... we came in? Isn’t this where...

          My plans for life after college were simple. I saw myself travelling the world, locating treasure, and fighting Nazis. I wanted to be Indiana Jones. Unfortunately, college has done nothing to prepare me for dodging bullets, cracking a bullwhip, or running away from rolling boulders. Instead, college became for me this warped version of Animal House, with everyone a parody of themselves, and the hijinks and situations akin to those in a sitcom dreamland. Sometimes I wish my life was normal, but what is normal? With my dumb luck and skewed vision of reality, it only seemed natural that my first three years of college would be as much of a disappointment to me as it was, growing up to become the man I am today with all the weird ways I came about doing so.

          I think I should have realized what was in store for me upon meeting my very first roommate at Wagner College on Staten Island. His name was Seth, and he looked like a beakless goose or a chipmunk storing nuts for the winter. All cheeks, no chin, with some blond frosting on that empty head of his. He was a nice kid, just overeager. I recall the first day I met him, on move-in day, his parents unpacking all his belongings for him, while I worked alone on my side of the room. He instead got his guitar out and played some chords here and there. After his parents left, him being the first person I met at Wagner, I asked if he wanted to go on a walk around campus. It was then that I was treated to his life story, specifically about his great lost love, Angela. It was on this day that I decided that I disliked the boy.

          In the weeks to come, I decided to distance myself from Seth as much as possible. And who could blame me? He had all the charm of a slobbering, excited dog, with the social skills to match. When some upperclassmen dropped a football in a game of catch, Seth the dog went bounding after it, playing fetch, seeking approval. When not forcing his presence on others, he could be found in the quad playing the few songs he knew on his guitar or pestering me with woebegone tales of Angela the unattainable. Plus, he snored. Always. Every night.

          Fortunately, I moved in a different direction than Seth did. I’ve always been shy when it comes to making friends, but I think I made as much of a niche for myself as I could. The first friend I made was named Mark. Bearded, with glasses, and a love for Larry David. I liked him immediately. We became roommates in our sophomore year. The second friend I made was a girl named Gabby. I met her once, briefly. I met her a second time. And a third, fourth, and a fifth time. The sixth time I remembered her name and face. I’m bad with names and faces. She was from Texas and played the cello. Beautiful as the music she played, with a quiet way about her, and a wicked sense of humor.

          I came into Wagner with far different aspirations than when I left. Yes, I still had those dreams of chasing tanks on horseback, but a big passion of mine was for the theatre. And boy, did I come to the wrong place. A theatre school, as advertised; but if you were to ask any of their theatre majors what their favorite Brecht play is, they’d look at you with these dim, empty eyes and go twirling off to sing a few bars from Rent. I auditioned for the theatre program twice, and twice was I rejected. I tore up my rejection letter as I walked the stairs down the hill, away from the Main Hall. Scattering the pieces to winds, I decided to take up English Literature instead and chose to nurture my interest in Fiction.

          At the time I thought it was a good idea. And hell, I was learning a lot about how to analyze literature. What to look for, how a single sentence could have hundreds of different meanings. I was able to appreciate the sheer poetry in placing different words together in different sequences. In short, I was fascinated. And I met very interesting professors. My particular favorite was a jolly Welshman named Hogarth. He spoke eight different languages, and had a short stint as a boxer before he became a professor. Discussions in his classes were always interesting and never boring. Besides, being an English major meant more time with Gabby, and I was falling for her more and more as the days passed.

          Me, Gabby, and Mark would often go for late night excursions into Manhattan for whatever we wanted to do. I recall once wandering around the city well past 5 in the morning and catching the 6 o’clock Ferry back to Wagner. Fun times, we had. I think it was the fact that us three, along with the rest of our group of friends, were those without a specific clique. Walking into the dining hall, there was a clear division into where people sat: the left side was the theatre side, the right side was the athlete side. We always sat somewhere in the middle. The people we associated with all had a wide range of interests, from activism to nursing to hunting, and always stuck to them no matter what. True individuals, and those are the only ones that I think are worth knowing. People who went against the grain or popular opinion, who question authority, who have the gumption to stand back and say, “What the fuck are you talking about?” The athletes never had anything of interest to say, and for that matter, neither did the theatre kids.

          And then there came pledge week. Seth had pledged for Kappa Sigma Alpha, which housed the “nerd” culture. I say this not with disdain, because by all circumstances I should be counted among their numbers (and probably would have had I not made friends on my own), but because that’s all they were. You couldn’t have a conversation without coming to movies, TV, or other such things. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I could talk for days about some of my favorites, but there is a time and a place, and my conversation skills go far beyond those. Anyway, it was pledge week, and I knew going in that I would never, ever pledge myself to any fraternity. I value my independence far more than anything else in the world, and the day I call another man “Big” and be called “Little” in return would possibly see the coming of a second Ice Age or maybe the fabled day of Ragnarok or Santa Claus would answer my childhood letters. And seeing them all, in their stupid ceremonies, running back-and-forth around campus, it just made you roll your eyes. I realize now that I was shaping myself to be the curmudgeon I always knew myself to be at heart, sitting on high, like the Grinch, complaining about all the noise, noise, noise, noise.

          Seth proved to be an even greater nuisance as the first year went on. I lent him my Star Wars DVDs one day for him to bring down to the Kappa lounge and be Mr. Cool Guy with them. He lost them. And he said he’d look for them, but that was immediately before pledge week, when Seth took his vow of silence. Forbidden to talk to anyone outside of Kappa, the boy couldn’t tell me if he found the DVDs. He just shook his head sadly, looking like a puppy next to a pile of poo. For all I knew, they were gone for good. Then one morning, I received a phone call…

          “… Hello?”

          “Tim?! Are you okay?”

          “What? Who is this?”

          “Tim, it’s Seth’s mom! Mrs. –! Where’s Seth? He hasn’t answered his phone all week!”

          “Mrs. –, Seth’s okay! He’s all right! It’s pledge week. He can’t speak to anyone outside of Kappa!”

          “Oh, thank goodness, Tim! Me and his father thought you two were kidnapped and they took away your phones!”

          “… Then why would I have answered my phone?”

          I never found out how she got my number. I guess Seth gave it to her. But either way, I found Seth within the hour, grabbed him, and said, “CALL YOUR MOM.” Anyway, I didn’t see much more of Seth after that year.

          Sophomore year meant a lot of different things for me. I contemplated a myriad of different career possibilities, without any idea of what to expect when I faced the dreaded “Real World.” But I must admit, the person who came into his freshman year of college was not the person who came back the following September. I spent my days much like my hero in fiction, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Long periods shut away in my room, pouring over schoolwork in a drunken daze, to bursts of excitement and wanderings about the campus and the city, taking in the culture that only New York can provide. One night in particular, around midnight, I walked from the St. George Ferry Terminal to campus. A distance of three miles, taking much longer than I thought it would, carrying a rolling duffle bag behind me. Shady parts of town, shady people, and a creepy looking hound dog following me for about fifty paces.

          I must admit that I succumbed to a certain degree of loneliness during this year in particular. My friends were often busy doing their own thing, and I’m afraid that there was little else on campus that piqued my interest. My shyness proved detrimental in forming other friendships, and to be honest, new friendships had no interest for me. The how-do-you-dos, the what’s-your-majors, the forced interest you have to display during conversation. I think that it was during this year in particular that I decided that I just don’t have any interest in people, not real ones anyway. Give me a book any day. I’ll find people of true accomplishment, who have stories worth telling. Which isn’t to say that I dislike the friends I have made – it’s just people in general, going about their lives. The monotony. Their attempts to find some shred of meaning and purpose to their existence. And then that’s when it hit me: what meaning did my life have? What was my purpose?

          Depression hit me like a tidal wave. Sure, I was majoring in English. But what the hell do people majoring in English do? Writing? Publication? Those seemed reasonable. What? There’s no market for that? No way! So what do I do? Teach? Not on your life! I don’t need those nasty little bastards clawing at my ankles day-in and day-out, holding their hands through exams like some Saturday Morning Mr. Rodgers, without so much as a please or thank you. Journalism? Why not? Oh wait - Journalism is being replaced by the Internet. It seemed like every area of a possible career was dead or dying, with my constant enemy, Social Media, taking its place. I was a man out of time, unable to keep up with the shifts and the demands that new technology made. Me, who was still a proud owner of a Razr cell phone well into the year 2012. What’s more, Gabby, feeling similar dissatisfaction, decided to transfer to a college back home in Texas, which brought a sort of sorrow that was new to me. Deciding that there was nothing for me now at Wagner, I packed my bags, said goodbye to Mark and friends and left Wagner for good.

          I came back home to Long Island, enrolling into Stony Brook University, working nights at my local library for some easy cash. Stony Brook was huge to me. You could meet a person one day and never see them again. I wasn’t used to long voyages across campus to get where I needed to go. Moreover, I wasn’t used to rude and condescending staff members, and Stony Brook provided both in kind. I’d say the hardest thing I had to do in my academic career was fight for my Wagner credits. Imagine my dismay when a particularly difficult Honors course from Wagner became a 200-level Stony Brook “equivalent” before my very eyes. Some credits weren’t counted at all, and I am making up for those to this day. Faculty members were always distant, keeping odd hours in their offices. Class discussions turned from intimate conversation to languid speculations that offered little more than, “Read this book, come back to class next time and we’ll reread it.” Answers seemed scant wherever I looked for them. I recall when I was having my credits looked over, needing to go to several different buildings in order to have a class declared “not equivalent” to a similar Stony Brook course. Stony Brook came to represent everything that I hate about academia, or at least about being an English major. Pointless assignments. Repetitive discussions. Oh, Hamlet is conflicted by his fear of death and his familial obligations? Really? You don’t say, professor!

          Besides… the place was too damn big to feel at home at all.

          One professor in particular, who shall remain nameless for the purposes of this essay, always arrived late into class, with a thermos of tea in hand. She spoke in these lofty tones about the “geniuses” behind the texts we read, holding them far more sacred than others would hold the Bible or the Quran. I’ve never met a genius in my life, and I don’t think I ever will. Ask William Shakespeare to tell you a joke about his dick – he’s got a million of ’em! What’s more, she waved her hands as she spoke, and waltzed about the class during these “intellectual” discussions. And she was guilty of the most typical thing for the stereotype of a college English professor to do: she read poetry with… the voice! You know the one I mean. You speak slowly with this light, airy tone to your voice. You emphasize… every… single… word as you read the last stanza. It was enough to make me want to slam my head into the desk in front of me, or perhaps finish the poem for her – but alas, I was not ballsy enough. It was during this, my junior year, that I decided that Stony Brook wasn’t for me, but it was too late to go anywhere else.

          It was also during this year that my eyes were opened to some truths that I’m still having a hard time reconciling with my well-known sense of optimism (ha-ha!). A shiny, red car pulled up one day, at the wheel was a man in an Acapulco shirt and a white hat, eyes hidden behind yellow-tinted shades, with a cigarette holder clenched viciously between his teeth. All he said was “Get in” and we sped through the jungle, riding past melting trees, dodging surprise attacks from Brontosauruses and Pterodactyls hiding under the swamp. The Rolling Stones was blaring on the man’s radio as we passed each other a bottle of beer, laughing and swapping stories. The man was an accomplished driver, and clearly adept at battling the dinosaurs and monsters that tried to do us in. Suddenly, the man pulled out a six-shooter and said, “Take the wheel, kid.” Roaring like a madman, the man dived from the car, shooting wildly at the beasts chasing us. I called after him, not sure how to drive the damn thing. Before I knew what was happening, the car was careening over a cliff, and I fell to darkness. I called for help – help from my friends, from my mother, from Holy God in the empty blue void who wasn’t there, and I felt alone, completely alone. I saw a sad, little man with no true purpose in the world, contributing nothing but his hate to a society that didn’t need him – who felt more comfortable in his fictional world, than in the real one. I started to lose all corporeal feeling, losing sense, losing just about anything else but the feeling of Death’s hands clenched like a vice around my throat. And a word, not in any language that I was aware of, a single word sounding continuously through my thoughts, filling me both with terror and disgust – gwoomi. I shudder to think of it to this day.

          Miraculously, I walked away without a scratch, the red car missing, and not a single sign of the man in the shades or those terrible beasts. I walked away and decided to put every effort in shutting out this nightmare, to overcome and be better than it. Words haunted my dreams, words from Pink Floyd, “All you touch and all you see, is all your life will ever be.” Shaken, I decided to go abroad. Away from everything familiar, everyone I knew, all the disappointments, everything. I turned my sights to new horizons, and the adventure that I craved deep in the bottom of my gut. There had to be something more to this world, people to meet, places to see. I spent the summer brooding over my wild ride with the man in shades, keeping myself at a steady distance from friends and family, making love to Lady Liberty. This world, I decided, is a strange one. Things don’t often make sense, and you probably won’t be able to make much sense of it at all. People come and go, but you’re a better person for meeting them, in spite of every misanthropic instinct I may have in my heart. I may not have had any answers to my questions on that rainy day when I boarded the plane. But what I did have was a fedora and a bullwhip, and that was enough.