Of Folly And Of Vice

Well, don’t we all, really?

The Boys’ House sat in the middle of a one-way street directly across from a research field. The street, I suppose, would be considered “cobblestone” but it was more of a staggered brick that your car would bump and rumble and bounce over as you drove. We started calling it The Boys’ House because that’s where the boys lived, really nothing more complicated than that.

The house itself was very large and white, with a wide front porch that had no railing. I’m certain that when it was built, it was built for a family. It had a proper entryway, with a seemingly ancient dark wood staircase which opened through an arched doorway to a living room. The living room flowed into what was purposed to be a dining room, but which the boys’ called The Parlor – the location of a spectacular hand-crafted wooden bar with a tap and shelves built right into it, approximately 8 feet in length. Philip built it himself and the boys helped. Some nights, The Bar seemed to stretch out for miles as several of us would be working behind it, pouring beers and selling incredibly overpriced mixed drinks to identifiably underage patrons. This was the best part of The Bar – we were as young, if not younger, than many of the people visiting. It was three times the illegal - underage servers, serving alcohol without a liquor licence to underage drinkers.

When it was quiet, and there weren’t several hundred people making their way through on a Friday or Saturday night, it was quite beautiful. Light filtered delicately through broken blinds and warping windows, splattering on the wood floors in the mornings. All of the stairs creaked with an uncertainty of constitution – as if they would simply evaporate as you climbed. There were quirky features like a small trap door in the wall of the kitchen and original light switches that turned on nothing.

There were three small bedrooms on the second floor, and a larger one with a thin strip of a sun room that faced the street and the hulking tree in the front yard. Two of the bedrooms were located in the basement, which was not particularly scenic and always smelled like you’d expect a basement to smell like, except with an undertone of the vanilla plug-in air fresheners that Lou obsessively monitored and replenished.

The landlord was a ridiculous man who was forever reminding the boys they were not allowed to have pets or waterbeds nor were they allowed to flush toothbrushes or sanitary napkins down the toilets. After having spent so much time there, I’m not confident that these areas would have been my primary concern. My concerns would have centered around exactly how many people could fit into the house before the floor in the living room collapsed into Wayne’s bedroom below or the particularly puzzling gang tag left in the bathroom after a party or the manner in which to successfully remove the stain of vomit from the kitchen wall.

As I mentioned, I believe the house was originally built for a family – and I think we functioned as such. We could have assuredly qualified for being dysfunctional. The Boys’ House, more than any other place where I paid rent to live, was our family’s real home. The multitude of friends’ friends’ friends that joined us on any given weekend night were usually nice people – but they wouldn’t be there in the morning to wake up and realize that no matter what the weather, it was 47 degrees in the basement. Or that on Tuesday nights we would sit around on the uncoordinated thrift store couches in the living room and play Grand Theft Auto on PlayStation, taking turns.

The other people that came to the parties at the Boys’ House were usually perfectly nice and fun to be around, but they were missing something. They were missing an important part – missing that part that would have allowed them to recognize that when they came to these parties, they were sharing in our reverie, our toasts to youth and friendship, our laughs. That was the most important part.

My mantle is full of Christmas cards and I’m watching one of my favorite episodes of The Office.

My mantle. My father would never allow such a display. Not because of a lack of Christmas spirit – but because it would be clutter. At my parents’ house, there is a designated basket to securely contain all incoming Holiday Greetings.

“We are so loved!” My roommate says as we gazed upon the growing collection the other evening.

“We are,” I agree.

- – -

I am unsteady on my feet, teetering between standing upright and pushing my arms out in front of me to catch my balance. The garage is cold and the conversation is waning. My eyes wander from his. I repeat to myself, I am an adult; I have a mantle and Christmas cards.

Tomorrow I will drive home alone and shiver in the car from the cold.

And I told the girl, “It’s just really nice that you guys are going to do the article.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“No, I mean, the paper was a huge part of our lives - did Wayne mention that at all? Pea was the business manager, his roommate Rob did ad sales, his roommate Lou was the arts and entertainment editor – he was a hoochemaster! We all were a part of the paper and it just means a lot. I was a writer for a little while. I did lay out too, but I don’t remember why I stopped. I think it had something to do with sucking at it.”

The girl laughs out loud. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

I’m laughing now as well, “That’s alright, it’s true.”

I eventually hung up after I helped her, calmly, map out a timeline for one of my dearest friend’s life and death. A timeline, a series of events. A series of events that led directly to me talking to a girl from my college newspaper, on a random Thursday, while pacing on my back patio, smoking, and occasionally, crying. Pushing my way through all the facts and denying all the emotion greatly improved my state of mind. At least temporarily.

How old was this girl? She might as well been 12. I felt 40. Say she was a junior – which means she’d be graduating in May of 2010 if all things went according to plan. This means she is six years younger than myself and my friends from college. This means by the time she even got to campus – we’d been gone for over two years or more. Ghosts.

The dorm we lived in freshman was demolished in the fall of my last semester. Half of us were gone already and the other half were just getting ready to go. When I mentioned it during our conversation I just said “a dorm that was already blown to smithereens by the time you got there”. She didn’t ask any questions.

And, when I mentioned that the boys lived in the “Welcome Friends” house, you know that one by the research field on East Campus, it’s got the sign with “Welcome Friends” on it,  - nothing.

I found myself resigned to saying things like, “Well, it was a big deal when I was there.” At 26 years old. This whole situation was getting more and more difficult.

Not only was it like me and my ghost friends never exsisted, the places and people we had touched on our little journeys were also evaporating. And now, we were dying off.

“Life is so amazingly rich and I know I have [cancer] to thank for making that realization more full than it normally would be at my age.”

I have written a lot of times about my friend, Jason, who we called “Sweet Pea”. He guested letters for me and was a big supporter of To Whom It May Concern during it’s run. I feel obligated, as supporters of TWIMC and readers of his words, to let you know that he passed away yesterday at 26.

A world without Pea is not a world I expected to live in when I met him eight years ago. He was just a kid from St. Louis, another new person to get to know in our isolated dorm. He had this captivating personality, hysterical observations and very specific time lines for the completion of tasks.

We did a lot of growing during our college experiences, as our lives intertwined into one another and weaved in and out. It was poetry, the way we all came together. We struggled, fought, cried, laughed, hugged, partied, cheered on our college team, and each other - together. As I wrote once before on the subject – “I sometimes wonder how people become friends and why the bonds can feel so strong. Like, in romantic relationships, there’s attraction, some sort of biology involved. What about friends? Is it just your interests? Is it something about intelligence? Humor? Is it just coincidence? What if I had chosen a different school, a different building, a different major? Would those people I encountered mattered as much to me now – an entire 7 (now 8) years later?”

And it hurts. It hurts so bad that I don’t even feel anything. And we are full of the “I should have…” and the “We were going to…” and that hurts even more. We all knew it could happen, but it didn’t feel possible.

There is so much to remember. I will remember this – everyday you will be in my heart.

“I usually don’t let strange bearded men into my car, you know,” I said.

Lou kind of laughed and got into the car. “So how was the drive?”

“Oh, fine,” I replied. “My contact was bothering me. Where should I park?” 

We found somewhere suitable and I got my stuff out of the car. I handed him two Target bags.

“I brought some beer,” I said. “Goose Island and Leinenkugels.”

He took the bags. “What Target sells booze?”

“Um, Super Targets by me do?”

We entered his brother’s apartment, comfortably appointed in a college student’s manner. Ryan waiting there and I gave him a hug and wished him a happy birthday. The whole thing made me feel old; I met Ryan when he was 14 and living in his parents’ farmhouse. He was finally 21, working and going to school, living in his own apartment.

We were standing in the kitchen, putting the beer away and talking when I knew I had to touch Lou’s hair. It was short again, and I was proud of him.

“I’m so proud of you for this,” I said, lightly touching the sides of his head. The short cut had exposed the flecks of copper buried in the black expanse of his thick hair. I touched his scruffy beard. “Now, you just have to deal with this.”

“That is exactly what my mother said,” Lou said, while Ryan laughed. “I have a plan for it.”

“Oh really?” I asked.

One of my first interactions with Lou occurred in the lounge of our dorm. We were waiting to leave for the Freshman Convocation across the street at the basketball arena. I warned him not to, but he put on my heavily prescribed sunglasses and looked back at me. I laughed; I could barely see him, just the spiky outline of his dark hair, tipped in yellow.

Now, six and a half years later, I was standing in his brother’s apartment. He was in from the South to visit his family. I had driven down for the night to see him and celebrate Ryan’s ascent to adulthood.

While we were playing T.I.’s King album, Lou began Solitary Moshing, which has evolved over the years. It’s turned into more of dancing while throwing his arms around, rather than flailing toward someone with the intent to injure. I don’t how many pieces of furniture I have been pushed into. Something like, many.

Eventually, the evening started to wind down. Lou’s friend Caleb left and his brother and Ryan fell asleep in the living room. Somehow I was able to secure the bed as my sleeping place. I was lying down, waiting for delicious drunk sleep to come over me when Lou started shouting for me.

“Lou! We are in separate rooms! You’re too loud, they’ll wake up,” I answered back, sitting up in the bed now.

He said his peace and said, “Well, good night forever.”

“Good night.”

I woke up the next morning, the light streaming in through the window, freezing cold. I pulled my purse toward the bed and grabbed for my glasses. I checked my cellphone; it was only 8am. I had been asleep for four hours. I got up and went to the bathroom, and fell back asleep for a few hours. I woke again when Ryan got up and went to the bathroom. I started looking through my pictures while I waited to say good morning to him. I had taken nearly 150 pictures. This included about 6 of Lou’s head alone (no doubt related to his haircut, which apparently pleased me greatly while I was drunk). So I started to delete the bad ones.

Ryan appeared in the doorway of his bedroom. “I was just looking through my pictures. I took too many,” I said and laughed.

I entered the living room after Ryan. Lou was still sleeping. I laid down next to him and took a picture. Ryan laughed. Lou peered at me through a half-opened eye.

“Good morning!” I said.

Later, after I got ready to go, Lou walked out with me to my car.

“It was really good to see you,” I said. We hugged. I’d already made my plans to visit him in April.

“It’ll be good to spend more than a night hanging out,” He said. I agreed and got in my car.

I put on my sunglasses and lit a cigarette. Ryan’ apartment is right near the highway, so in seconds I was headed back north. I had the Rolling Stones blasting already.

I was born in a cross-fire hurricane
And I howled at my ma in the driving rain,
But it’s all right now, in fact, it’s a gas!
But it’s all right…

That first week there was no day and there was no night. It was existing in a constant state of college student limbo – just being. Everything was created in order to be, to feel, to experience.

There was no down time, no off days. Everyone, every light was on.

The difference between day and night has always been difficult for my body to distinguish. I have never had much trouble staying up through a night or much difficulty sleeping despite the day light. This was to my benefit, for the first time ever. I was able to be a part of the group for once. Instead of being the nerdy, chubby girl who went to sleep early, at the least, I was the nerdy, chubby girl who could hang.

This was crucial. The people who unable, or uncommitted, to complete the course of the hanging for the evening were decidedly less cool. It was nearly a contest.

Oh, 3:30? We made it until 6, and then he passed out in the lounge.

In the beginning there was only a piece of paper from Residential Life bearing a room assignment and the name and address of a girl from St. Louis. She was hardly a real person to me yet, just a name on a piece of paper. This was like everything else college was to me. Nothing was real yet. Nothing had even happened. I was still surrounded by glossy brochures, full of dramatic pictures of campus and smiling students in unfashionable outfits. There was no one to tell me about all the things that would happen to me there; my parents had commuted to their colleges, and all of my friends and I were the oldest children in our families, so there were no big brothers or sisters to give us a clue. My imagination ran rampant with the possibilities of the life that was waiting for me, off in the distance, in the foreseeable, but not immediate, future.After all, I was still knee-deep in my last summer before I left for school, being with my friends from high school for the last time. College felt very far away, even though I had traveled to my chosen school in early June for what the sadists in Res Life called “Summer Welcome”.

The Summer Welcome program was a two-day orientation for incoming freshmen and their parents. The new students stay in the dorms overnight, if they are brave enough yet to bear the blazing summer heat without air conditioning. Basically, it’s an intensive indoctrination on a fairly large scale. Familiarize, sympathize, lather, rinse and repeat. The cycle continues all summer long as construction flares up across campus like a venereal disease. There is a blur of information disseminated during this thing, lots of folders stuffed with pamphlets about date rape drugs and financial aid. Lots of campus tours, nametags and school colors.

At the end of it, you have a sneaking suspicion you’ve been lied to, but you can’t pin it down to an exact statement. Instead, you are being tortured by snippets of the fight song, echoing in your head and you can’t think of anything else but “up on the top, up on the top” for three to five days after you‘ve been home. Maybe it was the way that all the Summer Welcome leaders seemed completely full of shit. I knew there was something else they weren’t talking about. There had to be some sort of mystical orb of college life that they knew about. Is this really all expensive books and Student Health and signing up for classes and falling asleep in the library? Is this silly traditions and “have-to-do” lists? Isn’t this the beginning of something amazing? Or is it the end of something better?

I wanted to know if anyone else knew anything better, so I shocked myself by introducing myself to a few girls who were lounging around in another room, immobilized by the heat that seeped into all aspects of the Summer Welcome experience.

We got along for the short time we were together, but I had hardly anything in common with them, and they weren’t the college friends in my head. In daydreams, you just have amazing friends; you don’t have to work for them or wander around looking for people to talk to when you’ve spent too much time staring at the course catalog. In spite of my suspicions about the brief tutoring I received in college life, the Summer Welcome program nevertheless helped fuel my imaginary adventures.

Like cattle being herded in for the slaughter, the powers-that-be separated interested freshmen into pre-formed groups based on majors or other interests. I had become a part of one such group, and would be spending my freshman year “Exploring Journalism” co-enrolled in a few classes with about 25 cohabitating students on the far South end of campus.

It felt like the end of everything, but it was really just the beginning.

I started college with a pretty outlandish hope: to be a world-renown journalist, a talking head, a best-selling author. I would cover stories that mattered, and make a difference by shining the light on injustices in my community, and eventually, in the larger world. I would do important, irreplaceable work.

These things changed in such an anti-climatic way. I remember sitting in front of the “J” School, waiting to talk to my academic adviser. I already knew what we were going to talk about: my grades weren’t good enough, I didn’t apply myself, I wasn’t going to succeed. What was my Plan B? It was a quiet morning, fall, leaves rushing and rustling across the Quad. There was no Plan B.

Why would I want to record the memory of my greatest disappointment? Why would I want to keep it close, to review it?

I had a plan. I had things worked out. It was all going to be there, spilling out in front of me. It was mine for the taking. I had done exceptionally well in high school. I was supposed to get to college, major in something high-minded and become successful. There was something bigger at work. This just had to be. This was my prayer. This was my mantra. There is something bigger at work. This just had to be.

And the truth was, it wasn’t working. I wasn’t trying particularly hard, but whatever talent I had was not translating. Speaking French to a room full of Russians.

I had one particularly difficult exchange with my J200 TA, in a coffee shop across the street from campus.

“Tell me what I did right, if anything, in this paper.”

“Well, this paragraph is pretty good.”

And then, crumpled copy paper in hand, I stormed back to my apartment, blaming her for ruining everything.

And then, I found myself in front of the J School, one of the absolute most respected in the country, thinking about crying. Crying for the poorly laid and executed plans of an 19 year old girl. Crying for the disappointment of not quite making it all the way to my dreams. Crying for being not quite good enough.

It was over. And I didn’t graduate from journalism school.