is a great dancer, don’t you think?”

 

“Yeah she’s really good.”

 

“Great timing.”

 

“Better structure.”

 

“Did you hear?”

 

“Oh no.” 

 

“I fucked her.”

 

Arrrrrrgghhhh! I could just be that chump who pretends he acquired an ardent overnight love for dance just so a girl might consider having sex with him or at least keeping his resume on file. I can’t go. It’s too late. I’m finally leaving Storrs--long after everyone else took the hint and moved on with their lives. Leave the undergraduates to themselves.  

 

Something soft and wet touched my right cheek. Kate kissed it. Then she kissed my left cheek. I surrendered my second involuntary smile of the night.

 

“I just wanted to say hi. You seemed upset.” 

 

“Oh. Thanks! No, I’m okay.”  

 

They were great. Even Kristin—though maybe a little high maintenance? Forget girlfriends, I barely had girls as friends.,“Would she sleep with me? Is she sleeping with him?” always got in the way. Even now I thought, “Does Kate want me?” Still, this was so much nicer than a tent of dudes at Lemonwheel. My life had improved so much right before it was about to end again.  

 

We got home at 10. I knew I should go to bed. But of course I had a couple more beers and cranked Sublime to 11.

 

I went to Huskies. Same old scene. They played that “the boy is mine” song. Why was I here?

 

Back to Ted’s. More crowded than an hour earlier but one hundred times sadder.

 

If I was afraid nice guys finish last, how many more assholish things was I planning to do before I let go of that? Ben Auerbach was probably. Or Banana. I called a girl a cunt for no reason. No, it was much worse than that. I wrote her a note and slipped it under her door under the cover of midnight and called her a cunt. I didn’t rush to my mom’s aid when my stepfather abused her. What a nice guy! That’s the guy Clara invited to Gampel in the morning. She has no idea who I am. I’m a piece of shit! 

 

Or am I the only one who can’t forgive myself? And is it can’t or won’t?

 

But was this like the air conditioning? Was no one else going to do it? If I knew anything about college guys, they wouldn’t  risk getting labeled a tap dancing fanatic (so therefore very gay.) Before they even considered attending any dance event, they would need the girl to guarantee she would bang him later that day if not sooner and preferably in writing and witnessed by a notary. I probably didn’t need to worry about seeing Banana, but I could still get up early on a Saturday to watch her dance while he slept one off and watched her dance naked in his room that night.

 

Would they  thank you for being so nice right before they slept with some asshole whose obnoxiousness they confuse with “confidence”? Did girls really understand guys any better than we understand them?

 

But did some of them actually like me and just not make it as obvious as Heather Jones in fifth grade? During sophomore year, I ate alone at Paul’s Pizza on Thursday night of Spring Weekend. A (drunk) girl from Grange 4th floor walked up. 

 

“You should talk more. I know what’s going on. A lot of people want to talk to you but they’re too shy.”

 

Too shy to talk to me!? But maybe they should have been. Hadn’t I, porcupine like, hurt every girl who ever came remotely close to me?

 

One sunny, breezy September afternoon I sat on a bench by Mirror Lake reading Faulkner’s Sartoris. A jogger stopped. 

 

“Hey aren’t you from Ellington? Colin? I’m Julie.”

 

“Oh hi!”

 

I saw her at a Blue House party a week later.   

 

“I don’t like this party. Can you walk me home?”

 

“Okay.”

 

It was a beautiful early fall night. She sang Oh What A Night. A few days later she wrote, “I’m sorry I missed you,” on my notepad.

 

“Are you going to need the room tonight, Col?” Greek giggled.

 

We hung out in her room and drank wine (her idea, believe it or not.) She didn’t fit in at UHart. She referred to her “doggy” which I wasn’t too crazy about to tell you the truth. I tried to kiss her. She turned away. Thirteen minutes later……I tried again!

 

“Just when you think you’re starting to like someone, you get disappointed,” she mused aloud.

 

I wrote her a letter. I know, I know. If I were you, I would throw this book out of a moving train too. I said it seemed like you couldn’t be nice to girls, only jerks get the girls, I didn’t want to get friend zoned…. Total bullshit! I think they liked me! Maybe I didn’t like me. So I made sure they couldn’t either.  

 

I walked back from Ted’s.

 

I cranked. Smells Like Teen Spirit and moshed around. A shelf ornament fell and broke. Kate and Nina walked in.

 

I turned down my stereo.

 

“Oh hi. Nina. I’m so sorry. I just broke this by mistake!”

 

“It’s okay. That’s just one of those little nick nacks.”

 

She was handling this so much better than the hole in the wall. I got away with everything! I’m worse than Evans. 

 

“You guys are so nice! I wish I didn’t have to leave in a couple weeks. You guys are awesome!” I slurred. Beer count: unknown. “But you know---fuck Evans. The hole in the wall wasn’t Greek’s fault. Greek is awesome. You know, I didn’t have any friends here until I roomed with Greek and he invited me to hang out. Then last year….I wasn’t doing too well at home and he bailed me out again. I know he’s got a goofy laugh and his feet creak and smell but he’s still a pretty cool guy. But I’m a fucking mess! I was supposed to go to grad school but I just haven’t. I’m too old to still be here. I work…..in a factory. Like with blind people. Other blind people. I’m so scared I’m never going to get out! And this girl Clara I met….she wants me to go see her dance tomorrow but it’s probably a fucking waste of time. I’m a fucking loser!”

 

Here comes the tears.    

 

“I’m sorry. I’m being really dramatic. I’m sorry. You guys are the best. I’m so sorry. First Greek, now me. I’ll bet this is the last time you sublease you apartment. The subleasers from hell!”

 

“It’s okay, Colin,” Nina said. She patted me on the shoulder.

 

“Colin, time to go to bed. You just had too much to drink,” Kate said. 

 

“We’ll help you.”

 

Kate grabbed my right hand, Ella grabbed my left hand and they led me upstairs. Nina turned on the light in my/her room. I crashed on my mattress.

 

“Wait, don’t you want to brush your teeth?” she said. 

 

“I don’t care.” 

 

“No, let’s just go and brush your teeth.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Which toothbrush is yours?”

 

“Uhhhh the red one.”

 

Kate spread Colgate. I brushed and went back to my room to lay down again.

 

“Good night, Colin.”

 

“Good night. Thank you so much. I don’t deserve you guys!”

 

“Stop that! It’s no trouble.”

 

“WAIT!”

 

“What?”

 

“I have to set my alarm.”

 

”I’ll do it for you,” Kate said. “What time?”

 

Oh fuck. Did she say 11? Or 10?

 

“9:30.”

 

She turned the dial.

 

“All set.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Good night.”

 

“Good night.”

 

“Sweet dreams!”

 

And no more turn aside and brood/

Upon love’s bitter mystery.

 

She’s not going to vaporize you.

 

You’re not going to vaporize her.

 

I can decide in the morning.

……………………………………..

Night Swimming

 

When I tell guys I dance, they usually say, “Can you dance to Pour Some Sugar On Me?” Rob’s friend Mike asked me a week earlier if I planned to dance professionally. I said, “There are very few dance companies.” He said, “What about The Electric Blue?” Everyone laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. They tossed me in the air during cheer in high school and one day at halftime against East Granby Steve the trombone player said, “I can see your camel toe, you know,” like I was a slut for wearing leggings (or for having a vulva) instead of him being a creep for looking.

 

My parents didn’t miss a single recital growing up, but I never knew if my dad just liked proving his love through this personal sacrifice. “Honey, that was wonderful.” “Your best performance yet.” I would say, “Thank you, Daddy” and never tell him I caught him looking at his watch while suppressing a yawn.

 

At least gay guys like dancing. Most of my guy friends had been gay, like my roommate Hector. Straight guys think they’re only allowed to see dancing as a means to an end: get under the Huskies strobe lights and dance to C + C Music Factory and try to hook up with the Kappa girl beside you. My Delta Gamma sisters made me come along but I’d usually hide at a corner table. “Oh Clara, you’re such a priss. Come out to the dance floor!”

 

I thought dancing was more than drunken foreplay and lap dances. Guys hate ballet because dancers are perfectly self-contained. They can’t find a space for themselves in it. Dance is freedom and harmony through the beauty and grace of your own movements. You’re not a void that needs to be filled. A ballet studio has no after-hours VIP lounge.

 

Women weren’t much better. Like Mrs. Drew next door.

 

“Well, I just don’t think it’s appropriate for five year old girls to wear makeup and short skirts! It feels like child prostitution if you ask me!”

 

Projecting your own perversion? Is it the outfits or the freedom that scares them? After you’ve learned your steps, you get so in sync with the music and the other dancers you don’t feel like you anymore. You’re connected by silent, invisible strings like magic. The formless air becomes a comfortable shoe you fit yourself into with each move. Self-choreographed, structured freedom and escape.

 

I wasn’t sure if Colin would show up. He sat by himself in the dark and looked sad like he often did when I was six lockers down from him in high school. He was a senior and I was a freshman. And he looked sad when I found him passed out by my door with a lit cigarette. My roommate Rachel and I had to shake him awake and lead him downstairs.

 

“I’m so sorry. I’m not going to drink like this anymore. I love you Clara! Please don’t hate me!”

 

He was such a lost sheep. Maybe a lost cause? But I couldn’t help it. He just seemed to need a friend. Or did he already find one? Who were those girls Kate and Amira?

 

I lied a little. We were just having a UConn Dance Team practice ahead of the first football game against Colgate in September. They kept the doors of Gampel Pavilion open for anyone to walk in. This would be my last semester dancing. All the years and training and then nothing. People go to their school aged daughter’s recitals, but I was over the hill at 22. I wouldn’t have exchanged my time for anything. All of my closest friendships came from dance, but I saw a future of “Hey didn’t you used to dance in high school?”

 

Oh and I wasn’t switching majors exactly, just taking Computer Science classes. Maybe getting my Master’s in it. I wanted to be in agriculture. All the Ellington farming families— the Rogencamps, Baumanns, Fischers—they were so nice and seemed so happy. Their families had lived here for a century or more. They had roots. Simple lives. Then I interviewed John Rogencamp on a work study.

 

“What are they teaching you at UConn? All that “Green Revolution” nonsense?”

 

“Well yes we are learning about that.”

 

“Bunch of bullshit, pardon my French. Yield per acre, advanced irrigation techniques: it just puts family farmers out of work!”

 

“They would say higher yields are needed to feed the world’s exponentially growing population.”

 

“Chinamen need to wear a rubber! There’s too many people in the world already. You’re going to put all of us out of work because some Ethiopian can’t keep it in his pants?”

 

“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

 

“Didn’t you dance in high school with my daughter Emily? What does a pretty little miss like you want to do with farming anyway? You think you can clean a barn flooded full of shit in your tap shoes? Your tutu might get wet if a heifer pisses all over you, you know. Sweetheart, you don’t understand anything. You think because you grew up here, you are a farmer? How many generations have you been here? Your parents probably moved here because they didn’t want you to grow up around jungle bunnies. They will sell the house and move down to Florida the minute you’re out of the house. You’re not from here. You’re a tourist.”

 

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of saying my Chicopee and Suffield born parents bought our house in 1975.

 

“I’m not training to actually work on a farm.”

 

“Of course not! Just training to replace us with machines! Go visit a slaughterhouse. Then you’ll see what farming is all about. It ain’t like those pink porcelain cows you rode with your peppermint stick ice cream cone at Moser Farms.” 

 

I took him up on it and visited a slaughterhouse the next semester on another work-study everyone strongly warned me against. They’re never called slaughterhouses, they’re meat packaging plants, stockyards, or abattoirs--because French is classy. At the front entrance of J&L Farms in Windham they even had a table with brochures.   

 

It wasn’t the blood. It was the screaming. Once a Holstein cow’s milk production slows, they’re turned to hamburger. Over the hill at age five. “God’s likenesses shall have dominion over cattle and every other creeping thing of the earth.” Cows are born to serve, to provide milk, cheese, yogurt, Friendly’s ice cream, Double Quarter Pounders. So why do they scream? Shouldn’t they happily surrender so we can toss burgers on the grill on the Fourth Of July? I thought their cries said that no matter what The Bible says, they believe their life has value beyond what it can do for to us. Nature grants them fifteen to twenty years, but we limit them to five. They scream in defiance of our betrayal.

 

Over Thanksgiving break I drove to Bahler’s Farm. After one look into their downcast, meek, trusting eyes I knew I couldn’t pursue my major. Growing up, cows were our town pets so we didn’t mind the smell of manure. Only newcomers cared. Tolland basketball teams pretended to care. But I saw that our cute pets were death row inmates we hadn’t broken the news to yet.

 

“We sent you to school for four years only to get brainwashed?” my dad said.

 

“Are you going to start worshiping sacred cows now?” my idiot 16 year old brother Jonathan wanted to know.

 

So I stopped telling anyone. In elementary school they told us computers are the future. Instead of leading to the slaughterhouse they would connect the world and always get better. Pentium 2 and Xeon processors were faster than anything before them and they would get replaced by something even faster instead of get killed off for a newer model of the same thing. Computers are an ascending ladder, agriculture is a vicious circle. 

 

I left Rob’s party at 9, went home and called Jen, my best friend since we played with Cabbage Patch dolls and served as Ellington Roadrunner cheerleaders. 

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey.”

“I went to a party at that guy Rob’s place.”

 

“You’re still talking to him?”

 

“I mean….I don’t know.”

 

“Have you hooked up?”

 

“Well we kissed. Why do guys always think a kiss is a permission slip to grab your boob?”

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

“That’s because you’re a slut.”

 

“Revenge fucking Matt’s exes doesn’t make me a slut. It makes me a champion of justice.”

 

“Oh sorry. I was mixed up. Anyway, I pushed his hand away. He seemed kind of distant last night. Probably told everyone I’m a stuck up tease.”

 

“If the shoe fits.”

 

“Bitch. I don’t know. He’s one of those mellow, aloof, no personality guys. Like every other stupid guy at this stupid school.”

 

“Someone sounds sexually frustrated. Did your vibrator run out of batteries?”

 

“Your vibrator comes with a human attached. Or should I say vibrators. Buy one, get ten free.”

 

“Die, bitch.”

 

“Oh—and guess who else I saw? Colin McDonough.”  

 

“The Ellington kid?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“The blind kid?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Isn’t he a drunken maniac?”

 

“Well you could say that.”

 

“He almost burned down your dorm, right?”

 

“We had a good fire department so I wouldn’t quite say that.” 

 

“Oh and didn’t he post crazy religious shit on his door? Or your door? I forget.”

 

“I think those were song lyrics?”

 

“Oh. That’s much better.”

 

“He seemed pretty normal tonight. Didn’t seem too drunk. And he was with two other girls he seemed friends with.”

 

“Oh God. Here we go.”

 

“I invited him to watch me dance tomorrow. It’s just a Dance Team practice—I didn’t tell him that.”

 

“Oh no! He’s probably plotting to kill you in a ritual Satanic cult blood death sacrifice as we speak!”

 

“That should make for a fun day.”

 

“I don’t even own a black dress to wear to your funeral.”

 

“Who says you’re invited?” 

 

“Oh wow. I’m crashing that shit. What do you want as your funeral anthem? I Can’t Fight This Feeling?”

 

“It’s a no REO Speedwagon event.”

 

“The Humpty Dance it is.”

 

“Ha. So….he’s probably not going to show anyway. He said he doesn’t drink as much anymore but I don’t think I believe him.”

 

“Oh Clarissa. First you want to save the cows, now you want to save Colin McDonough.”

 

“Maybe I just want to hook up with someone.”

 

“You’re all talk. And your standards are way too high. I’m hooking up with this guy Zack who plays bass in a punk metal ska band called Jah Of Flies. He’s majoring in Philosophy and Business Administration. You think I’m picky?”

 

“By your logic, I should just hook up with Rob. We can become hackey sack partners. Our song can be Hits From The Bong.”

 

“Or hook up with Colin and it can be Tubthumping.”

 

“What does that even mean? Not only will he probably not show, but I’d probably have to make the first move. He’s too shy. Unless he was really drunk and even then he’d tell me he loves me for all eternity before he would even consider kissing me. But at least he’s not just another frat boy or stoner. He seems different.”

 

“Different like Dahmer.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Not that I would ever recommend inviting him to your apartment, but have you had your smoke detectors checked recently?”

 

“Hilarious. Maybe you’re right and this was a mistake.”   

 

“Well talk to you tomorrow if you’re still alive. Call me if you’re locked in a basement dungeon.”   

 

“Who needs 911 when I have you?”

 

“ Love you.”

 

“Love you.”

………………………………………

I stood at the top left corner of the Husky logo.

 

“Okay guys, we’re going to run a kick drill. One and two and three and GO!”

 

Gonna Make You Sweat played on the boombox.

 

“Okay, Krista, you were off time there. Let’s run it again.”

 

The 10,000 blue and red seats were empty on both levels. When you’re dancing you don’t usually see anything, you just float, but I was looking. No sign of Colin. At least he wasn’t a dumb jock. Some of them seemed nice but hooking up was just a game where they wanted to be the leading scorer. They probably cared more about telling their friends than actually scoring. They sure rushed through it like they had to get back to their beer pong buddies. They never even looked you in the eye. Like Paul from Sigma Chi. “Twisted steel and sex appeal.” Nine Inch Nails’ Closer played on his stereo. So romantic. I told him to stop when he started unbuttoning my shirt. He pinned me down. Only my twenty years of dancing legs got me free. 

 

“You’re such a dick tease!”

 

Probably told his frat brothers we hooked up. Or “She’s a dyke, bro.” Coin toss. Was I turning into a cow loving man hater? In high school I was the girl who won Nicest Smile!

 

He took a seat at the back of section 103. He was holding a purple Gatorade bottle.

 

We switched to pom. And No Diggity. 

 

I don’t think he could see which one was me. Could he see any of us? He looked intently in our general direction.  

 

“Good job today, guys. Still some work left to do. We will see you Wednesday night.”

 

He walked slowly down to the court, looking in every direction. He wasn’t going to find me unless I called.

 

“Colin!”

 

He took a left turn. 

 

“Hey Clara. That was really good!”

 

“Thanks! You came to watch!”  

 

“Of course. You mean you doubted me?”

 

“Never.”

 

“So…..um, it’s a nice day.”

 

“Yeah it turned out really nice.”

 

Clearly I was going to have to do all the work here.  

 

“What else are you up to today?”

 

“Well….I might take a nap. This is kind of early for me on a Saturday! What about you?”

 

“Well, after I go home and change, I’m going home for a bit and coming back tonight.”

 

“Do you…..want to do something later?”

 

“Okay!”

 

“I live in Carriage House 19-B.”

 

“Okay how about 7 o’clock?”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

My dad had just put in a new back deck and wanted to show it off, so I drove home.

 

Burgers on the grill. I hadn’t quite stopped eating meat through fear of a lifetime ban from Cow Town, USA.

 

‘The deck looks really nice, dad.”

 

“Yeah awesome, daddy”, my sister Charlotte said.

 

“Andrew helped me. He gets the credit!”

 

Andrew had just woken up and he was in his silent, sullen phase.

 

I drove to Vernon to see Debbie, my dance instructor since age 4. I worked with her on choreography over the summer.

 

“I’m trying to set up a new community theater in West Hartford. We’re still working on funding. I want you as one of my dancers, Clar!”

 

“I’d love that.”

 

“I’ll be in touch. Love you.”

 

“Love you.”

 

Maybe my career wasn’t completely over yet?

 

I drove back to Storrs with my mom’s three bags of leftovers. “You’re too skinny? Are you eating?” 

 

Colin’s door was open but I knocked anyway. 

 

“Hey! Come in!”

 

There was a chair two feet from the TV. The corner of an ashtray peeked out from under a stack of books on the shelf. Haphazardly arranged vacuumed lines spread across the carpet. I took a seat by the window.

 

“Hi Colin!” A girl poked her head in the door.” “Oh hi Clara!”

 

“Hi Kristin.”.

 

“You guys know each other?”

 

“We’re Delta Gamma sisters,” Kristin said.

 

I didn’t know her that well—she was always at her boyfriend’s.

 

“I just came by to feed Whisper. Stop by later if you like.”

 

“Okay,” Colin said.

 

How many girls hovered around him?

 

“Oh hi Colin!”

 

Here comes another one.  

 

“Hey Amira!”

 

“Oh, hi….Clara?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Hi!”

 

“That’s it! Well just saying hi. Talk to you later!”

 

“So…what do you want to do?” he said.

 

“I don’t know. Any ideas?”

 

“Well…..I haven’t gone to the Dairy Bar this summer. Want to do that? Wait…..do you eat ice cream? Is that like against the law for dancers?”

 

“No!”

 

I didn’t tell him about my cow crisis. Was this to show what a reformed, innocent non-drinker he was? We drove down in my Miata. The Dairy Bar sat next to Horsebarn Hill and it resembled a red horsebarn itself. A green chalk board behind the counter displayed menu items.

 

“Do they have paper menus?” Colin asked.

 

“I don’t see any. I can read it off to you.”

 

“Do they have milkshakes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I think I’ll have a chocolate shake.”

 

“I’ll get a strawberry.”  

 

We sat at a red table in the corner. The floors were red and white checkers.        

 

“Is it bad that I’ve gone to the Friendly’s on Route 195 more than here?” Colin said. “It’s like my roommate who gets Dominos instead of Sgt. Pepperoni.”

 

“Yeah I know what you mean. It’s like Friendly’s feels more like home even though they’re a chain because they had one in Rockville and that other one in Vernon.” 

 

“Yeah. Friendly’s is birthday parties and good report cards. What’s this place?” 

 

“We used to go there in high school every Friday night after dance.”

 

“First time I heard of you was when my friend Dan said you were hot one day when we were playing basketball. But I’m blind so I judge people only by their inner beauty.”

 

“Haha. My locker was six down from yours.”

 

“It was? In high school?” 

 

“What do you think? Yes.”

 

“Did you think wow that quiet, studious young man will never become a drunken college lunatic?”

 

“I had you pegged as pre-med. Maybe a future business leader of America.”

 

“So close. Did you take that class? Mrs. Cappadocia?”

 

“Yes. Talk about all business. No, actually I thought “Why does he look so serious?”

 

“Did I give that away? And I wanted everyone to think I was so hilarious.”

 

“You’re not going to say you were no Ben Aurbach?”

 

“I bit my tongue. I’m maturing right before your eyes, Clara.”

 

“Do you want to know why Ben and I broke up?”

 

“Other than he was a senior dating a freshman?”

 

“What’s so bad about that?”

 

“Ummm, I think that’s illegal in some states. Do you know what kids used to call the freshmen girls?”

 

“What?”

 

“Fresh meat.”

 

“Really?”

 

“And you wouldn’t say hey I just met our new classmates. You would say, “Hey have you seen any of the fresh meat?”. And the other dude says, “No, I haven’t had a chance to look at the menu.”

 

“Oh God.”

 

“Oh another one was, “Hey if there’s grass on the field…..”. Granted, guys say this stuff just to impress other guys.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I’m not sure. Might be the milkshake talking.” 

 

“Well, anyway, I was with Ben one night with Mark King and Julie Kenndy at Friendly’s and a baby at the next table held a menu up to his face and Ben said, ‘Hey look, it’s McDonough!’”

 

“Really?”

 

“I broke up with him a week later.”

 

“Really!?”

 

“Yes.”

 

There were other reasons but that was a factor…

 

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. But you didn’t have to do that on my account. I’ve heard worse. But thanks! Is that why you keep giving me 2nd, 3rd, 20th chances? Like if you already ditched a boyfriend over me the investment better be worth it?” 

 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

 

“Can I tell you something?”

 

 He took a big sip of his milkshake.

 

“I’m not sure.”

 

“I tell everyone I work in shipping. But I work in a sheltered workshop for the blind and not as a social worker. I sew patches on canvas bags all day. I get paid by the bag. Less than minimum wage. And I collect Social Security disability.” 

 

“Well it’s just temporary, right?”

 

“I hope so. But I’m afraid no one will hire me because of my eyes.”

 

“Don’t give up. I’m sure you will find another job.”

 

“Thanks. I hope so.”

 

“If it helps, I’m doing an internship at The Travelers this summer which I hate.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well the job itself is okay. I’m working in the IT department. But my boss is a creep.”

 

“Like he hits on you?”

 

“I guess you could say that.”

 

“What does he say?”

 

“I don’t want to say.”

 

“Oh now you have to say!”

 

“I mean…..he likes to talk about his girlfriend in front of us.”

 

“How?”

 

“I mean………….he said she has a nice ruby fruit jungle.”

 

“What?! Does that mean what I think it does?”

 

“I try not to think about it.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

“Well, he asked me what color underwear I was wearing.”

 

“What did you say?”

 

“I said I didn’t remember.”

 

“What a dirtbag. But what color is it toda—forget it, just kidding!”

 

“Ha.”

 

“Was that it?”

 

“Well………….then he told everyone he heard I shave my pubic hair like a mohawk.”

 

“WHAT!!!? This guy has a vivid imagination, I’ll give him that. Can’t he get, like, fired or something for that?”

 

“The other girls said he’s been talking like that for years and when they complain they told them to learn to take a joke. That’s just Andy.”

 

I took a sip from my shake.

 

“Jesus. Well I guess you’ve noticed that guys are assholes. Except me. I’m a saint. Except when I almost burn down buildings.”

 

“We had to call your RA Mike to help get you up.”

 

“Oh God. Don’t even tell me what I said, please.”

 

“I don’t know. It was pretty poetic.”

 

“Please kill me now. I didn’t use “ruby red” imagery, did I?”

 

“You said that too.”

 

“I didn’t really, did I?”

 

“You never know.”

 

“Mike came into my room the next day. He said everyone was worried about me. Said everyone thinks I’m an alcoholic and do I think that? And “I’m worried about you, man.” Forget it. I’m killing the mood. Never mind. I stick to milkshakes now! At least since last night.” 

 

Closing Time was playing.

 

“We’ve all said some silly things. One time at Christmas I told my sister Santa Clause wasn’t real. She was six.”

 

“Did she believe you?”

 

“She said no but it might have planted the seed.”

 

“Well better she hear it from you than on the street. Older siblings are mean.”

 

“I was nice!”

 

“Doubt it.”

 

“Who was your favorite teacher in high school?”

 

“Very clever of you to change the subject. Mary Fitzgerald. Never had Shirley. Mary told me I was a good writer and that we should use concrete imagery. You?”

 

“Mr. Pivetta. But then I was in dance and he was in theater so.”

 

“You don’t have to answer this, but did you invite anyone else at the party last night to come watch you dance?”

 

“No.”

 

I invited Rob. But I knew he wouldn’t come.  

 

“Poor Banana.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“If you were named after a fruit, which one would you choose?”

 

“Well that question is a first. I don’t know. Apple? What about you?”

 

“Oh man. I guess I didn’t think ahead when I asked. A peach? Because a peach is me with a tan? That sucks. Maybe Banana is actually the only good fruit nickname. And it’s already taken. Do you think Banana wants to put—never mind.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Come on.”

 

“Nope I was about to make a terrible joke and while it might qualify me for a career in IT, I refuse to go any further. I’ve lost friends over less.”

 

“Well I’m honored you’ve decided to be such a gentleman.”

 

“That’s me. Just don’t ask around.”

 

“Too late.”

 

“So why are you switching your major?”

 

“Oh God. Long story. I love cows.”

 

“Who doesn’t?”

 

“No comment.”

 

“Remember when I bought you beer?”.

 

“I do.”

 

“I can’t believe I corrupted a minor like that. Move over, Ben Auerbach. Alcohol isn’t the answer, Clara.”

 

“That’s what you said every time you passed out in our hallway.”

 

“Wow. I just felt you girls needed a cautionary tale to drive home the message. You’re welcome.”

 

“What a life saver.”

 

“Please. Service is my reward.”

 

“I’m scared to graduate.”

 

“Yeah I was too. I’m the wrong guy to ask. I haven’t exactly adjusted to post-graduate life well so far. But you will do much better!”

 

“I think people don’t like you when you’re in your 20’s. They like kids because it’s like they live in a different universe entirely but when you enter the adult world older people see you as a threat.”

 

“Yeah my supervisor—or former supervisor—seemed like that.”

 

“Maybe they wish they were still young too and they see you doing a poor job of living out their fantasies of what they used to be, or what they wished they had been.”

 

“You have neither youth nor age, but an after dinner sleep, dreaming of both.”

 

“Wow. Deep.”

 

“Shakespeare. The only thing I learned in college was random Shakespeare quotes that impress a few and infuriate most. But yeah, like young people spend all their time wanting to be older, old people spend all their time wanting to be younger. I think that’s what he meant.”

 

“So we never feel happy with the age we are. We always want to hit rewind or fast forward, never play.”

 

“Yeah, when you’re young you are poor and dream of being rich. When you’re old you’re rich, dreaming only of being young.”

 

“Our lives are like looking into telescopes. We see things that are light years in the past.”

 

“Like old people see the present through the past. But there’s no stars for young people. We never see the future disguised as the present when we look into the sky.”

 

“Youth has no star!”

 

“We’re deep.”

 

“What’s in this milkshake? I guess we solved everything.” 

 

“Well Clara I almost went to see Phish this weekend in Maine. Bunch of dank dudes camping in a tent. Probably a lot of shrooms. Drunk guys planting a kiss on your cheek if things really turned horrific. I think I made the right choice.” 

 

“Aww….thanks?”

 

“That’s the best compliment I’ve ever paid anyone in my life.”

 

“You might need to work on that.”

 

“I knew it.”

 

“Oh and you were right. I almost didn’t show up this morning.”

 

“I gave it a 50/50 chance. Maybe 40/60. But I’m glad you did.”

 

We finished our shakes.

 

“Well, Colin. I’m tired. But this has been fun.”

 

“Best milkshake of my life. And I’ve been to the A&W place at Westfarms Mall.”

 

“Me too! My friend and I used to go there.”

 

“Well, let’s have another one before I leave Storrs behind for the second time. My dad is searching for a lonely one bedroom apartment for me in Vernon as we speak.”

 

“That’s so sad.”

 

“Will you come visit me?”

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

“Well how about doing something before I go into permanent exile?”

 

“Okay. But I can’t the rest of this weekend.”

 

“How about Monday? I usually sit in front of the TV and watch the Red Sox. If that’s not exciting for you, you have to lower your standards.”

 

“My heart is pounding with anticipation.”

………………………………… 

My roommate Paige and her boyfriend Brad ate popcorn on the couch and watched The Golden Girls. 

 

“Where did you go? On a date?”

 

“No. I just went to the Dairy Bar with this guy I knew from the dorms.”

 

“So a date.”

 

“He’s just a friend.”

 

“Did you lick his cone?”

 

Brad was an idiot.

 

“Ewww, Brad. You’re an idiot!” Paige observed, punching him.

 

“We had milkshakes, Brad. No cones. And he actually knows how to operate a straw.”

………………………………………

I drove to Carriage House on Monday at 7:30. Itt was already starting to get dark. After a few days of cool weather, the heat and humidity came back. It felt like the hottest day of the summer.

 

Colin had a giant fan blowing in the living room. A large kid peered in the door.

 

“Hey Col. Why didn’t you go to Phish?”

 

“Hey Evans. I don’t know. I was broke. How was it?”

 

“Good, dude. They played The Beastie Boys’ Sabotage! It was sick!”

 

“Sorry I missed it.”

 

He left.

 

“Did you go to any other concerts this summer?” I asked. 

 

“I went to Allman Brothers and Dave Matthews. Those were….. interesting. You?”

 

“I went to The Lilith Fair.”

 

“Oh who played this year again?”

 

“Sarah McLaughlin. Natalie Merchant. Bonnie Raitt. Um, Tracy Bonham. Suzanne Vega.”

 

“See? I like all of them! Well Sarah McLaughlin is maybe a bit too…..well scrubbed for me, but she’s pretty good. I might have gone but the guys here would rather get caught wearing Guess jeans.”

 

“But you’re more evolved than that?”

 

“Well…..everything is relative.” 

 

Bill Clinton was on TV.

 

“Good evening. This afternoon in this room, from this chair, I testified before the Office of Independent Counsel and the grand jury. I answered their questions truthfully, including questions about my private life…..still I must take complete responsibility for all my actions, both public and private…. ……began with private business dealings…..the independent counsel investigation moved on to my staff and friends, then into my private life…..but it is private…..even presidents have private lives…it is time to stop the pursuit of personal destruction and the prying into private lives….”.

 

“Did you watch the Inaugural Ball on MTV? When Michael Stipe and Natalie Merchant danced?” Colin asked. 

 

“Yes. And they sang To Sir, With Love?”

 

“Yeah. What happened to that?”

 

“You mean it didn’t seem like we’d all have to be so worried about privacy anymore?”

 

“Yeah that’s it.”

 

“Hope and change is now guilt and privacy?”

 

“Ahhhm from a place called Privacy.”

 

“Privacy, Arkansas?”

 

“You never know. It might exist.”

 

“My supervisor worships Bill so he still has one admirer.”

 

“I’m sure he does. Does every guy become a boss just to find his Monica? Give Bill a truth serum and this would have been a nationally televised high five.”

 

“His poll numbers would skyrocket.”

 

“Hey Al, Ken Starr is the office dweeb who only wishes he could run afoul with human resources.”

 

“Slick Willie.”

 

“It’s really hot. Want a cold drink?”

 

“What do you have?”

 

“Ummmm……well, I think we have beer. Gatorade. And possibly running tap water but I’ve never tried it.”

 

“What a selection. I’ll have a beer.”

 

We both had Harpoons.

 

“I wish Carriage House had a pool. Maybe by 2030,” Colin said.

 

“UConn 2030. I don’t have one either. It would be a nice night for a swim.”

 

“Have you ever gone to Crystal Lake?”

 

“Is that a real question?” 

 

“But at night?”.

 

“No.”

 

“I went a few years ago with an Ellington group. No fence, it’s so easy.”

 

“You’re not suggesting we go tonight?”

 

“Isn’t it only a 15-20 minute drive?”

 

“Actually I lied. I went at night a few years ago. With Tina Lacey, Ryan Cowan……”

 

“See? I knew you were a trespasser!”

 

“Alright fine, let’s go.”

 

He went upstairs and changed into his bathing suit and we drove to Coventry Lake to get mine. So quite the roundabout route.

 

Crystal Lake was off Sandy Beach Road. Two lights shined in the parking lot, but there were no cameras and no fence. The beach had a lifeguard tower. The raft was about 40 feet from shore. It was supposedly a hot spot for the rich up until The Depression (no cars to drive to The Cape or the shoreline?) It was pretty spartan and middle class these days. We sat on a beach towel I brought from my car.

 

“Look at that moon. Or….can you see it?” I said. 

 

“Yes. I can see big things far away better than small things close by.”

 

A waning, banana shaped crescent moon, partially obscured by clouds, faintly reflected onto the black water. The lake was shaped like a slightly elongated fish with its tail off into the distance. It was dead quiet except for crickets and the occasional passing car.

 

“It’s so beautiful like this,” I said.

 

“Yeah. Did you ever hear those stories growing up about Jason from Friday the 13th haunting Crystal Lake?”

 

“Yes. You’re suggesting a serial killer in a hockey mask might murder us at any moment?”

 

“No! Okay, sorry forget I mentioned it. Plus nothing bad ever happens on Monday The 19^th”

 

“I feel better—I guess.”

 

“Clara…..it’s. I don’t know. It’s good to be here with you.”

 

“I feel the same, Colin!”

 

“Thanks for giving me a 12^th chance!“

 

“Stop.”

 

Silence. Crickets chirped.

 

“I remember when you knocked on my dorm door one Saturday night. I think you were wearing a black sweater. Actually I know you were wearing a black sweater.”

 

“Was I?”

 

I had no idea.  

 

“I think another girl was with you. Bodyguard?”

 

“Totally.”

 

“Wow I’ve come so far. You trust me without a third party. In the dark.”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

 

“Sorry. I should have talked to you more when you lived upstairs. Instead of writing stuff on your door. And…voicemails I guess.”

 

“When you told me you loved me?”

“What!? Me? I was actually trying to dial Leanne’s number.”

 

“Oh GOD!”

 

“She was actually kind of the worst. I hated her but I didn’t know why.”

 

“Get in line.”  

 

“You were friends with Mr. Twisted Steel. I figured I just couldn’t compete with that kind of sex appeal. And you said Paige Cappadocia a was in a fashion magazine. I was like I’m far too deep and sophisticated for that. I’ve since realized I’m a fucking moron.”

 

Hard to argue with that.  

 

“No comment.”

 

“Did you ever go to parties on Green Road in high school or were you way too classy for that? I come from rough burnout stock.”

 

“No, I went once. I threw up.”

 

“You too?”

 

“And I got scared. The police showed up and broke it up.”

 

“They were only a nuisance. Made you put out the fire, toss you beer. Then everyone drove back 20 minutes later.”

 

“I even smoked pot but not in high school. At a Delta Chi party. I also almost threw up.”

 

“Wow, ballerinas are not all they appear. Did you know Dave? Asian kid on my floor? We took so many bong hits I felt like a hallow chocolate Easter bunny. Literally thought I was going to die.”

 

“Just say no.”

 

“Nancy Reagan was right all along.”

 

“You should have brought your guitar.”

 

“I know. But I kind of suck.”

 

Well he did kind of suck in the dorms.

 

“….but I think I’m better than in the dorms.”

 

“Do you sing?”

 

“No. I mean I’ve been trying to learn but…..no.”

 

“Oh stop it. Can’t you sing to me?”

 

“Out of the question.”

 

He took a large sip of beer.

 

“Chicken?”

 

“Yes. I sound like a dying animal. Lou Reed after a tonsillectomy.”

 

“That good? Now I HAVE to hear you.”

 

“I think I hate you. Okay…..um, what song?”

 

“Surprise me.”

 

“Are you just into dance music?”

 

“I like all kinds.”

 

“How about REM? Don’t Go Back To Rockville?”

 

“Rockville, CT?”

 

“It can’t be. And who wouldn’t go back there? Where else do Ellington kids get their weed?”

 

“I guess you’re right.”

 

“Wait…..what about Oasis? Live Forever?”

 

“I love that song.”

 

“Great!”

 

“But just like…..a capella like this?”

 

“Think of it this way: it can’t be worse than an attack from Jason. So it’s bound to be perfect.”

 

“Okay…..”

 

Another big sip.

 

Three false starts. Then he sung the sung.

 

It actually wasn’t bad. Not great—but not bad.

 

“That was good!”

 

“You don’t have to lie.”

 

“It was!”

 

“What about you? Your turn.”

 

“Forget it. I can’t sing. I’m the dancer.”

 

“How about a dance then?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay. Can I be honest with you?”

 

“This again?”

 

“No, it’s nothing. So the last time I was here with Dale Packard and Sean Tr1ask and Alana Aiello and Shannon Richard and—never mind, a few others. We, um, actually didn’t have any bathing suits.”

 

“Oh that’s really sad.”

 

“It was. So we had to go in without them.”

 

“Thank God we’re not in that predicament.”

 

“Totally!”

 

Crickets.

 

“But it was kind of fun, actually”.

 

“What?”.

 

“You know….skinny dipping. The water feels so nice.”

 

“Colin…..”

 

“Besides, I’m blind. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I can’t see shit. Plus it’s dark. Darkness upon darkness. And the moon is barely out!” 

 

“No way.”

 

“Wait, WHO’S THERE!? Where are you? Where am I? I need a seeing eye dog.”

 

“Haha”.

 

“Just thinking out loud”. 

 

“Actually as long as we’re being honest, we went skinny dipping too when I came here at night.”

 

“See? Is there anyone who HASN’T gone skinny dipping here? Obviously this is old hat for both of us. Plus I just sang a cappella to you which I’ve never done with another human ever. I don’t want to say you owe me but… Listen, I’m the one who should be worried here. Which one of us has 20/20 vision? Think of how vulnerable I am right now. If you think President Clinton is the only one who cares about privacy, you couldn’t be more wrong”.

 

“Okay, okay. Maybe. But if you look, I’m leaving you here to hitchhike home.”

 

“Deal.“

 

“And I’m taking your clothes with me. And if cops show up I will never speak to you again.”

 

“That’s fair.”

 

We got undressed and quickly ran to the water and splashed in. On this tropical night, the water felt like a cool gentle caress.  

 

“Oh my God this really is so nice,” I said, treading water.

 

“Yeah it’s great?”

 

We swam for a couple of minutes. He was trying to look away! He even swam in the opposite direction. I swam to the raft. And, why not? I climbed up and laid down.

 

“Come to the raft.”

 

“I’m not sure if I can.“

 

“Why?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

“Oh come on!”

 

“Okay.”

 

We laid on our backs and gazed at The Big Dipper.

 

His eyes fixed straight up.

 

“Oh it feels so nice now. Much cooler,” I said.

 

“I know. It does,” he said, his voice wavering.

 

“Colin.”

 

“Yes?” 

 

“I don’t care if you look.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

              

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

    

 

    

 

 

 

 

       

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       

 

            

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“