Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Trevi Fountain
I had my back to the Fontana di Trevi, coin in hand as i closed my eyes. I remember thinking "no looking where it goes, that will ruin it" so as i lifted my arm and let if fly, i waited till i heard the splash over the rushing of the water, then started walking up the steps. I didn't turn around when i got to the top, just kept the sound of the rushing water in my ears as i made my way to the street. I wondered aloud, "one last look?" but decided against it, i shouldn't look back. And i wont, because there is no need to look over my shoulder, to look back at the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps or anything from Rome in the Fall of 2008. I need not look back because i will always have the sound of the rushing water just behind me, the sound held firmly in my heart, letting me know it's still there, the coin sitting in the fountain, waiting for my return.
Mechanical Door
The online conversation with her necessitated a quick smoke break from night class.
The smoke escapes my lungs, mingling with the breath hanging from my mouth on this snow covered silent night outside Xavier Hall. The automatic door will lock if I let it close, trapping me away from the things that I must complete if my night is to continue.
Each inhale is stolen from time supposedly dedicated to learning about column carvings of the ancient Incan people, a task which seems to drain my will to live far more then I thought when I signed up for the class. The vagina dentada is a lot less exciting then it seems.
Each time the door closes, reminding me to go back to class, I resist, pushing it back out, forcibly allowing myself more time to smoke, to break. It closes again, and my arm is not completely willing to fight again, the motor working against my slowly relenting arm, until I remember to attack, to push against, not just hold. My break continues, because I feel it must. I am actively making my body cold, my lungs weak, my education worse, all because I need this time, this time to think.
I mound up the snow in front of the door, but its subsequent closing smoothes out my efforts, and I must push again. The time to think is no longer my reason for braving the weather, for avoiding Incan repousse. I am actively in battle with this door, this mechanical demon with a predestined idea of how long I need the door to be open, how much time I need.
I have come to enjoy the cold, in a masochistic way. The cigarette burns slowly against the silent walkway between buildings, and I gear up for another attempt to turn back the inevitable whirring motor.
Again it closes, and again I repel its assault. The door allows the same amount of time between each attempt to close off the weather, seemingly oblivious to me, the adversary. No attempt to fool me or overpower me, no attempt to call reserves or sound an alarm. There is no attempt to make peace, or surrender, no attempt to form a treaty allowing me my time, just relentless, mindless closing. There is nothing in this mechanical beings existence that allows for someone standing outside, seeking time before returning.
With one last inhilation, I reenter, succumbing to the inevitable, but as I whipe my feet on the matt I feel the door closing again behind me. I reach out and push it open, sending a signal noone will hear, nothing will understand.
The smoke escapes my lungs, mingling with the breath hanging from my mouth on this snow covered silent night outside Xavier Hall. The automatic door will lock if I let it close, trapping me away from the things that I must complete if my night is to continue.
Each inhale is stolen from time supposedly dedicated to learning about column carvings of the ancient Incan people, a task which seems to drain my will to live far more then I thought when I signed up for the class. The vagina dentada is a lot less exciting then it seems.
Each time the door closes, reminding me to go back to class, I resist, pushing it back out, forcibly allowing myself more time to smoke, to break. It closes again, and my arm is not completely willing to fight again, the motor working against my slowly relenting arm, until I remember to attack, to push against, not just hold. My break continues, because I feel it must. I am actively making my body cold, my lungs weak, my education worse, all because I need this time, this time to think.
I mound up the snow in front of the door, but its subsequent closing smoothes out my efforts, and I must push again. The time to think is no longer my reason for braving the weather, for avoiding Incan repousse. I am actively in battle with this door, this mechanical demon with a predestined idea of how long I need the door to be open, how much time I need.
I have come to enjoy the cold, in a masochistic way. The cigarette burns slowly against the silent walkway between buildings, and I gear up for another attempt to turn back the inevitable whirring motor.
Again it closes, and again I repel its assault. The door allows the same amount of time between each attempt to close off the weather, seemingly oblivious to me, the adversary. No attempt to fool me or overpower me, no attempt to call reserves or sound an alarm. There is no attempt to make peace, or surrender, no attempt to form a treaty allowing me my time, just relentless, mindless closing. There is nothing in this mechanical beings existence that allows for someone standing outside, seeking time before returning.
With one last inhilation, I reenter, succumbing to the inevitable, but as I whipe my feet on the matt I feel the door closing again behind me. I reach out and push it open, sending a signal noone will hear, nothing will understand.
The Falcon
the type of place crazy european adventures start, which only a healthy dose of antibiotics can end
the type of place only a kerouac enspired hammet could describe
the type of place who serves beer you could certainly get used to
the type of place where one could pick up a seriously recreational drug habit
the type of place only a kerouac enspired hammet could describe
the type of place who serves beer you could certainly get used to
the type of place where one could pick up a seriously recreational drug habit
Storms
Some people say they love to see the sun come after a storm, wait to see if a rainbow can shine after that cacophony of noise and those flashes of powerful light. But me, i prefer a storm that ends at night. A storm that when it clears, shows me the stars in the heavens and the full moon casting a silver glow. I want to stand in a damp night, tennis shoes squeaking on the pavement and squishing in the wet fallen leaves, and stare up into the sublime infinity of a clear night sky. I want to know that while my world experienced the destructive force of nature, the universe was only blocked from sight, not swallowed by the dark clouds. I want to walk again across 71st street as a kid who's parents understood the interest a storm can stir, so was allowed to stay up past his bed time. I want to stand again on the roof of 8027, smoking the days last cig, inhaling the damp air, the sweet nicotine and the infinity of space. I want to go to my secret place, looking between the tall buildings, over the top of Greis and stand because it is too wet to sit, while trying to see my reflection in the moon. I want to stay up later then i ever have for too many days in a row because i cant believe this JFRC life is coming to an end, sitting on my balcony, watching my shoes dry, and thinking maybe if i count the stars, i will remember how the night sky looks after a storm in my favorite city of all, in the best place i have ever lived.
Old Stuff 5: Good Person
I don't care if it's God, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Captain Jean-Luc Picard, Albus Dumbledore, Ernest Hemmingway, Otis Redding, the dying words of your mother, an impassioned speech from a favorite teacher, a kindly remark from a priest, a Hallmark card, a good high, words caught in passing from a delusional bum, a passage from the Book of Mormon, the lineage of your blood or the notes of Beethoven's fifth. Any reason you have to became a good person, I support you. I will let you know when I find mine.
Philosophy
I hope to throw wrenches into gears, to commit Neitzchien acts of irrationality, to profess love and enjoy disaster. I need to do. Not even "do" as i once defined to it, but rather to "do" new, to do things i didnt think i wanted to, to do things i didnt even know i could. I hope to believe things i didnt used to and abandon things i have held true. I Hope to Do.
Old Stuff 4: The Hand
Shit happens sometimes, and Brian Grant could accept that. The man at the bottom of his building’s steps, however, had no excuse. Besides an excuse, Brain assumed the man had no family, no home, no faith and most assuredly no job.
What he did have was his hand out. Everyday, rain or shine, weekday or end, even holidays the man extended his bony, gnarled, half open hand towards Brian Grant’s Allen-Edmonds. On good days he would hold back his sneer of contempt, but he had never once offered a dime to this waste of a God-given soul.
Once he made it past the doorman, the decrepit hand would be out his mind and he could continue on his work day. Brian’s office could get heated at times; working on Corporate mergers, hostile takeovers, stock option buyouts and everything else the elite of Madison Avenue could think to argue about high above the clouds. While never tempted to swan dive from his corner balcony, Brian could not last a week without once storming out of the building for an early lunch.
He blew off Pete, his doorman for 14 years whose actual name was Alex, and nearly hit a woman with the door as he flung it open himself. Grant heard what he thought was the woman complaining, and readied himself for a fight. But as he turned, his Armani briefcase got caught in-between his legs. He stumbled and hit the bottom of the eight stair entrance in a pile. While he mentally assessed the damage, Brain cursed the woman whose fault it was that this outrage this happened. When Brian opened his eyes to inspect the shoulder seam of his suit coat, he noticed a hand. Gnarled, decrepit, bony and half open, it was out to help Brian Grant to his feet.
What he did have was his hand out. Everyday, rain or shine, weekday or end, even holidays the man extended his bony, gnarled, half open hand towards Brian Grant’s Allen-Edmonds. On good days he would hold back his sneer of contempt, but he had never once offered a dime to this waste of a God-given soul.
Once he made it past the doorman, the decrepit hand would be out his mind and he could continue on his work day. Brian’s office could get heated at times; working on Corporate mergers, hostile takeovers, stock option buyouts and everything else the elite of Madison Avenue could think to argue about high above the clouds. While never tempted to swan dive from his corner balcony, Brian could not last a week without once storming out of the building for an early lunch.
He blew off Pete, his doorman for 14 years whose actual name was Alex, and nearly hit a woman with the door as he flung it open himself. Grant heard what he thought was the woman complaining, and readied himself for a fight. But as he turned, his Armani briefcase got caught in-between his legs. He stumbled and hit the bottom of the eight stair entrance in a pile. While he mentally assessed the damage, Brain cursed the woman whose fault it was that this outrage this happened. When Brian opened his eyes to inspect the shoulder seam of his suit coat, he noticed a hand. Gnarled, decrepit, bony and half open, it was out to help Brian Grant to his feet.
Old Stuff 3: American Dream
His children stood around him as he waited to die. From his hospital bed, he could see their faces, the nine of them. Girls crying, boy’s faces locked in stern resolve, both practiced for just such a moment. Lawrence George the First, a man who conquered America, finally had enough of being fed from a tube and slowly began to let himself pass in front of his posterity. The man who had carried himself from the immigrant slums of Bismarck, North Dakota, to a mansion on Lake Shore Drive, would have the featured obituary in both the Sun-Times and the Tribune.
His grandchildren stood further off, mulling about in his hospital room, unsure of how to pay their respects to the man who created everything in their lives. He laid amused at their passive will, their inability to action. They wouldn’t last a minute in the real world, he told himself, but as soon as the thought passed through his mind, he realized they already had. James’ boy was a vice president of manufacturing at a plant out-side of Milwaukee, Melinda’s daughter a partner in Omaha’s largest law firm.
He looked into the eyes of his youngest, Lawrence Jr., and tried to smile reassuringly, to let him know this how he wanted it to end. The expression he made must have frightened his child, because he started to call for the nurse.
“Your... son—“ was all Lawrence could bring himself to say to pacify his scion, and he nearly passed. The meaning was conveyed. The Grandfather wanted to have a final moment with his most direct progeny, Lawrence George III. The young man must have been little over 18, Lawrence could not quite recall, but he recognized the child that he had taken special interest in over the last years, “Yes, Grandpa, what is it?” His speech was delicate, yet forceful, the perfect tone. Larry, they called him, a strongly built lad with a good George face.
His life had been spent in the finest of private institutions, where his potential was recognized at a very young age. Infatuated with knowledge, just like his grandfather. His potential, distressingly, was never realized. He didn’t study, his teachers said. “He gets by on his intelligence instead of flourishing,” the school counselors proclaimed. The highest paid grade school teachers in the country couldn’t get Larry to realize pragmatic accomplishment.
His 7th grade teacher, after receiving another sub par history project, called Larry into his office to figure out once and for all the true dilemma. Getting the boy to talk about the subject was no problem, he was obviously fascinated, but when the talk turned to grades the boy became distant, as if the conversation no longer held him. When the teacher made his report to Lawrence Jr. all he could muster was that the boy had no sense of accomplishment, no pride in the final product, no understanding of success. But still, two years later, he had been accepted into the finest high school in all of Chicago, and again (with the help of a well timed donation) four years later to Georgetown University, no one had stopped him along the way. The Larry of seventh grade was right, the lack of accomplishment never amounted to anything.
Lying in the hospital bed at the end of his life, Lawrence thought of how the world laid at young Larry’s feet the day he was born. Laying on his hospital bed, staring up at the boy, at the same age as himself when scrapped to be able to afford a way to get to college. He recognized the Polo logo on his collared shirt, and the mark of an English tailor on the lapel of his jacket. Slowly it dawned on him, and as he tried as hard as he could to fight it, the old man could not think of it a different way. His eyes widened and his breath became short. Staring at the logo he realized, what an evil he leveled on this boy.
Lawrence struggled to shed a tear, his last, thinking of the theft. He had pulled himself up by the bootstraps, nothing was expected of him, and he persevered. He was the stuff of Hollywood legend, son of Hungarian immigrants who had changed their last name at Ellis Island, carrying their young son to a land where he could hope. He swam up stream, pulling himself along powerfully by sheer work. He shuddered, for those who came after him, his success had frozen that stream, and it was all young Larry could do but skate by.
As a child, Lawrence got beat up for his lunch money by his best friends, the despair of the time and place pushing people beyond the bounds of humanity. With frigid Bismarck always hanging over him, Larry earned a full scholarship to Marquette University. As a sophomore in college, a professor called Lawrence into his office. “I’ve noticed impeccable work this semester and you’ve attended every one of my classes, I would just like to commend you. You have accomplished very much.” The smile didn’t leave Lawrence’s face for days, but the compliment did not increase his grades. It was impossible to improve the straight A’s.
He moved on to graduate school. His weekly schedule, including work, class, studying, giving private tutoring, and fraternity obligations, allowed Lawrence 45 minutes of personal time on Sunday afternoon. Young Larry had none of it, none of the difficulty, none of the experience, none of the reason to dream for his wildest fantasies were granted at the drop of a hat.
Lawrence could see 10 years down the road. The boy who they called “Tre” as a child would be hired out of school, or maybe spend a year or two on his masters. Either way, a management job would be his with a prestigious company. A wife would soon follow, kids, the normal office promotions regular, slowing later, with maybe an affair towards the end when the man realized his life was slipping away. When Larry lay in a hospital bed at the end of his life, there would be no reporters in the hallway, no day of remembrance in his company. His grandchildren wouldn’t owe their lives to him. He wouldn’t, no, couldn’t, be Lawrence George the First.
Laying there, standing under his direct line, surrounded by his children, the Lion of Chicago business struggled, garbled, and sputtered “I… I’m… sorry.” Then, closing his eyes against the sight of his greatest sin, he died.
His grandchildren stood further off, mulling about in his hospital room, unsure of how to pay their respects to the man who created everything in their lives. He laid amused at their passive will, their inability to action. They wouldn’t last a minute in the real world, he told himself, but as soon as the thought passed through his mind, he realized they already had. James’ boy was a vice president of manufacturing at a plant out-side of Milwaukee, Melinda’s daughter a partner in Omaha’s largest law firm.
He looked into the eyes of his youngest, Lawrence Jr., and tried to smile reassuringly, to let him know this how he wanted it to end. The expression he made must have frightened his child, because he started to call for the nurse.
“Your... son—“ was all Lawrence could bring himself to say to pacify his scion, and he nearly passed. The meaning was conveyed. The Grandfather wanted to have a final moment with his most direct progeny, Lawrence George III. The young man must have been little over 18, Lawrence could not quite recall, but he recognized the child that he had taken special interest in over the last years, “Yes, Grandpa, what is it?” His speech was delicate, yet forceful, the perfect tone. Larry, they called him, a strongly built lad with a good George face.
His life had been spent in the finest of private institutions, where his potential was recognized at a very young age. Infatuated with knowledge, just like his grandfather. His potential, distressingly, was never realized. He didn’t study, his teachers said. “He gets by on his intelligence instead of flourishing,” the school counselors proclaimed. The highest paid grade school teachers in the country couldn’t get Larry to realize pragmatic accomplishment.
His 7th grade teacher, after receiving another sub par history project, called Larry into his office to figure out once and for all the true dilemma. Getting the boy to talk about the subject was no problem, he was obviously fascinated, but when the talk turned to grades the boy became distant, as if the conversation no longer held him. When the teacher made his report to Lawrence Jr. all he could muster was that the boy had no sense of accomplishment, no pride in the final product, no understanding of success. But still, two years later, he had been accepted into the finest high school in all of Chicago, and again (with the help of a well timed donation) four years later to Georgetown University, no one had stopped him along the way. The Larry of seventh grade was right, the lack of accomplishment never amounted to anything.
Lying in the hospital bed at the end of his life, Lawrence thought of how the world laid at young Larry’s feet the day he was born. Laying on his hospital bed, staring up at the boy, at the same age as himself when scrapped to be able to afford a way to get to college. He recognized the Polo logo on his collared shirt, and the mark of an English tailor on the lapel of his jacket. Slowly it dawned on him, and as he tried as hard as he could to fight it, the old man could not think of it a different way. His eyes widened and his breath became short. Staring at the logo he realized, what an evil he leveled on this boy.
Lawrence struggled to shed a tear, his last, thinking of the theft. He had pulled himself up by the bootstraps, nothing was expected of him, and he persevered. He was the stuff of Hollywood legend, son of Hungarian immigrants who had changed their last name at Ellis Island, carrying their young son to a land where he could hope. He swam up stream, pulling himself along powerfully by sheer work. He shuddered, for those who came after him, his success had frozen that stream, and it was all young Larry could do but skate by.
As a child, Lawrence got beat up for his lunch money by his best friends, the despair of the time and place pushing people beyond the bounds of humanity. With frigid Bismarck always hanging over him, Larry earned a full scholarship to Marquette University. As a sophomore in college, a professor called Lawrence into his office. “I’ve noticed impeccable work this semester and you’ve attended every one of my classes, I would just like to commend you. You have accomplished very much.” The smile didn’t leave Lawrence’s face for days, but the compliment did not increase his grades. It was impossible to improve the straight A’s.
He moved on to graduate school. His weekly schedule, including work, class, studying, giving private tutoring, and fraternity obligations, allowed Lawrence 45 minutes of personal time on Sunday afternoon. Young Larry had none of it, none of the difficulty, none of the experience, none of the reason to dream for his wildest fantasies were granted at the drop of a hat.
Lawrence could see 10 years down the road. The boy who they called “Tre” as a child would be hired out of school, or maybe spend a year or two on his masters. Either way, a management job would be his with a prestigious company. A wife would soon follow, kids, the normal office promotions regular, slowing later, with maybe an affair towards the end when the man realized his life was slipping away. When Larry lay in a hospital bed at the end of his life, there would be no reporters in the hallway, no day of remembrance in his company. His grandchildren wouldn’t owe their lives to him. He wouldn’t, no, couldn’t, be Lawrence George the First.
Laying there, standing under his direct line, surrounded by his children, the Lion of Chicago business struggled, garbled, and sputtered “I… I’m… sorry.” Then, closing his eyes against the sight of his greatest sin, he died.
Old Stuff 2: I Just hooked up with My Sister
I was already asleep in the tent. Maybe it was the shotguned beers, maybe it was the chugged Bacardi, you never can be sure when it came to nights like this. She opened the flap with all of the slyness of a drunken pixie, and the whispering scratch of tent on tent roused me from my slumber as she fumbled in. I wasn’t sure exactly what was on her mind, but I had known Sophia all through college, and I didn’t think much of it.
She stumbled to where I lay hovering on the brink of consciousness. I couldn’t tell if she knew I was awake, and I wasn’t up to uttering anything, let alone a greeting. She laid down next to me, and figured her time was as up as mine had been…,shit, I have no idea how long ago I made Todd’s tent my resting place.
We had made the trip from Milwaukee out to Omaha to visit Todd, our mutual friend, that morning. He had a cool weekend planned out for us, and it began with a night on the riverbank with his friends. They were a good crew, but a little more into the bottle than I was, so, while I had mad it deeper into the night than some, I was by no means in the top half of the class.
She nuzzled into my shoulder, having come in with out a sleeping bag or a pillow. I turned my face towards hers, and she responded by giving me a wink that I’m sure looked much more becoming in her minds eye. The vocal cords hadn’t woken up with the rest of me, so it remained silent in our polyester paradise.
I had actually known Sophia for all of high school as well, but we didn’t become friends until it was clear we would be enjoying Saint Louis University together. I’m still not sure who made the first move on our friendship, but the awkwardness faded fast. It seemed one day we were fumbling through friends in common, and by dawn the next day ready to invite each other home for Thanksgiving dinner.
When I think back, the night is a haze, but I would love to believe it was her who made the first move. Whether it was her arm across my chest, or a slight roll of my body so our stomachs touched, something happened. I kissed her on the forehead, I think, maybe. Who was responsible for our lips first touch is a toss up, but I find it hard to believe a jurry of our peers would find either of us wholly guilty.
One of the things my dad told me about college, having come out of the same all-guy school I did some 35 years before, was that in college I would have friends who were girls, which were not girlfriends. And while there is an inherent confusion whenever fathers try to talk to sons about life experiences, I understood what he meant.
I am sure it was her who offered the first bit of tongue, but only because I was scared to do so myself. I am around 95% sure it was my arm that wrapped around her waist as we lay on the thin plastic coating, but the movement alerted whatever stores of Bacardi were laying dormant in my veins, ready to fulfill their obligation to me as a paying customer.
The first night I slept on her futon was mostly an accident, a movie that ran late after a day of lunch and dinner together. We could go a week without meeting, but the time we spent together was some of the most comfortable I had in that first month of a life 500 miles from home. She woke me up when she herself was roused by her roommate creeping back in after a night patronizing the fine local imbiberies. As her roommate passed out in her own bed, Sophia and I began to talk.
I am by nature someone who enjoying being on the bottom in all phases of a sexual encounter. One of my freshman year courtesans linked it, maybe correctly, to my almost troubling need to exert as little energy as possible in even the most enjoyable pursuits. I rolled up onto my back, and our thighs remained connected. The kisses were getting deeper, and our breathing heavier. She has this little trick where she will suck your tongue into her mouth, giving the most powerful of all of the muscles a sensation of being massaged and ripped out of the throat at the same time. It was fun.
Our talks came nearly every night that we spent together. Discussing everything from my respect for my dad, to her best friend of an older brother; from how much I hated that sell out Gwen Steffani to her love of The Notebook. There were opinions on religion and chicken strip Tuesdays at the Greis Cafeteria. With every word spoken, even the ones I uttered unknowingly, and then later teasingly about my distaste for Notre Dame, we became closer. It might be wrong to call her my best friend, because I could go a week without seeing her, and we rarely spent more than three days in a row together.
Our alcohol-laced breath did not bother our alcohol-deadened noses, so there was not really a problem with continuing.
We had our ups and downs, but I spent some time thinking about where I would be without her in my life. The girlfriend/friend thing seemed to have resolved itself when she came back from a week protesting the SOA with a boyfriend from my old high school. Truthfully, I breathed a deep sigh of relief after the initial shock. We talked about him, and how much they liked each other every once in awhile, but nothing really changed. I still camped out on her sweet couch/futon, which was the most comfortable sleeping pad in the building. While the Facebook pictures of my sleeping head on a pink and orange pillow, while I snuggled with a smiling fish under a pink blanket were not always welcome, were not the most becoming they were a fair trade.
Our bodies intertwined as much as possible considering I was fully inside my heavy sleeping bag. She was not the most gentle kisser around, and I was not in much of a state to avoid a few bites here and there. Our bodies started to pulsate, and we alternated our bodies up and down. Our hips were synchronized in their very own, very opposite way.
One of the things our friendship lacked that struck me as odd for any type of college relationship was time spent drunk together. I was with my floor friends or my fraternity buddies, and she turned towards Todd and the others when the time for that particular brand of college recreation came.
My vocal cords checked in with me to see how things were going and were justifiably shocked at the current state of events. They made up for the time lost to sleeping on the job, and a small, warm-up moan escaped from my lips. The once sacred swathe of silence over our rendezvous was lifted, and Sophia, by nature a vocal person, took the opening and, as they say, ran with it.
The first time I saw her drunk, Todd had invited me down for a wasted Wednesday celebration he was hosting in his humble abode on the fifth floor. I got lost in a game of Madden after a long day of class, so by the time I had my Dasani bottle of Seagrams 7 and several cans of the High Life ready to go, it was just short of half past eleven. The celebration had started earlier and quicker than I had anticipated, and I found myself in a freshman’s haven. I was surveying the room from just inside the door, spotting a cutie that I had yet to spot that year, when I felt a crushing hug come from my blind side. No wonder they pay left tackles all that money. It took me a several shuffling steps sideways before I regained my balance and saw Sophia doing her best Aaron Kampman impression. College girls, especially freshman, might be the easiest people in the world to identify as drunk.
I have no knowledge of where anyone else in our camping party was. They could have been outside the tent listening for all I knew, or frankly, cared. She ended up under me at some point. Being below usually has its stray feelings of suffocation, but, still being inside the sleeping bag myself, I’m surprised at her lack of asphyxiation. The change in positions livened things up for awhile, and there was renewed auditory expression. However, it remained rather tame in our two-cylinder tent.
She was carrying around her “Nalgene of love,” Gary, and by the looks of his content, there had been a lot of love bandied about that night. It’s not easy to drink or socialize with a drunk girl under your arm, so the party was rather lost on a sober me. Eventually, she pulled me out into the hall under the auspices of going back to her room to fill up the Nalgene, and relied heavily on my sober legs for the walk back. I got in a few quick shots while she unscrewed the coconut rum hidden in her freezer, and chased them down with my champagne of beers. When I saw her eyes land on me with the bottle forgotten on the floor, I knew something was up.
“You are an idiot” not the preferred way to strike up a conversation, but I let her go.
“How often does a girl have to throw herself at you for you to get the picture”
I recount her words in essence, not verbatim, because a transcription of drunken slurring does not become a pretty young lady of her stature, and I would appreciate it if someone did the same for me in a similar situation. I was silent, unsure of where this previously stuffed under the rug conversation would wind up. She recounted the story of a night I spent with her friends several weeks before school started. Apparently I was supposed to kiss her goodnight, and that’s where the whole thing got off tracked. To be fair to me, I actually am an idiot. I avoided commenting, and eventually the awkward turtle shuffled off to somewhere else he was needed, as his services are always highly in demand.
I assume it was me who went for her shirt, and she really did not put up any fuss as it came off. That was enough of a morsel for the beast of progression for a while, and we continued about or ways. My hands were given free reign over the body of a lovely young girl, so it should be obvious there was not the particular part of my anatomy which felt neglected at that moment.
When sober, she apologized for her actions, and a minimal excuse was quickly gobbled up by a very unsure me, I thought it would take longer for the turtle’s imprint to fade, but we were actually very good friends, and all things pass. I still stayed on her futon, and made insomniatic trips down to her room far past co-hab. I was sure to avoid wasted Wednesdays, thirsty Thursdays, fucked up Fridays and shit-faced Saturdays with her. I was not trying to test my luck. However, all things must come to an end; good, bad, awkward and to my chagrin, mutual avoidance. The night after she forced me to sit through Alex and Emma, I should have been worried, but my left tackle must have been confused about a blocking assignment.
She really did have a nice set, I had forgotten. In other news, I am an asshole.
She was much harder to pacify when sober, and I was forced to give a response. I spoke the truth, I did not see her like that, the relationship was not about that in my mind, and no I can’t explain why, except to say that I did not see her like that, and no I can’t explain why. She wasn’t crying, it wasn’t that type of talk, but things were not what I would consider genial. I was finally granted a little reprieve after more cyclical conversation, and made my way out the door. I threw a glance over my shoulder, and she was just staring out the window. I threw the shoes I picked up off of her floor as hard as I could into the wall when I got into the stairwell, but felt that I had handled myself well. To recount our top story tonight, I am an asshole.
Things were getting hotter in the little tent, our body heat settling back down upon us. It felt great at first, but insulated against the elements in my bag of sleep, I began to get uncomfortable. At that point I was sitting up against the wall of the tent and she was sitting on my lap. The event felt not exactly close to conclusion, but I could see the Dénouement from the crest of the hill.
Things were a little strained, and our relationship lacked the closeness it once held. However, amiable relations existed and lines of communication remained open. Time passed, and things got a little bit closer to normal. Snuggling on the futon was now met with a chorus of “Not fair” and time alone was mostly spent in the company of other people. Maybe months passed, maybe weeks; in my college experience, time is not really measured, more felt. I spent drunken weekends on the town with the guys and generally stayed away from my friends that were really her friends. Random make out sessions came and went with randoms, crushes on the cute girl in French class were forgotten as crushes on the other cute girls in French class overtook them. Finally, the levy broke. After a relaxed pre-gaming session in my room, I spent what seemed like a regular night at Dante’s, an under 21 nightclub. The girl who was most interested in me was not really cutting it, so I left a little early, and found myself staring at Sophia’s door.
A noise outside caused me to startle, but she didn’t notice, and I wasn’t about to just stop. I had returned to my preferred residence, flat on my back, and the movement had renewed with vigor. A second high point if you will. It was at this point I lost a true grip on what exactly was happening. It wasn’t a quick onset, I had been slowly drifting towards passed out as soon as I had been roused. My conscious mind was locked in mortal combat with the Bacardi Bat, and my brain was not exactly focused on the matter at hand. It’s a good thing other parts of the anatomy have a pretty good handle on these kinds of times. I remember thinking things could not actually be happening the way I was seeing them, and then after several blinks I was right in that I was wrong.
I didn’t knock as much as I pawed at the door until I heard her voice call, and I opened the door with the slyness of a drunken bear. I am unsure of what happened, but I my inhibitions were not as strong as they have been. I am relatively sure that I initiated the action, and before long the pillows and blanket were watching us from the ground; we joined them not long after. The details are rather trivial, what mattered was the action, the action that I had taken so many actions to prevent. My father imparted another bit of wisdom, “it takes gallons and gallons of paint to cover a room, but only a small cup to ruin the look.” He is much smarter than I am. As if the viewers are unsure of what to make of this, the next morning and afternoon followed with much of the same behavior, but I believe I have hammered the asshole point quite home and such details are not necessary.
Semi-passed out hook up sessions have a way of freaking me out when as I get progressively less passed out, maybe I’m just weird that way, but the tent session was just about closing. She stood up and replaced her shirt and made it out of the tent before I figured out what had exactly happened. She was off to make distance between this and her, and I was stuck to sit in the mess I made.
After that, we really didn’t talk much for a couple months. I was still no closer to liking her. After the “3 days of awkwardness” as she labeled it, I was pretty much out of her system and there was nothing more there. While diplomatic relations were strained and I had lost favored nation status; there were still lines of communication. After time though, she wandered up to check on me after a dislocated knee playing basketball, and we remembered why we liked each other so much in the first place. It went back to the way it was in the beginning, slowly. By the time summer rolled around, we were back to best friends, siblings they way they were supposed to be. Talking about boys, and if I could get a word in, girls. We talked philosophy and Paris Hilton; Brosephs and Econ 101. We were close. She wasn’t even just a girl any more, she was my sister. It was all there, everything I needed in a friend. There was nothing besides another unfortunate incident that could have gotten in between us, I had a bright outlook on our friendship.
With Sophia gone, I had a chance to spend some time with myself. And I'm sorry Todd, if you are reading this, but there is no way I was going to be able to make it all the way back to sleep with my anatomy like it was. Fuck, I just hooked up with my sister.
She stumbled to where I lay hovering on the brink of consciousness. I couldn’t tell if she knew I was awake, and I wasn’t up to uttering anything, let alone a greeting. She laid down next to me, and figured her time was as up as mine had been…,shit, I have no idea how long ago I made Todd’s tent my resting place.
We had made the trip from Milwaukee out to Omaha to visit Todd, our mutual friend, that morning. He had a cool weekend planned out for us, and it began with a night on the riverbank with his friends. They were a good crew, but a little more into the bottle than I was, so, while I had mad it deeper into the night than some, I was by no means in the top half of the class.
She nuzzled into my shoulder, having come in with out a sleeping bag or a pillow. I turned my face towards hers, and she responded by giving me a wink that I’m sure looked much more becoming in her minds eye. The vocal cords hadn’t woken up with the rest of me, so it remained silent in our polyester paradise.
I had actually known Sophia for all of high school as well, but we didn’t become friends until it was clear we would be enjoying Saint Louis University together. I’m still not sure who made the first move on our friendship, but the awkwardness faded fast. It seemed one day we were fumbling through friends in common, and by dawn the next day ready to invite each other home for Thanksgiving dinner.
When I think back, the night is a haze, but I would love to believe it was her who made the first move. Whether it was her arm across my chest, or a slight roll of my body so our stomachs touched, something happened. I kissed her on the forehead, I think, maybe. Who was responsible for our lips first touch is a toss up, but I find it hard to believe a jurry of our peers would find either of us wholly guilty.
One of the things my dad told me about college, having come out of the same all-guy school I did some 35 years before, was that in college I would have friends who were girls, which were not girlfriends. And while there is an inherent confusion whenever fathers try to talk to sons about life experiences, I understood what he meant.
I am sure it was her who offered the first bit of tongue, but only because I was scared to do so myself. I am around 95% sure it was my arm that wrapped around her waist as we lay on the thin plastic coating, but the movement alerted whatever stores of Bacardi were laying dormant in my veins, ready to fulfill their obligation to me as a paying customer.
The first night I slept on her futon was mostly an accident, a movie that ran late after a day of lunch and dinner together. We could go a week without meeting, but the time we spent together was some of the most comfortable I had in that first month of a life 500 miles from home. She woke me up when she herself was roused by her roommate creeping back in after a night patronizing the fine local imbiberies. As her roommate passed out in her own bed, Sophia and I began to talk.
I am by nature someone who enjoying being on the bottom in all phases of a sexual encounter. One of my freshman year courtesans linked it, maybe correctly, to my almost troubling need to exert as little energy as possible in even the most enjoyable pursuits. I rolled up onto my back, and our thighs remained connected. The kisses were getting deeper, and our breathing heavier. She has this little trick where she will suck your tongue into her mouth, giving the most powerful of all of the muscles a sensation of being massaged and ripped out of the throat at the same time. It was fun.
Our talks came nearly every night that we spent together. Discussing everything from my respect for my dad, to her best friend of an older brother; from how much I hated that sell out Gwen Steffani to her love of The Notebook. There were opinions on religion and chicken strip Tuesdays at the Greis Cafeteria. With every word spoken, even the ones I uttered unknowingly, and then later teasingly about my distaste for Notre Dame, we became closer. It might be wrong to call her my best friend, because I could go a week without seeing her, and we rarely spent more than three days in a row together.
Our alcohol-laced breath did not bother our alcohol-deadened noses, so there was not really a problem with continuing.
We had our ups and downs, but I spent some time thinking about where I would be without her in my life. The girlfriend/friend thing seemed to have resolved itself when she came back from a week protesting the SOA with a boyfriend from my old high school. Truthfully, I breathed a deep sigh of relief after the initial shock. We talked about him, and how much they liked each other every once in awhile, but nothing really changed. I still camped out on her sweet couch/futon, which was the most comfortable sleeping pad in the building. While the Facebook pictures of my sleeping head on a pink and orange pillow, while I snuggled with a smiling fish under a pink blanket were not always welcome, were not the most becoming they were a fair trade.
Our bodies intertwined as much as possible considering I was fully inside my heavy sleeping bag. She was not the most gentle kisser around, and I was not in much of a state to avoid a few bites here and there. Our bodies started to pulsate, and we alternated our bodies up and down. Our hips were synchronized in their very own, very opposite way.
One of the things our friendship lacked that struck me as odd for any type of college relationship was time spent drunk together. I was with my floor friends or my fraternity buddies, and she turned towards Todd and the others when the time for that particular brand of college recreation came.
My vocal cords checked in with me to see how things were going and were justifiably shocked at the current state of events. They made up for the time lost to sleeping on the job, and a small, warm-up moan escaped from my lips. The once sacred swathe of silence over our rendezvous was lifted, and Sophia, by nature a vocal person, took the opening and, as they say, ran with it.
The first time I saw her drunk, Todd had invited me down for a wasted Wednesday celebration he was hosting in his humble abode on the fifth floor. I got lost in a game of Madden after a long day of class, so by the time I had my Dasani bottle of Seagrams 7 and several cans of the High Life ready to go, it was just short of half past eleven. The celebration had started earlier and quicker than I had anticipated, and I found myself in a freshman’s haven. I was surveying the room from just inside the door, spotting a cutie that I had yet to spot that year, when I felt a crushing hug come from my blind side. No wonder they pay left tackles all that money. It took me a several shuffling steps sideways before I regained my balance and saw Sophia doing her best Aaron Kampman impression. College girls, especially freshman, might be the easiest people in the world to identify as drunk.
I have no knowledge of where anyone else in our camping party was. They could have been outside the tent listening for all I knew, or frankly, cared. She ended up under me at some point. Being below usually has its stray feelings of suffocation, but, still being inside the sleeping bag myself, I’m surprised at her lack of asphyxiation. The change in positions livened things up for awhile, and there was renewed auditory expression. However, it remained rather tame in our two-cylinder tent.
She was carrying around her “Nalgene of love,” Gary, and by the looks of his content, there had been a lot of love bandied about that night. It’s not easy to drink or socialize with a drunk girl under your arm, so the party was rather lost on a sober me. Eventually, she pulled me out into the hall under the auspices of going back to her room to fill up the Nalgene, and relied heavily on my sober legs for the walk back. I got in a few quick shots while she unscrewed the coconut rum hidden in her freezer, and chased them down with my champagne of beers. When I saw her eyes land on me with the bottle forgotten on the floor, I knew something was up.
“You are an idiot” not the preferred way to strike up a conversation, but I let her go.
“How often does a girl have to throw herself at you for you to get the picture”
I recount her words in essence, not verbatim, because a transcription of drunken slurring does not become a pretty young lady of her stature, and I would appreciate it if someone did the same for me in a similar situation. I was silent, unsure of where this previously stuffed under the rug conversation would wind up. She recounted the story of a night I spent with her friends several weeks before school started. Apparently I was supposed to kiss her goodnight, and that’s where the whole thing got off tracked. To be fair to me, I actually am an idiot. I avoided commenting, and eventually the awkward turtle shuffled off to somewhere else he was needed, as his services are always highly in demand.
I assume it was me who went for her shirt, and she really did not put up any fuss as it came off. That was enough of a morsel for the beast of progression for a while, and we continued about or ways. My hands were given free reign over the body of a lovely young girl, so it should be obvious there was not the particular part of my anatomy which felt neglected at that moment.
When sober, she apologized for her actions, and a minimal excuse was quickly gobbled up by a very unsure me, I thought it would take longer for the turtle’s imprint to fade, but we were actually very good friends, and all things pass. I still stayed on her futon, and made insomniatic trips down to her room far past co-hab. I was sure to avoid wasted Wednesdays, thirsty Thursdays, fucked up Fridays and shit-faced Saturdays with her. I was not trying to test my luck. However, all things must come to an end; good, bad, awkward and to my chagrin, mutual avoidance. The night after she forced me to sit through Alex and Emma, I should have been worried, but my left tackle must have been confused about a blocking assignment.
She really did have a nice set, I had forgotten. In other news, I am an asshole.
She was much harder to pacify when sober, and I was forced to give a response. I spoke the truth, I did not see her like that, the relationship was not about that in my mind, and no I can’t explain why, except to say that I did not see her like that, and no I can’t explain why. She wasn’t crying, it wasn’t that type of talk, but things were not what I would consider genial. I was finally granted a little reprieve after more cyclical conversation, and made my way out the door. I threw a glance over my shoulder, and she was just staring out the window. I threw the shoes I picked up off of her floor as hard as I could into the wall when I got into the stairwell, but felt that I had handled myself well. To recount our top story tonight, I am an asshole.
Things were getting hotter in the little tent, our body heat settling back down upon us. It felt great at first, but insulated against the elements in my bag of sleep, I began to get uncomfortable. At that point I was sitting up against the wall of the tent and she was sitting on my lap. The event felt not exactly close to conclusion, but I could see the Dénouement from the crest of the hill.
Things were a little strained, and our relationship lacked the closeness it once held. However, amiable relations existed and lines of communication remained open. Time passed, and things got a little bit closer to normal. Snuggling on the futon was now met with a chorus of “Not fair” and time alone was mostly spent in the company of other people. Maybe months passed, maybe weeks; in my college experience, time is not really measured, more felt. I spent drunken weekends on the town with the guys and generally stayed away from my friends that were really her friends. Random make out sessions came and went with randoms, crushes on the cute girl in French class were forgotten as crushes on the other cute girls in French class overtook them. Finally, the levy broke. After a relaxed pre-gaming session in my room, I spent what seemed like a regular night at Dante’s, an under 21 nightclub. The girl who was most interested in me was not really cutting it, so I left a little early, and found myself staring at Sophia’s door.
A noise outside caused me to startle, but she didn’t notice, and I wasn’t about to just stop. I had returned to my preferred residence, flat on my back, and the movement had renewed with vigor. A second high point if you will. It was at this point I lost a true grip on what exactly was happening. It wasn’t a quick onset, I had been slowly drifting towards passed out as soon as I had been roused. My conscious mind was locked in mortal combat with the Bacardi Bat, and my brain was not exactly focused on the matter at hand. It’s a good thing other parts of the anatomy have a pretty good handle on these kinds of times. I remember thinking things could not actually be happening the way I was seeing them, and then after several blinks I was right in that I was wrong.
I didn’t knock as much as I pawed at the door until I heard her voice call, and I opened the door with the slyness of a drunken bear. I am unsure of what happened, but I my inhibitions were not as strong as they have been. I am relatively sure that I initiated the action, and before long the pillows and blanket were watching us from the ground; we joined them not long after. The details are rather trivial, what mattered was the action, the action that I had taken so many actions to prevent. My father imparted another bit of wisdom, “it takes gallons and gallons of paint to cover a room, but only a small cup to ruin the look.” He is much smarter than I am. As if the viewers are unsure of what to make of this, the next morning and afternoon followed with much of the same behavior, but I believe I have hammered the asshole point quite home and such details are not necessary.
Semi-passed out hook up sessions have a way of freaking me out when as I get progressively less passed out, maybe I’m just weird that way, but the tent session was just about closing. She stood up and replaced her shirt and made it out of the tent before I figured out what had exactly happened. She was off to make distance between this and her, and I was stuck to sit in the mess I made.
After that, we really didn’t talk much for a couple months. I was still no closer to liking her. After the “3 days of awkwardness” as she labeled it, I was pretty much out of her system and there was nothing more there. While diplomatic relations were strained and I had lost favored nation status; there were still lines of communication. After time though, she wandered up to check on me after a dislocated knee playing basketball, and we remembered why we liked each other so much in the first place. It went back to the way it was in the beginning, slowly. By the time summer rolled around, we were back to best friends, siblings they way they were supposed to be. Talking about boys, and if I could get a word in, girls. We talked philosophy and Paris Hilton; Brosephs and Econ 101. We were close. She wasn’t even just a girl any more, she was my sister. It was all there, everything I needed in a friend. There was nothing besides another unfortunate incident that could have gotten in between us, I had a bright outlook on our friendship.
With Sophia gone, I had a chance to spend some time with myself. And I'm sorry Todd, if you are reading this, but there is no way I was going to be able to make it all the way back to sleep with my anatomy like it was. Fuck, I just hooked up with my sister.
Old Stuff 1: How to Save a Life
It was a rainy day. The kind of day you are happy to see because it would be so nice to sit inside bundled up in a blanket and knowing you are warmer than you should be.
Unfortunately, being midterms week, I felt I should probably go to class. After a brutal walk, I made it down campus to Xavier Hall. I hadn’t been to Poly Sci in awhile, so I had no idea what the professor was talking about, but I could smile and pretend I knew what the pretty junior who always sits by me was talking about. In typical John fashion I dominated the English discussion in my next class, even though I hadn’t read the book. Arkansas, the cute southern girl, was happy to see me, so that was a plus. Theology turned out as boring as always, we talked about my favorite Heresy, (yeah, I have a favorite heresy), but no one seemed to care. After class, the AD Pi who I always find a way to sit next to and I had a nice little discussion before we parted ways.
After laundry with the cheerleader (who commented on how comfy my moccasins looked), my day was pretty boring. I got a couple of games of Madden in, and studied a bit for my History test. I actually studied a lot for my History test, a procedure I'm not familiar with so it took awhile. The weather made it seem like it was 7 o’clock all day, so I was surprised when it actually was 7. I decided to put the controller/book down and hit up the dining hall.
The fake blond looked amazing in the sweatshirt/sweatpants combo, and I told her so. I think she blushed, but it was hard to tell because I couldn’t believe I so blatantly complemented her, so I became totally engrossed in my chicken. I spent a couple of more hours with Japan, China and the Packers, called Mary to let her know I would be back home this weekend, and it was 2 before I knew it.
My friend Pat had dropped off his manuscript earlier, detailing a break up that he promised shed light on his personal life philosophy. I figured, as long as I had time, why not read it? IMing my friend Jordan and the musk of Pat’s work made me feel a cigarette break was in order. My roommate had gone to bed hours ago, so the room was silent except for some Fray my friend had sent me. I scrounged for a lighter, grabbed my Turkish Royals and headed out. There is a bench in between the library and the administration building that was just secluded and out of the way enough to be “my spot.”
When I got outside I remembered it had rained, and none of the benches would be work out. I also realized I was woefully dressed for the elements. Sweatpants, a Brewers hat, Frat T-Shirt and $130 shoes that happened to be closest to my feet when I stood up. It wasn’t raining any more, so I lit a cigarette and decided to make it a “one out and one back” trip. Usually, you have to stop to light up, but I held my hand in front of the flame and tried a few times as I set of down the quad.
My friend Dave was walking back from the library with a pretty brunette, but after the requisite head nod I was alone. I noticed the wind when it cut through my sweats and hit me right in the sack. I got past the clock tower just taking in the night and the Camel when I saw my boy Tim. Tim happens to be a statue that sits deep in thought and stares “torn” off into the distance vaguely in the direction of Laurie (another statue). The night was pretty, with the orange of the lights reflecting off of the wet surfaces, and no stars in the overcast sky. I saw two people strolling up the walkway to Fusz Hall, a blonde and a tall guy, and thought better of letting out a “Howdy.”
My walk seemed to lull, and I got a little downcast. The cigarette burned down and I knew it was just about time to head back, but I saw some folks sitting outside Dematt and thought I might as well swing by to see if I knew any of them. I didn’t, and the two couples moved subconsciously closer together at the intrusion. Again, I withheld a greeting, and turned the corner back towards the mall, lighting another Turkish Royal. The sprinklers turned on just as I was making the turn, and one of the guys disparaged, “good work SLU, we really need the sprinklers tonight.”
I was thinking along the same lines when I realized I had to stop walking. Standing there, two sprinklers were jammed in place; the streams stuck hitting each other. The spray swept over my walkway, and the wetness of the day seemed to dictate a new path. Standing there, I saw two people walking down the path back to the Lower Village Quad, easily distinguishable as a duo.
I stood there, and thought of the junior, Arkansas, the AD Pi, Mary and all the others. Standing there, the two streams spraying their connection all over campus, I remembered Tim, Fusz, the four outside Dematt and village couple. The cloud seemed as ominous as ever, but I took a step, and the surprisingly warm spray actually felt nice as it swept over my face. That step turned into a walk, and I was headed back up campus. A guy and a girl were walking towards me just as I passed Tim, and I threw out, “what’s up?”
Unfortunately, being midterms week, I felt I should probably go to class. After a brutal walk, I made it down campus to Xavier Hall. I hadn’t been to Poly Sci in awhile, so I had no idea what the professor was talking about, but I could smile and pretend I knew what the pretty junior who always sits by me was talking about. In typical John fashion I dominated the English discussion in my next class, even though I hadn’t read the book. Arkansas, the cute southern girl, was happy to see me, so that was a plus. Theology turned out as boring as always, we talked about my favorite Heresy, (yeah, I have a favorite heresy), but no one seemed to care. After class, the AD Pi who I always find a way to sit next to and I had a nice little discussion before we parted ways.
After laundry with the cheerleader (who commented on how comfy my moccasins looked), my day was pretty boring. I got a couple of games of Madden in, and studied a bit for my History test. I actually studied a lot for my History test, a procedure I'm not familiar with so it took awhile. The weather made it seem like it was 7 o’clock all day, so I was surprised when it actually was 7. I decided to put the controller/book down and hit up the dining hall.
The fake blond looked amazing in the sweatshirt/sweatpants combo, and I told her so. I think she blushed, but it was hard to tell because I couldn’t believe I so blatantly complemented her, so I became totally engrossed in my chicken. I spent a couple of more hours with Japan, China and the Packers, called Mary to let her know I would be back home this weekend, and it was 2 before I knew it.
My friend Pat had dropped off his manuscript earlier, detailing a break up that he promised shed light on his personal life philosophy. I figured, as long as I had time, why not read it? IMing my friend Jordan and the musk of Pat’s work made me feel a cigarette break was in order. My roommate had gone to bed hours ago, so the room was silent except for some Fray my friend had sent me. I scrounged for a lighter, grabbed my Turkish Royals and headed out. There is a bench in between the library and the administration building that was just secluded and out of the way enough to be “my spot.”
When I got outside I remembered it had rained, and none of the benches would be work out. I also realized I was woefully dressed for the elements. Sweatpants, a Brewers hat, Frat T-Shirt and $130 shoes that happened to be closest to my feet when I stood up. It wasn’t raining any more, so I lit a cigarette and decided to make it a “one out and one back” trip. Usually, you have to stop to light up, but I held my hand in front of the flame and tried a few times as I set of down the quad.
My friend Dave was walking back from the library with a pretty brunette, but after the requisite head nod I was alone. I noticed the wind when it cut through my sweats and hit me right in the sack. I got past the clock tower just taking in the night and the Camel when I saw my boy Tim. Tim happens to be a statue that sits deep in thought and stares “torn” off into the distance vaguely in the direction of Laurie (another statue). The night was pretty, with the orange of the lights reflecting off of the wet surfaces, and no stars in the overcast sky. I saw two people strolling up the walkway to Fusz Hall, a blonde and a tall guy, and thought better of letting out a “Howdy.”
My walk seemed to lull, and I got a little downcast. The cigarette burned down and I knew it was just about time to head back, but I saw some folks sitting outside Dematt and thought I might as well swing by to see if I knew any of them. I didn’t, and the two couples moved subconsciously closer together at the intrusion. Again, I withheld a greeting, and turned the corner back towards the mall, lighting another Turkish Royal. The sprinklers turned on just as I was making the turn, and one of the guys disparaged, “good work SLU, we really need the sprinklers tonight.”
I was thinking along the same lines when I realized I had to stop walking. Standing there, two sprinklers were jammed in place; the streams stuck hitting each other. The spray swept over my walkway, and the wetness of the day seemed to dictate a new path. Standing there, I saw two people walking down the path back to the Lower Village Quad, easily distinguishable as a duo.
I stood there, and thought of the junior, Arkansas, the AD Pi, Mary and all the others. Standing there, the two streams spraying their connection all over campus, I remembered Tim, Fusz, the four outside Dematt and village couple. The cloud seemed as ominous as ever, but I took a step, and the surprisingly warm spray actually felt nice as it swept over my face. That step turned into a walk, and I was headed back up campus. A guy and a girl were walking towards me just as I passed Tim, and I threw out, “what’s up?”
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