So just the other day, something incredulous happened. I graduated from college. We were all surprised. I certainly was. But anyways, the finality of the entire experience was really kicking my psyche around for a while before I shook the funk off. Now, free, as a bird, I reflect. I look back on the last play I worked on, assistant directing Last Easter, and drawing lines between it and my first theatrical experience at USM, realize I should probably record this tale. My first Awakening moments as a undergraduate theatre major:
My first cast party.
Through happenstance circumstances the first few weeks of living in my lovely residence hall, I was stopped by a pretty girl asking me if I was auditioning for the second play of the year. My 18 year old Self was not me today, and easily dodged this opportunity with nervous fear and shyness. She persisted, but even then, the feminine wiles of pretty girls could not break me from my angsty fortress. What it took was an older, more masculine and authoritative and physically larger theatre major to pass by at the same time. She asked the same question to him, and he said ofcourse. She told him to bring me playfully and he was like "What? You're not? Are you a freshmen?" I said yes, and that was all he needed "Come on, Travis. We're going." And with that I found myself surrounded by eccentric loud artistic dramatic students in a too-well-lit dance room. The audition. Wesley Cianchette, I can never thank you enough for your peer pressure.
The play was a Greek classic. Lysistrata, by Aristophanes. It was a student director, hereby referred to as Allie. I did not read very well, and was outclassed by all the actors and actresses who had prepared so very well for this audition. This was one of the first few times I saw Dr. Malkav and the Reverend at work, as well as a young NFC. I felt defeated by the end of it, auditions will never be a strong point for me, but I recalled something Allie had said about wanting musicians as well and felt inclined to offer up my skills. So I approached her after it was over outside and told her I could play guitar and very limited hand drums and she seemed enthused and told me she'd be in touch.
It wasn't long before the cast list went up. A nice girl codenamed Junebug I had befriended a bit in a class almost knocked me over she was so excited. "We're cast together!! Aren't you excited??!!" she exclaimed. I replied with a very confused eyebrow furrow, unable to believe the truth of the situation. I was cast. In a mainstage show my freshmen year. On the mainstage. Freshmen. Baffled.
So no guitar playing for me, I was Male Slave. A bit role with two lines but some stage time and comedic moments. I won't go into the run of the show too much, that can be it's own thing someday in the future. Let's just stick with: I had to dance, pull the Female Slave offstage intimately, and the whole time wear a phallus made of coiled rope that hung eight inches down. All the other male characters had phalli of other materials that stood up straight and tall, the largest honored to NFC at a whopping 18 inches complete with light-up blue balls. (read a synopsis of Lysistrata here for a decent explanation why we were phallused.)
It was a fun show, to say the least. A wonderful footstep into USM's theater department.
Anyways, the party.
One of the cast members, a nontraditional student who lived off-campus (clutch), hosted the party. The directions were written on the chalkboard in the dressing room and everbody, cast, crew, and basically everyone in the department, was buzzing about the party. I was still a youngun' and shy was wasn't sure exactly what my plan of action was until the guitarist Allie ended up hiring came up to me, some music major, I'm calling him Thom for now, and asked me if I needed a lift.
"Sure, I need a ride."
"Do you need beer?"
"Are you 21?"
"Yes."
"Sure, I need beer."
A short car ride, some forced awkward smalltalk, a sixer of Guinness and a sixer of Magic Hat later, and we had arrived at the location of the party. But the party had beaten us over there. There were rooms filled with people, alcohol sitting out on nearly every counter surface, hors d'oeuvres, snacks and treats piled in penis shaped party bowls, a backroom for cannabis partakers, a huge cooler outside on the porch sprouting beer bottles of ice like flowers, and out back, a bonfire.
I first found NFC, my closest freshmen friend, and we remarked at how many people had showed and how cool it was to be at our first cast party and so on. Our boss in the Scene Shop, hereby referred to as Meat Loaf, walked up to us, drinking a beer. This was the first shocker. A faculty member. A beer. Off campus. Totally legal and legitimate. Wow. I'd heard he supplied the bonfire and asked what it was that was burning and he just said "The Laramie set" and burst out with a cackling laughter we couldn't help but joining. The Laramie Project was the first play of the season, about the murder of Matthew Shepard, a homosexual boy in Laramie, Wyoming. He had been abducted, beaten, humiliated and left for dead tied to a fence by two schoolmates of his. This fence was part of the set of the play, I'd helped build it in the shop, and was now burning brilliantly in the fire. I know. Yikes.
Allie's mother was the guest of honor, and by Allie's side the entire night. It's at this point I should mention Allie was approximately 22, a gorgeous brunette who made it very clear how sexual the play was and as a director kept a playful friendly relationship with the cast while also being in charge and maintaining order. So. We, the dudes of the cast, conspire to publicly embarrass her, and do our best to accrue as many folks as possible around the bonfire for a "toast." A good man who needs no codename named Anthony Texiera calls for all our attention, raises his drink and speaks beautiful praise to Allie and her directing and making this great time for us all, and then he declared in her honor the men of the party raise their glasses, and their asses. So we all drop trou'. And there's like a twenty dude Full Mooning of Allie. Mission successful, Allie's mother later remarked "why couldn't we see their fronts?"
So I've got some drinks in me now. No more quiet-hide-behing-emo-hair Travis, I'm moving and meeting and greeting and yucking it up. The Reverend, who I should mention played the crossdressed lead role of Lysistrata, finds me and asks me if I'd like some whiskey. Why ofcourse! He pours me some and I top it off with some Barq's Root Beer, which he dismays at. I ask him why he likes it raw, to which he replies "Because I like to know it's poison." Solid answer.
NFC and I surreptitiously slip into the back room where we here oh so much laughter and giggling. Boom. A haze everywhere, squinty eyes and sidesplitting chortling. Right off the bat, I'm standing next to a To Be Unnamed faculty member, who passes me the joint. I'm a young buck at this party, but with the 'juana, I'm no novice, so I toke, toke and pass it right along, feeling welcome and mature and accepted by all. I later brag about this exchange of contraband between off-duty professor and student for years onward.
In the kitchen, Rev has commandeered the music selection and throws on the Violent Femmes, to which we rock extensively to the delight of the more sober freshmen who think drunk men dancing like fools is entertaining for the first time. I sniff out some Grey Goose vodka, and recalling a classic strip from my favorite webcomic Achewood, I mix some with orange juice. The vanilla...it tastes just like an orange creamsicle icecream pop from the Shaner's truck. Delectable. So I'm getting a bit topsy turvy now.
Then another cast member, let's call him Cuervo for reasons to be explained in this same sentence, breaks out some tequila and announced body shots are to be done here and now in the kitchen. This is apparently his "Thing." He asks for volunteers...and no one says anything. The larger part of the kitchen crowd are freshmen much like myself and are frightened at this new concept and idea. I, having my Blood Courage Content level pushing right past 0.8, step up to the plate. And I declare I've never done a shot of tequila before. Cuervo's eyes light up like jack'o'lanterns. He scans the audience for the subject material of this little educational lesson...and finds her.
It's Allie. My director. And she boldly steps up to help show me how this is done. The kitchen is suddenly crowded to the maximum capacity of people ready to see this freshmen do a body shot off Allie. Allie's mother promptly steps out for a cigarette. I'm embarrassed, Allie's embarrassed, but we're both ready. Cuervo explains the premise here and the motions to go through. First, I lick her neck, then apply salt. She puts a slice of lime in her mouth. My goal here becomes clear: I must lick the salt, take the shot, and suck on the lime. Staggering.
So a little countdown is initiated by Cuervo, probably to pump me up for this deal. I lick, I shoot down the José, and go for the lime. And she puts up a fight, much to the delight of the audience. She eventually gives, and I've got the lime, so I remove it from my mouth, my eyes watering from the golden fire coursing down into my core, and before I can even make a sour face from the limejuice running down my chin, Allie grabs my jaw and starts making out with me.
The crowd goes wild. Welcome to college, Travis H. Curran. You're Superman.
A few more body shots are taken off some other ladies, one of the volunteers being Allie's ex-boyfriend. I'm totally oblivious to this until much later when he guest-teaches a stage combat lesson in my acting class and asks to demonstrate on me. Dicey business, but no real harm or foul done. I take two more body shots off some chicks but with no follow through like Allie's. No big deal.
I step out for some fresh holy shit I'm trashed air, and realize quickly, holy shit I'm trashed. Tequila, whiskey, and vodka sitting in jacuzzi of dark beer in my tummy. Helloooo. Did you bring your party pants?
I stumble out into the woods and lean over for a long time asking a snowbank a very serious question about my activities this evening. The snowbank tells me to man up and get back to the party. I agree with the snowbank. My stomach deals.
I'm welcomed into the kitchen by a great meeting of the minds, Malkav, Rev, and some other older faces. Despite he only being a half a year my elder in the department, the Reverend takes me by my shoulders as a prodigal son and declares his sermon before the meeting of the minds.
"Travis, you entering a great world, following in the footsteps of myself and Dr. Malkavian. You will find that comedy is more human than drama."
he then went on about my comic mask and having a face for it or something or other, I was simply nonplussed by the comparison between the great minds, and later to become my greatest friends and peers as time went on. His words stuck with me though, and it still weighs heavily whenever I write or create artistically.
The party went on. I got higher. Thom puked, and a lovely responsible sober lady drove in a designated fashion a couple of shuttles of folks back to campus, myself included. She wouldn't even let me in her car till I'd drank two glasses of water. And the next day, there was no hangover to be found. Whiskey, tequila, and vodka all played nice and got along within me and helped turn this frail meager boy into a tougher, rougher, more mature man.
The first college party. In the bag, under the belt, to be remembered with delight and cheer forever. And now, with college as a whole also done and done... probably one of the better times I'll look back on.
Good day.
Showing posts with label malkav. Show all posts
Showing posts with label malkav. Show all posts
5.14.2008
3.31.2008
Hadlock Field, Home of the Sea Dogs.
What's the fastest way between two points?
Wait, back up.
So I'm sitting in Brian Boru's with Dr. Malkav, my brother in arms, taking advantage of their Sunday deal on pints. Guinness, Harp, Smithwicks and Bass ale are $2.50 all day. 50 cents more than a PBR. Go do this. We had just finished our closing shift at Portland Pie Co. and decided to go out for a quick beer after work with one of the amiable front end girls. She brings her eccentric friend from New York who was going be driving back home that night, at 11:00 pm. Wild. After they split, Malkav and I got to a-talkin' as we are wont to do. And before we knew it we had ran the gamut of the reduced prices, and it was last call.
On my walk home, the all-too-familiar pangs of guilt and remorse. I should not have had so much to drink, for there was no godly way possible I would be able to remain conscious once home, and henceforth, entirely incapable of writing my set design research paper. So I reach a crossroads by King Middle School, corner of Park and Deering. Do I go home, attempt to write this business but end up passing out with my laptop straddling me in bed. That never ends well. Or do I truck it to Denny's, snag a booth near an outlet, plug in, ask the waitress for a cup of joe and keep'em comin' and crank this bad boy out. Yes. I can do this. I don't have a lot of money to burn, but academia takes priority. So I took off.
Not on hundred feet later I stop myself. Travis, you fool. The paper is due Tuesday! And you have one free "late project" pass! Brilliant! So I stop myself in my tracks, and I'm right in front of good ol' Hadlock Field. Home of the 'Dogs. The hometeam. My boys. I love this place. Fond memories of grilling up burgers on Dean St. with NFC, Justice Train, and the boys, enjoying some fine Pabst Blue Ribbons, and walking over in the bright summer sun to catch the Sea Dogs play some lame ass farm team from Trenton, New Jersey or something.
Over the stadium wall, I can see Route 295, headlights dashing through the foggy weather.
Over Route 295, I could see over the crest of some trees the incandescently lit top of the Clifford Elementary School.
Which happens to be right down the street from my house.
And what is truly quicker than a straight line? Over a baseball stadium, railroad tracks, highway and a tiny hill of dead trees. It's still a straight line, right? OK. I can't rationalize my decision. Alcohol and adventure are my only stand-by's. But man, to be fully honest, that's all I really ever need.
So I go into the upper parking lot. Had I entered the lower parking lot I would have taken note of the multiple NO TRESPASSING signs, and recalled how often I would see police cruisers lurking in the lot like sharks through the dark. But no, I only see this stairway up to this landing with two large doors. The landing extends over the fence surrounding the park, and upon a closer look, ends right above the roof of one of the concession booths. With recklessly little thought, I got straight up the balcony, cross the railing, and lower myself down onto the roof. This is where I hesitate.
At work, we have these extreme sports videos playing on some of the televisions. There are some freeclimbing scenes, and I did my best to channel everything I had seen idly drinking at the counter after my shift flipping through the classifieds. It was almost as easy as they made it look. The lime green metal sheeting of the roof was a bit frosty and slick, but I Spidermanned my way down to the edge, and below me sat two picnic tables on top of one another. Not six feet below me. Score.
And with that, I dropped into Hadlock Field. Quite illegally. I instantly darted for the shadows, creeping quietly, looking for a security guard, police officer, psychopathic baseball player, territorial homelessmen or... you know, some punk kid sneaking around. Nay. The coast was quite clear.
Some twists and turns, down some stairs, and I found myself in a dirty litter-filled behind the scenes sort of path in the park. And then a break in the wall...I step through...
and I'm on the field. In the outfield. Walking along the billboards. Awesome.
I'm scanning every window, looking for a figure silhouetted in the dim emergency lights, or the worst thing ever: the rogue flashlight beam lancing out, stabbing into the shadows. But nope. Barren. Empty. I resisted the temptation to run the bases. I'm still under the influence, but the excitement and danger of the endeavor had me focusing sharply on every noise and sight. Heart pounding, I felt the rush of a misbehaving child and getting away with it flood over me. I run my hands along the advertisements up to this crane-lift heavy machinery deal parked by an open door in the wall.
On the other side is a shitty looking trailer, some cement bricks, sand, garbage and the fence leading me forward onto the next step of my adventure. But I'd walked down those tracks before and seen this area, and the fence was topped off with some threatening barbed wire. But what's this?! A giant fucking ladder! I try to move it in several which ways, my carpentry days in the Scene Shop convincing me I could utilize this for max effect. Unfortunately, it is stuck, but what's this? It's leading up to some kind of gangplank?
Up I go. And ta da! I'm right there on the wall, near the Little Green Monster. I reach over and touch some more of the signs, but then I notice. Boom. Camera. The tiny black ball kind, where you have no fucking clue where they're pointed. I have a mini-freak out but realize it's pretty unfeasible for it to be pointed straight at me. But it is overlooking the field. And I was down there. Riiiiight...
No more screwing around, time to peace right on out of this bitch. The envelope had been pushed, and I wanted out before it started pushing back, so down the ladder I go, right up to the fence...with the barbed wire... And to my astounding luck, a snowbank rises halfway up the fence down in one corner, surrounded by this thicket of branches. If anyone, any of my friends, good people with common sense, had been there, they would have called me an idiot and told me to stop. But they weren't there. So I grapple with this tangle of branches and get my foot on top of the fence, under the first line of barbed wire. With that leverage, and using the round safe top of the tall pole joining the two fences, I heft my other leg up to the adjacent fence. It's a balancing act, and I'm in no condition to balance.
The thin stringy branches are above the barbed wire as well, and meshed together, hold my foot. I somehow maneuver my way into standing on top of the barbed wire, almost perched on the tall center pole...and the drop down to the other side is a bit further than the one down to the tables. But. Too late to go back. I hop.
Land on my feet, fall back on my ass, in the snow. Totally cool. Totally fine. This is why God gave us asses. God Bless my Ass.
So here I am on the tracks, things are looking up. Up this tiny bank to Route 295. So up I go, through some branches, into the ditch on the side of the highway. And I'm watching cars go by, waiting for the gap. It's kind of rough. There's no cars coming in one direction, but fairly consistent in the other. I'm not very virtuous, but I am a patient man. A gap comes. No headlights screaming towards me, just the light cast by the next volley of cars. No time to think, I scamper like a squirrel that accidentally ate a stray bag of cocaine in Deering Oaks.
Safe! No harm, no foul. I have a bit trickier of a time getting over the next fence, it's just a regular chain link but I didn't want to hurt my hands. I end up trying to use branches again, but just get some brambles in my pants. It takes twice as long, but I jump down onto Washburn Ave. Right around the corner from Home Sweet Home.
And I go, dots connected, straight there. The adrenaline keeps me up for a while, but I write more on my play instead of my essay, but whatever. That shit's due later. And I'm a motherfuckin' Sea Dog.
Wait, back up.
So I'm sitting in Brian Boru's with Dr. Malkav, my brother in arms, taking advantage of their Sunday deal on pints. Guinness, Harp, Smithwicks and Bass ale are $2.50 all day. 50 cents more than a PBR. Go do this. We had just finished our closing shift at Portland Pie Co. and decided to go out for a quick beer after work with one of the amiable front end girls. She brings her eccentric friend from New York who was going be driving back home that night, at 11:00 pm. Wild. After they split, Malkav and I got to a-talkin' as we are wont to do. And before we knew it we had ran the gamut of the reduced prices, and it was last call.
On my walk home, the all-too-familiar pangs of guilt and remorse. I should not have had so much to drink, for there was no godly way possible I would be able to remain conscious once home, and henceforth, entirely incapable of writing my set design research paper. So I reach a crossroads by King Middle School, corner of Park and Deering. Do I go home, attempt to write this business but end up passing out with my laptop straddling me in bed. That never ends well. Or do I truck it to Denny's, snag a booth near an outlet, plug in, ask the waitress for a cup of joe and keep'em comin' and crank this bad boy out. Yes. I can do this. I don't have a lot of money to burn, but academia takes priority. So I took off.
Not on hundred feet later I stop myself. Travis, you fool. The paper is due Tuesday! And you have one free "late project" pass! Brilliant! So I stop myself in my tracks, and I'm right in front of good ol' Hadlock Field. Home of the 'Dogs. The hometeam. My boys. I love this place. Fond memories of grilling up burgers on Dean St. with NFC, Justice Train, and the boys, enjoying some fine Pabst Blue Ribbons, and walking over in the bright summer sun to catch the Sea Dogs play some lame ass farm team from Trenton, New Jersey or something.
Over the stadium wall, I can see Route 295, headlights dashing through the foggy weather.
Over Route 295, I could see over the crest of some trees the incandescently lit top of the Clifford Elementary School.
Which happens to be right down the street from my house.
And what is truly quicker than a straight line? Over a baseball stadium, railroad tracks, highway and a tiny hill of dead trees. It's still a straight line, right? OK. I can't rationalize my decision. Alcohol and adventure are my only stand-by's. But man, to be fully honest, that's all I really ever need.
So I go into the upper parking lot. Had I entered the lower parking lot I would have taken note of the multiple NO TRESPASSING signs, and recalled how often I would see police cruisers lurking in the lot like sharks through the dark. But no, I only see this stairway up to this landing with two large doors. The landing extends over the fence surrounding the park, and upon a closer look, ends right above the roof of one of the concession booths. With recklessly little thought, I got straight up the balcony, cross the railing, and lower myself down onto the roof. This is where I hesitate.
At work, we have these extreme sports videos playing on some of the televisions. There are some freeclimbing scenes, and I did my best to channel everything I had seen idly drinking at the counter after my shift flipping through the classifieds. It was almost as easy as they made it look. The lime green metal sheeting of the roof was a bit frosty and slick, but I Spidermanned my way down to the edge, and below me sat two picnic tables on top of one another. Not six feet below me. Score.
And with that, I dropped into Hadlock Field. Quite illegally. I instantly darted for the shadows, creeping quietly, looking for a security guard, police officer, psychopathic baseball player, territorial homelessmen or... you know, some punk kid sneaking around. Nay. The coast was quite clear.
Some twists and turns, down some stairs, and I found myself in a dirty litter-filled behind the scenes sort of path in the park. And then a break in the wall...I step through...
and I'm on the field. In the outfield. Walking along the billboards. Awesome.
I'm scanning every window, looking for a figure silhouetted in the dim emergency lights, or the worst thing ever: the rogue flashlight beam lancing out, stabbing into the shadows. But nope. Barren. Empty. I resisted the temptation to run the bases. I'm still under the influence, but the excitement and danger of the endeavor had me focusing sharply on every noise and sight. Heart pounding, I felt the rush of a misbehaving child and getting away with it flood over me. I run my hands along the advertisements up to this crane-lift heavy machinery deal parked by an open door in the wall.
On the other side is a shitty looking trailer, some cement bricks, sand, garbage and the fence leading me forward onto the next step of my adventure. But I'd walked down those tracks before and seen this area, and the fence was topped off with some threatening barbed wire. But what's this?! A giant fucking ladder! I try to move it in several which ways, my carpentry days in the Scene Shop convincing me I could utilize this for max effect. Unfortunately, it is stuck, but what's this? It's leading up to some kind of gangplank?
Up I go. And ta da! I'm right there on the wall, near the Little Green Monster. I reach over and touch some more of the signs, but then I notice. Boom. Camera. The tiny black ball kind, where you have no fucking clue where they're pointed. I have a mini-freak out but realize it's pretty unfeasible for it to be pointed straight at me. But it is overlooking the field. And I was down there. Riiiiight...
No more screwing around, time to peace right on out of this bitch. The envelope had been pushed, and I wanted out before it started pushing back, so down the ladder I go, right up to the fence...with the barbed wire... And to my astounding luck, a snowbank rises halfway up the fence down in one corner, surrounded by this thicket of branches. If anyone, any of my friends, good people with common sense, had been there, they would have called me an idiot and told me to stop. But they weren't there. So I grapple with this tangle of branches and get my foot on top of the fence, under the first line of barbed wire. With that leverage, and using the round safe top of the tall pole joining the two fences, I heft my other leg up to the adjacent fence. It's a balancing act, and I'm in no condition to balance.
The thin stringy branches are above the barbed wire as well, and meshed together, hold my foot. I somehow maneuver my way into standing on top of the barbed wire, almost perched on the tall center pole...and the drop down to the other side is a bit further than the one down to the tables. But. Too late to go back. I hop.
Land on my feet, fall back on my ass, in the snow. Totally cool. Totally fine. This is why God gave us asses. God Bless my Ass.
So here I am on the tracks, things are looking up. Up this tiny bank to Route 295. So up I go, through some branches, into the ditch on the side of the highway. And I'm watching cars go by, waiting for the gap. It's kind of rough. There's no cars coming in one direction, but fairly consistent in the other. I'm not very virtuous, but I am a patient man. A gap comes. No headlights screaming towards me, just the light cast by the next volley of cars. No time to think, I scamper like a squirrel that accidentally ate a stray bag of cocaine in Deering Oaks.
Safe! No harm, no foul. I have a bit trickier of a time getting over the next fence, it's just a regular chain link but I didn't want to hurt my hands. I end up trying to use branches again, but just get some brambles in my pants. It takes twice as long, but I jump down onto Washburn Ave. Right around the corner from Home Sweet Home.
And I go, dots connected, straight there. The adrenaline keeps me up for a while, but I write more on my play instead of my essay, but whatever. That shit's due later. And I'm a motherfuckin' Sea Dog.
1.03.2008
"A Hard Conversation", Part II: The Prequel.
This is a prequel to A Hard Conversation, in which Justice Train and I also almost had to take part in a "hard conversation" long before even thinking of the term.
Enter Sophomore Year, College. Robie Andrews residence hall, my dorm room on 2nd, a place of legend. Also the setting of The Munchies. A similar activity was well. Debauchery at it's most harmless and recreational. Chillaxin' for the first time with my newly made friend, JT.
I've been inebriating myself discreetly and safely in this room for a full semester now. My system's worked out for how simple and carefree it appears. Towel the bottom crack of the door. Febreeze the whole corner of the room off, sometimes with a towel barrier, sometimes not, depending on my mood and current weather conditions. Open a window, keep the flame and flammable materials relatively close to the open air with hopes of a suction effect which sometimes didn't work all too well. OK, the system's a bit shaky, but I relied on it time after time.
If only all good things could just last.
There was a fluke occurrence. A failure in the system. Could have been wind direction, low barometric pressure, karma kicking me in the ass, any of these are possibilities. The real deal here was obvious, I was sloppy. JT and I were proceeding with reckless abandon, aiming all exhalation at the outside world. No idea what was happening to the rest of the hallway beyond my door. A friend and neighbor later told me he would open his door into the hall and be smacked in the face by the pungent aroma of a Grateful Dead concert at an indoors venue. It was not long before I heard a rapid knock at my door, which any partaker of illegal substances doesn't actually hear as knocks, but as instead the slow mourning bugle of Taps. Here is the end.
I did not panic initially. Still believing in my system, I went to the door and peered through the peephole to see a friendly face. I opened it for him and stood by my door, protecting the view of the activity inside, as if he could not merely breath in the air. I was happy to see him, but he did not appear happy at all.
"Hey, man.." I greet him.
"You've got to take care of this. Right now." His voice is urgent and rapt.
"Oh..okay, dude. I'll break out the Febreeze."
"No, man. You've got to take of this. Stat." His eyes were wide. Wide with fear.
Then he ran away. No goodbye, no good luck, he just took off. This was the part of the conversation that really struck me with the gravity of the situation. I re-entered my room, perplexed. JT looked worried as well. We sprayed ourselves and the room down with Rain & Spring. But we still felt the grip, the clench in our stomachs. Something was not right. Not at all.
"You want to get out of here?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he affirmed with enthusiasm.
Intuitively, no, instinctly even, I snatched up all my paraphernalia and contraband. Everything remotely illicit in the room was shoved into my pockets. Overcoats on, we left departed with haste.
Right across the hall from my door was a stairwell going down to the far end of the first floor, which I went for out of habit alone, but when I crossed the blue carpet that stretched for miles, I turned my gaze to my right, down the length of my beloved sanctuary of a floor. I was struck, but did not freeze...for down my hall, descending like hawks and other raptors of the air, was every R.A. in the building, knocking on every door they passed, bearing down right on my end of the hall.
BAM, I was out the door and practically leaped down the first flight of stairs. As turned to go down the next, I saw JT, standing in the doorway, waving slowly...but I did not have time to react. I didn't know what exactly he was trying to do there but he was dead to me now, I couldn't turn back. I was on the first floor. Fortunately, he was close by at my heels. He revealed to me later one of the R.A.s he's friends with waved to him and he wasn't acting suspicious. A clever move.
We blew through the lobby. The R.A.'s office door was open but I didn't even risk a glance within. The front desk person watched us pass by, I looked straight ahead and said nothing, but she had definitely made us both. Fuck.
My first destination was the Theater. Our home. Our haven here on this cold, dark, scary campus. Shadows in every corner of every building covered DEA sting teams, coiled and ready to pounce, just waiting for the greenlight to tag and bag us off in the back of a van, never to be heard from again, our identities erased from all records. We made for the Props loft in the Scene Shop. Rows and rows of shelfs holding every item and knickknack imaginable that could be called upon to fit a certain time period set in a certain play. There's so much shit up here. I stuffed my pipe, papers, bag and lighters underneath one of the bells. There's like twenty bells. No one is going to pick up a single one of them all week. Maybe even all year. This was safe.
Then we went straight to the Campus Center. I purchased minty gum and we both took some. There was some sort of karaoke event taking place in the same area, and I identified my roommate, Malkav, among the very, very small crowd. He was heckling the current masochist up there trying to sing R.E.M. I shared some quick words with him about the events that had unfolded and warned him not to return to the room for about an hour or two. He calmly informed me that if he got a summons tonight, he was going to kick my ass up and down 2nd Andrews. I agreed that this would be well deserved and an appropriate course of action.
JT and I then, not unlike Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, promptly hopped a bus to Portland and skipped town. A phone call from the previously mentioned neighbor bore bad news. A cop had been spotted in the hall, knocking on my door. The only locked door on the floor that night. God Bless every single resident of 2nd Andrews for playing ignorant and not snitching on a brother. The R.A.'s did not need a rat to smell out the stink from my room though. Some other phone calls to other neighbors were made, so the story was straight.
For the first time since the dread knocking, we relaxed.
In Portland, we called up a friend close by and hoofed it to his apartment. The site of many a happy cast party, we knew this was a safe happy place. We were welcomed. They shared some beer with us, and we stayed up late into the night laughing over our Great Escapade, and trading sex stories back and forth. We slept like the lambs we rode out to Portland on.
EPILOGUE:
I never received a single notice, comment or even sideways glance from an R.A. after that night. What I did not know until about half a year later was that the dutiful R.A.s had actually written me up that night for my offense. Our building has tricky rules they can bend to their advantage. It takes only a sniff of the criminal smell for them to make fair assumption and write me up to be processed through the Office of Community Standards.
I happen to have a friend,who held a workstudy job at the Office of Community Standards at the time of this process. He spotted my name on an envelope, and hey, mistakes happen all the time. Envelopes are sent to the wrong places, things are misplaced. Sometimes, things can simply get lost. It's an accident. Everyone has accidents. My envelope was never sent to my door. I don't know how, I won't ask why. Accidents can be awesome like that.
No hard conversations with no police officers. No write ups from Community Standards. No harm, no foul. Kinda.
We danced along the razor's edge of the Law, years prior to the second close brush I first wrote of. What does this tell us? Do we learn from our mistakes? Will we continue our flagrant violation of our country's laws controlling what we inhale/ingest/imbibe?
Yes. Because we don't bend over, spread'em and let fascism take us from behind to the fullest extent of the legal system. This isn't my soapbox more than my secret perfume-scented diary I cover with unicorns and hearts and keep under my pillow so my mother never finds it (oh, but she does), so I won't use it like that, but if I could just mention for a second that I firmly believe I can do whatever I want to my body and mind responsibly without violating anyone's safety. Get real. Chill out.
Enter Sophomore Year, College. Robie Andrews residence hall, my dorm room on 2nd, a place of legend. Also the setting of The Munchies. A similar activity was well. Debauchery at it's most harmless and recreational. Chillaxin' for the first time with my newly made friend, JT.
I've been inebriating myself discreetly and safely in this room for a full semester now. My system's worked out for how simple and carefree it appears. Towel the bottom crack of the door. Febreeze the whole corner of the room off, sometimes with a towel barrier, sometimes not, depending on my mood and current weather conditions. Open a window, keep the flame and flammable materials relatively close to the open air with hopes of a suction effect which sometimes didn't work all too well. OK, the system's a bit shaky, but I relied on it time after time.
If only all good things could just last.
There was a fluke occurrence. A failure in the system. Could have been wind direction, low barometric pressure, karma kicking me in the ass, any of these are possibilities. The real deal here was obvious, I was sloppy. JT and I were proceeding with reckless abandon, aiming all exhalation at the outside world. No idea what was happening to the rest of the hallway beyond my door. A friend and neighbor later told me he would open his door into the hall and be smacked in the face by the pungent aroma of a Grateful Dead concert at an indoors venue. It was not long before I heard a rapid knock at my door, which any partaker of illegal substances doesn't actually hear as knocks, but as instead the slow mourning bugle of Taps. Here is the end.
I did not panic initially. Still believing in my system, I went to the door and peered through the peephole to see a friendly face. I opened it for him and stood by my door, protecting the view of the activity inside, as if he could not merely breath in the air. I was happy to see him, but he did not appear happy at all.
"Hey, man.." I greet him.
"You've got to take care of this. Right now." His voice is urgent and rapt.
"Oh..okay, dude. I'll break out the Febreeze."
"No, man. You've got to take of this. Stat." His eyes were wide. Wide with fear.
Then he ran away. No goodbye, no good luck, he just took off. This was the part of the conversation that really struck me with the gravity of the situation. I re-entered my room, perplexed. JT looked worried as well. We sprayed ourselves and the room down with Rain & Spring. But we still felt the grip, the clench in our stomachs. Something was not right. Not at all.
"You want to get out of here?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he affirmed with enthusiasm.
Intuitively, no, instinctly even, I snatched up all my paraphernalia and contraband. Everything remotely illicit in the room was shoved into my pockets. Overcoats on, we left departed with haste.
Right across the hall from my door was a stairwell going down to the far end of the first floor, which I went for out of habit alone, but when I crossed the blue carpet that stretched for miles, I turned my gaze to my right, down the length of my beloved sanctuary of a floor. I was struck, but did not freeze...for down my hall, descending like hawks and other raptors of the air, was every R.A. in the building, knocking on every door they passed, bearing down right on my end of the hall.
BAM, I was out the door and practically leaped down the first flight of stairs. As turned to go down the next, I saw JT, standing in the doorway, waving slowly...but I did not have time to react. I didn't know what exactly he was trying to do there but he was dead to me now, I couldn't turn back. I was on the first floor. Fortunately, he was close by at my heels. He revealed to me later one of the R.A.s he's friends with waved to him and he wasn't acting suspicious. A clever move.
We blew through the lobby. The R.A.'s office door was open but I didn't even risk a glance within. The front desk person watched us pass by, I looked straight ahead and said nothing, but she had definitely made us both. Fuck.
My first destination was the Theater. Our home. Our haven here on this cold, dark, scary campus. Shadows in every corner of every building covered DEA sting teams, coiled and ready to pounce, just waiting for the greenlight to tag and bag us off in the back of a van, never to be heard from again, our identities erased from all records. We made for the Props loft in the Scene Shop. Rows and rows of shelfs holding every item and knickknack imaginable that could be called upon to fit a certain time period set in a certain play. There's so much shit up here. I stuffed my pipe, papers, bag and lighters underneath one of the bells. There's like twenty bells. No one is going to pick up a single one of them all week. Maybe even all year. This was safe.
Then we went straight to the Campus Center. I purchased minty gum and we both took some. There was some sort of karaoke event taking place in the same area, and I identified my roommate, Malkav, among the very, very small crowd. He was heckling the current masochist up there trying to sing R.E.M. I shared some quick words with him about the events that had unfolded and warned him not to return to the room for about an hour or two. He calmly informed me that if he got a summons tonight, he was going to kick my ass up and down 2nd Andrews. I agreed that this would be well deserved and an appropriate course of action.
JT and I then, not unlike Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, promptly hopped a bus to Portland and skipped town. A phone call from the previously mentioned neighbor bore bad news. A cop had been spotted in the hall, knocking on my door. The only locked door on the floor that night. God Bless every single resident of 2nd Andrews for playing ignorant and not snitching on a brother. The R.A.'s did not need a rat to smell out the stink from my room though. Some other phone calls to other neighbors were made, so the story was straight.
For the first time since the dread knocking, we relaxed.
In Portland, we called up a friend close by and hoofed it to his apartment. The site of many a happy cast party, we knew this was a safe happy place. We were welcomed. They shared some beer with us, and we stayed up late into the night laughing over our Great Escapade, and trading sex stories back and forth. We slept like the lambs we rode out to Portland on.
EPILOGUE:
I never received a single notice, comment or even sideways glance from an R.A. after that night. What I did not know until about half a year later was that the dutiful R.A.s had actually written me up that night for my offense. Our building has tricky rules they can bend to their advantage. It takes only a sniff of the criminal smell for them to make fair assumption and write me up to be processed through the Office of Community Standards.
I happen to have a friend,who held a workstudy job at the Office of Community Standards at the time of this process. He spotted my name on an envelope, and hey, mistakes happen all the time. Envelopes are sent to the wrong places, things are misplaced. Sometimes, things can simply get lost. It's an accident. Everyone has accidents. My envelope was never sent to my door. I don't know how, I won't ask why. Accidents can be awesome like that.
No hard conversations with no police officers. No write ups from Community Standards. No harm, no foul. Kinda.
We danced along the razor's edge of the Law, years prior to the second close brush I first wrote of. What does this tell us? Do we learn from our mistakes? Will we continue our flagrant violation of our country's laws controlling what we inhale/ingest/imbibe?
Yes. Because we don't bend over, spread'em and let fascism take us from behind to the fullest extent of the legal system. This isn't my soapbox more than my secret perfume-scented diary I cover with unicorns and hearts and keep under my pillow so my mother never finds it (oh, but she does), so I won't use it like that, but if I could just mention for a second that I firmly believe I can do whatever I want to my body and mind responsibly without violating anyone's safety. Get real. Chill out.
4.15.2007
The Munchies.
So this one night, living comfortably in the dormitory building commonly associated with the "arts" kids, I smoked a lot of pot in my room. This was against all the rules of the building, the establishment, and several laws of our country. But I did it. And in this one instance, I was not caught by any authority nor charged with any fines/fees/jailtime. But I was punished.
My whole system was worked out. Towel the door, Febreze off that corner of the room, crack a window, turn the lights down low and hit that shit. Blow'm out the window once I couldn't hold it in no mo'. Totally classic. Love it. Happened sometimes when I didn't especially feel like doing some homework or you know much of anything, and none of my friends were around. My roommate, hereby referred to as Malkav, was out. He was aware of what I would do, but was never present.
So I do my thing. And almost instantly, in unison with the warm fuzzy feeling creeping over my conciousness, my apetite rose and ascended up towards the heavens. Yes, you guessed it, the largest piece of stoner terminology to be assimilated by the rest of culture. The munchies. Like a Peregrine falcon that a young boy transformed into using Andalite alien technology, I dove into my tiny micro-fridge unit. (<-- This is the best simile ever.) A quick inventory at first became a checklist of objectives for my devouring. String cheese, mango juice, maybe some form of imitation crab-meat, and then a glass jar of salsa my mother made. I had nothing to put the salsa in or on, or even a convex utensil to procur the salsa from the jar. But this only stalled me for six point three seconds before I dug in with my mandibles. My taste buds soared free from their inhibited cages with delight. There was a flaw to my plan. My food supply was not unlimited. I turned away from my barren fridge, cold from my inebriated and impassioned rape. Scanning my room held no bounty. Sadness. But wait!! What's that?! Sitting atop my roommate's desk, like a monolith of pure fruity bliss, was Yogurt. A tub of it. The side information and illustrations informed me it was dairy free and possibly the most delicious strain of bacteria on the planet. Now, hold for a second. I have a conscience. Marijuana does not turn me into some manic savage, consuming everything in sight. I knew this was not my property. But neither had been the mango juice. I was already a criminal. The guilt was there, knotted in the cobwebs where my heart belongs. But I don't like to half-ass things, and when I fuck up, I go for the gold. This Yogurt was mine. I crept up over to his desk and sat in his chair, examining the tub more closely. With great caution and care, I peeled up the plastic lip of the cover and took a peek. And to my great surprise, it was not a lumpy mass of tasty goo... but a fine white powder. When one hears "white powder" these days, there is an instant association to cocaine. If you're already on drugs, this association is even faster. I quickly combed through every memory I've ever had of my roommate, inspecting and analyzing for potential illegal drug trafficking. But I realized that was just my current state of mind taking it too far. I had to think this through rationally. With reason. And rationality. It looked a lot like sugar. Malkav had sugar for his coffee. I think? Or was that me? I don't know. It was in a yogurt tub. This could be sugar. I went over the facts:
And my head shouted BAD! And my tongue shouted BAD! And my mouth shouted BAD!
The taste was incorrigible. I gagged. I freaked out. Somehow in my writhing I swallowed whatever the fuck was ruining my life. My eyes stung with tears and I coughed a couple times and retreated back to my desk. I was talking to a friend online and told him quite simply "I think I just ate something that wasn't food." He thought that was pretty funny. I thought that I might have to vomit. Wait. Yes. I have to vomit.
My body leapt into Emergency Mode. I charged towards the door. But then I hesitated. It's only 7:00 pm EST approximately. I can not go barrelling down my populated hallway a blazed, teary, vomitting mess. What if the RA's were about? What if...
DOWN onto my knees, my stomach wretched. I spent too much time thinking. My diaphragm heaved and I splatted out. Shocking, the contents of my stomach did not appear before me. Just stomach acid and, yes, there the tiny globules of white were. My body rejected it. I puked no more.
After my clean-up and reflection on the past events, I relapsed into videogames. That is, until Malkav returned home. He sniffed out my previous activity and proceeded to make a jest about it, but I stopped him.
"Wait, before you say anything more, I need you to answer a question for me."
"Okay."
"Just tell me, simply and honestly, what is in that tub of yogurt on your desk."
My roommate's face got a funny look. He just stared at me, before replying solemnly.
"Laundry detergent."
We held eye contact for a few more seconds. He already knew it but he had to ask, "Why?"
"No reason."
That didn't work. He laughed at me. Laughed and laughed. His girlfriend came over and they laughed together. I paid a consequence that day. A lesson was learned. Drugs hold serious ramifications. Only use them responsibility. And if it's Travis on drugs, only use when somebody is nearby, and can tell me no. It's made for a good story though.
My whole system was worked out. Towel the door, Febreze off that corner of the room, crack a window, turn the lights down low and hit that shit. Blow'm out the window once I couldn't hold it in no mo'. Totally classic. Love it. Happened sometimes when I didn't especially feel like doing some homework or you know much of anything, and none of my friends were around. My roommate, hereby referred to as Malkav, was out. He was aware of what I would do, but was never present.
So I do my thing. And almost instantly, in unison with the warm fuzzy feeling creeping over my conciousness, my apetite rose and ascended up towards the heavens. Yes, you guessed it, the largest piece of stoner terminology to be assimilated by the rest of culture. The munchies. Like a Peregrine falcon that a young boy transformed into using Andalite alien technology, I dove into my tiny micro-fridge unit. (<-- This is the best simile ever.) A quick inventory at first became a checklist of objectives for my devouring. String cheese, mango juice, maybe some form of imitation crab-meat, and then a glass jar of salsa my mother made. I had nothing to put the salsa in or on, or even a convex utensil to procur the salsa from the jar. But this only stalled me for six point three seconds before I dug in with my mandibles. My taste buds soared free from their inhibited cages with delight. There was a flaw to my plan. My food supply was not unlimited. I turned away from my barren fridge, cold from my inebriated and impassioned rape. Scanning my room held no bounty. Sadness. But wait!! What's that?! Sitting atop my roommate's desk, like a monolith of pure fruity bliss, was Yogurt. A tub of it. The side information and illustrations informed me it was dairy free and possibly the most delicious strain of bacteria on the planet. Now, hold for a second. I have a conscience. Marijuana does not turn me into some manic savage, consuming everything in sight. I knew this was not my property. But neither had been the mango juice. I was already a criminal. The guilt was there, knotted in the cobwebs where my heart belongs. But I don't like to half-ass things, and when I fuck up, I go for the gold. This Yogurt was mine. I crept up over to his desk and sat in his chair, examining the tub more closely. With great caution and care, I peeled up the plastic lip of the cover and took a peek. And to my great surprise, it was not a lumpy mass of tasty goo... but a fine white powder. When one hears "white powder" these days, there is an instant association to cocaine. If you're already on drugs, this association is even faster. I quickly combed through every memory I've ever had of my roommate, inspecting and analyzing for potential illegal drug trafficking. But I realized that was just my current state of mind taking it too far. I had to think this through rationally. With reason. And rationality. It looked a lot like sugar. Malkav had sugar for his coffee. I think? Or was that me? I don't know. It was in a yogurt tub. This could be sugar. I went over the facts:
- It LOOKED like food.
- It was in a FOOD container.
- ...it LOOKED like sugar.
- It was NOT cocaine.
And my head shouted BAD! And my tongue shouted BAD! And my mouth shouted BAD!
The taste was incorrigible. I gagged. I freaked out. Somehow in my writhing I swallowed whatever the fuck was ruining my life. My eyes stung with tears and I coughed a couple times and retreated back to my desk. I was talking to a friend online and told him quite simply "I think I just ate something that wasn't food." He thought that was pretty funny. I thought that I might have to vomit. Wait. Yes. I have to vomit.
My body leapt into Emergency Mode. I charged towards the door. But then I hesitated. It's only 7:00 pm EST approximately. I can not go barrelling down my populated hallway a blazed, teary, vomitting mess. What if the RA's were about? What if...
DOWN onto my knees, my stomach wretched. I spent too much time thinking. My diaphragm heaved and I splatted out. Shocking, the contents of my stomach did not appear before me. Just stomach acid and, yes, there the tiny globules of white were. My body rejected it. I puked no more.
After my clean-up and reflection on the past events, I relapsed into videogames. That is, until Malkav returned home. He sniffed out my previous activity and proceeded to make a jest about it, but I stopped him.
"Wait, before you say anything more, I need you to answer a question for me."
"Okay."
"Just tell me, simply and honestly, what is in that tub of yogurt on your desk."
My roommate's face got a funny look. He just stared at me, before replying solemnly.
"Laundry detergent."
We held eye contact for a few more seconds. He already knew it but he had to ask, "Why?"
"No reason."
That didn't work. He laughed at me. Laughed and laughed. His girlfriend came over and they laughed together. I paid a consequence that day. A lesson was learned. Drugs hold serious ramifications. Only use them responsibility. And if it's Travis on drugs, only use when somebody is nearby, and can tell me no. It's made for a good story though.
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