The Fun Guy's Journal: 191.8 no subject

Right before I left home to go away to college, I shaved off the crappy mustache and got a haircut. I put all of my worldly possessions in one duffel bag. It would have been considered over sized at the time, but would be called medium today. These possessions included all of my clothes, the minor treasures of my childhood and the few books that were mine as opposed to being communal family property. I was wearing my only pair of shoes, and I had $550 in my pocket, my life savings. I had a few other items, including a dorm-sized refrigerator, inherited from an older sister via an older brother via another older brother after each had moved out of their dorms in turn. I also had with me, in two brown paper grocery bags, the gifts that had been given to me by my friends at my combination birthday/going away party a week earlier.

I arrived at my dorm room escorted by my parents. Other newly scrubbed and freshly shorn first-year students ("Oh, no, we don't call people freshmen at this school. That's demeaning.") were making several trips up and down in the elevators, bringing up load after load of suitcases, crates, boxes, duffel bags, backpacks, hanger bags, etc. They were all twittering about this, that and the other, wondering how in the world anyone could live in such small rooms with only one closet per person, introducing each other to their new roommates (in the case of the students) or to the new roommate's parents (in the case of the parents). Plans were made for brunches, lunches, dinners, tours of campus, getting settled in according to a dozen different means. All around me there were hearty farewells, tearful good-byes, congratulations, expressions of love and fondness and regret at the coming absence from home.

I carried the dorm fridge. My dad carried the duffel bag. My mom carried the two brown paper grocery bags. I put the fridge on the floor of my room. My dad put the duffel on the bed, and my mom put the two paper bags on the floor next to the fridge. We looked around for a minute or two, and then my dad gave me a twenty dollar bill, said, "Behave yourself." and walked out. My mom gave me a hug, said, "Study hard and behave yourself.", then hurried after my dad.

I sat on the bed and listened to the noise and commotion in other people's rooms. After a bit, I plugged in the fridge. The rattling hum echoing off the bare concrete walls and linoleum floor drowned out the noise from the hallway and the other rooms.

My roommate was Pat Q., a second year student from Boston, who had returned to campus a week ago to be an Orientation Aid. He was fully moved in, and was off tending to his duties, helping direct and instruct new students and their parents as to where to park, where to go, what to do. Pat already had a full set of friends from last year, many of whom had also come back to campus a few days early to hang out before classes started.

I had originally been scheduled to be in another dorm, with another first-year for a roommate. He and I had exchanged letters and pictures over the summer, introducing ourselves and beginning the processes to getting to know each other. At the last minute, for reasons that are still unknown to me, I was reassigned to share a room with Pat. I'd though about contacting him prior to arrival, but, really, there hadn't been time before classes started.

I looked through the big packet of papers and instructions I'd been given on checking in at the front desk. Among the stacks of documents and forms was a nametag and a campus map. The instructions said that first-year students were encouraged to wear the nametag at all times during the first week on campus, so that everyone would be best able to offer assistance to those new to campus. I pocketed the map and left the nametag on my desk as I headed out to look around.

I was gone for several hours, walking and thinking. My childhood, adolescence and teenage years were all very noisy, messy and crowded. What I wanted most of all in going away to college was the chance to become someone new. Being alone and free in Chicago was going to my head like my first joint.

I came back about an hour before the scheduled meeting of the first-years with the Resident Heads. Pat was in my/our room, talking with a couple of other second-year students. We introduced ourselves in the awkward way people do when they will be smelling each other for the next 9 months. They were going to go out to dinner while the first-years ate pizza and got to know each other.

Pat also said that they were also going to stop by the liquor store afterwards, if I wanted anything. I said that I was fine, I didn't need anything. He and all of the other second-year students then immediately went into apologetic recantations of the offer, as though they had only just realized that a clean-cut, soft spoken guy from Missouri might not only not want any alcohol, but might be offended at the suggestion.

I had to clarify that I didn't need anything because I'd brought my own. My birthday presents from my friends had consisted of a case of Budweiser, a case of Bud Light, a fifth of vodka and an electric hot pot to make Raman noodles with. It was a relatively sedate going away party, so I still had about half the bottle left to go with what was left of the beer, now cooling in the small fridge. These were representative totems of the life and friends I'd left behind. I hadn't yet determined how much of my old life to carry forward into the new, how much lunatic abandon I wanted to exchange for mature, sedate moderation.

The grin that broke out on Pat's face told me that he and I were going to be excellent roommates. And we were. In the following weeks and months, he took me around, introduced me to people, showed me the ropes of the place. We got drunk together, we sobered up together. I studied science, he studied people.

Pat and I were friends all through college, and remained so afterwards. He danced at my wedding, we danced together at the weddings of friends later on in the years and years after the great dispersal following his graduation and then mine. I went to grad school to be a scientist. He went to grad school to become a public servant, and then on to law school after that. He was an attorney, a respected and well-liked professional.

As it often happens in this sad life, Pat and I lost touch for a bit, and then for a while, and then for a long while.

I learned last night from a mutual friend that Pat died yesterday morning after a very brief and as-yet-undiagnosed illness. She said that he'd married last year, that he'd finally found the happiness of a loving companion that had eluded him in college and afterwards. He was a happy man with all the riches in the world around him. He leaves behind his wife and his beloved 13 year old stepdaughter.

God bless you, Pat. You were a good man.

well done

[stoolpigeon]

n/t

Re:

[Shadow Wrought]

Agreed.

Thanks for sharing

[nizo]

And I am sorry for your loss; not just the loss of your friend, but for the lost time in between as well.

Re:

[The Fun Guy]

Life gets in the way of living, and it's only when death is thrown in our faces that we mourn for ourselves.

Re:

[The Fun Guy]

Sorry, that was ridiculous. I've got to get some sleep.

Re:

[nizo]

Dealing with death puts people in a strange place. All potential afterlife aside, "Never see someone again" is, at least for me, hard to digest.