9/26/10

            A good shower is a great thing. I’m not usually one to promote the wonders of impeccable hygiene - in fact, the number of times per-week I’d partake in such pleasures would make some cringe. [The distain for the inconveniences of cleanliness flowed deep. With ten pairs of socks & underwear in the backpack, I managed to go washingmachineless until Chicago. That’s not to say a few sink-and-soap sessions weren’t employed, but still…] Sometimes it’s the circumstances that make the shower: the excessively grimy night, the sore feet after hours of museum, the day stuck in downpour. Sometimes it’s the shower itself: shiny, clean, and new. Fixtures hitting from different angles. Precise heat adjustment. And most importantly, brilliant pressure.

            The main bathroom in Dan’s house had recently been redone, and it was the latter that started my Sunday off right.

            Some (like Dan’s mother) avoid hell by spending Sundays in church. But any true American knows the Lord’s Day is much holier than that. Church is nice and all, but there’s no way that eternal salvation is worth missing an afternoon of football and wings. Especially when yer a Boston Boy in Buffalo, the ralph is hosting the pats, and duff’s famous wings  are just a hispanic delivery boy away. Setting up shop in Dan’s living room and pulling up the menu on my spacephone, I ordered a pound of Wings (half hot, half honey garlic. Oy! Was I thirsty!) and watched my boys take the bills.

            [The effect sport can have on emotion never ceased to amaze me. At times (mostly when I don’t understand the sport) I’ve been sympathetic to the argument that its all stupid and bullshit. So much time and energy and money spent on meaningless, often violent nonsense. But the flip-side is just as compelling: a state of order and rules in a world of chaos - war with on death or “real” consequences.

            I was one of those bullshit sports-fans, only getting pulled in during fair weather and playoffs. But the way familiarity could comfort astounded me. In the spring of 2008 I was stranded by friends, left alone for five days in Morocco. Encased by the unfamiliar and having taken on much of my friends’ anxieties, I was utterly torn as to how to proceed. Alone, at night, in my hotel room was the first time I’d ever felt real, intense, true, palpable loneliness. Near tears, I turned on the tv and rolled myself a cigarette (the only time I’ve ever smoked one of those straight). As I opened my window and struck a match, CNN International reported the Red Sox had beaten the Yankees in the season opener. Had I been home, I would have muttered a “fuck yea” under my breath before changing the channel. But in such an alien state, I found myself quite literally fist-pumping for joy. That piece of tangible evidence; the reminder that there were things in this world I could relate to; the fact that I had a home, and that that home team won, was far sweeter than the Moroccan hash I had yet to smoke.]

            Continuing with the sports theme, we spent the rest of the afternoon shooting hoops and tossing a pig-skin in the street (getting a little high first, of course. Sensing a pattern here?).

            “Yo. I gotta do that insurance thing in a little bit. Wanna come for a ride?”

            “Sure.”

            “Are you rolling out tomorrow?”
            “Yeah. Crashing at Katie’s, and then head to Cleveland on Tuesday”

            “Word.”

            The “insurance thing” was officially Teresa’s gig, but she’d passed the work to Dan since he was closer to this one and could use the money. We hoped in the car and headed north towards Leweston. Typical commercial suburbia transformed into scenic ruralburbia (© Isaac Silver, 2012). It was the type of area I associated with red-state America: between forty-five minutes and three hours outside an urban center, a yard bigger than a lawn but smaller than a meadow, single-story modest and pretty homes, boasting American flags.

We found the house we were looking for just a few yards after a strong bend in the road. Seeing a toppled mailbox splintered at the post we sensed we were in the right spot. We parked across the street and walked up the long stone path to the house. Before we could ring the bell, a finalist for the Sophia Petrillo look-a-like contest opened the door.

            “You boys must be the Insurance people.”

            “Not quite. We’re from an associated firm, here to get your statement and document the incident. An official insurance agent will give you a call in a few days.”

            “Very well then. Let me show you what happened”

            She walkered her way down to the curb.

            “You have a lovely home” said Dan, noting the expansive back yard and the deep red brick of the house. “That rounded part, with all those bay windows: is that a living room?

            “It is! And thank you. My late husband designed the entire property, he was an architect.”

            As we reached the street she described how the car, having taken the curve too fast, careened off the road and onto her property, pointing out the skid-marks on the lawn, a dent in the telephone-pole, the downed mail-box. Dan snapped some pictures and scribbled some notes.

            “No one was hurt, correct? Just property damage?”

            “Thank heavens yes” she chirped.

           
              The sky gleamed brilliant pink and deep red as we road the Niagara Throughway towards Grand Island (“it’s that Buffalo smog homes. Same reason the Valley lights up like she do”). As we passed signs for the Falls I contemplated a suggestion: “Yo. Slight detour? Get a whiff of that famous borderline mist?” I’m sure Dannie would have obliged. But it was such old hat for him, and I’d been a few times before, and we were running a tad late on picking up Tim from their dad’s house. So I kept my mouth shut and stared at the sky.  In retrospect I should’ve talked -  would have been a brilliant five minutes.

            It was cool meeting Dan’s father. Gave me some insight into why Dan was who he was, especially after having met his moms.

            Back in Tonawanda with nothing much going on, we spent the evening back at Venessa’s: an indistinguishable experience from the night before.

9/25/10

           I woke up to an empty house and helped myself to the box of donuts and pot of coffee I found siting in the kitchen. Being the looser I was, late Saturday mornings equated themselves wholeheartedly with Wait,Wait…Don’t Tell Me, so I busted out the spacephone and tapped up the NPR app.

            By mid afternoon Dan was back from work.

            “I’m looking for some authentic Buffalo shit. What’ve you got for me?”

            “Ever been to Broderick Park?”

            In the middle of the Niagara river, less than twelve miles upstream of the falls, sat a small island. The bulk of the landmass housed a water treatment facility, but at the northern tip lay a quaint city park. Connected to mainland Buffalo by a small footbridge on the east, the fast moving waters off it’s western edge belonged to Ontario. Taking in foliage and fresh river air, Dan and I walked around and bullshat - watching kids play on the swings and petting dogs as they passed by. In a quiet corner right close to the water sat an old stone foundation and the remnants of a few walls and a stairway, once part of some twentieth century cement structure. The ruins were a local tagging mecca of sorts, and Dan showed me some of his favorite pieces. A little more strolling, and it was back across the footbridge to the car.

            After a quick stop at a pizza joint, Dan dropped me off at his place and continued on to job number two. Borrowing his laptop, I caught up on a backlog of Daily Show episodes, and proceeded to lie down for a nap.

[Despite being on an overt adventure, I refused to give up my pension for sleep. No matter how exciting or novel my location, I had zero problem slumbering ‘til two pm, eating some breakfast, and heading back down for a much deserved siesta. Some call me a slacker, others lethargic. Really I’m just a lover of dreams. (And a bit of a slacker.)]

            The evening took us to our second seemingly-abandoned warehouse in just as many nights - this time in a less desolate part of town. Walking up the stairs I was struck by the odd mix-useedness of the building: a punk band rehearsing in a recording studio, the offices of Local 10 (the Buffalo chapter of the Stagehands’ union I was destined to join), and finally our destination, Verve Dance Studios, for their monthly youth break-dancing competition.

            The crowd at the throwdown was just as eclectic as the building itself: a refreshing mixture of races and ages, especially after the vanillocity  of Geneseo. The cap for the competition itself was eighteen, but the kids had it down. With a DJ spinning, two competitors would face off, trading routines. Applause determined whom moved on to the next round. The space was packed with flirting teenagers and parents buying their kids lids done up by the aerosol-artist in the corner. We posted up with one of Dan’s friends and her adorable five year old.

            After an hour or so of increasingly fly moves, a winner was declared. The crowd petered out and we moved on. By the time we arrived, Pearl Street was bumpin: three floors, various bars and dining areas, maybe even a dance-floor or two. A few other Geneseo cats were already there waiting for our hang. We found em in a quiet corner shooting pool and sipping Street Brawler Stouts.

Not wanting to spend bank on brewhouse food, Dannie and I ran around the block for a slice. I busted out spliff number two of my road-stockpile in preparation for the modest feast ahead. Before we finished our slices we got a call from the crew. We were moving on to Chippowa.

There are hot sick messes. And then there are shitshows. And then there’s West Chippowa Street at midnight on a Saturday: a five block stretch in the heart of downtown Buffalo with shitty club after shitty bar after shitty club. The throngs of duchbags knew no bounds, as if the strip had been cordoned off for some disgraceful parade of Labatt-light-loving twenty-four-year-old post-econ-majors. We entered a bar called OMEGA. I rolled my eyes. With a beer in hand we stepped out onto the patio. Dan, running off the high of the breakdancing competition (and the high of the weed no doubt) broke out his fluid moves to the crap music bumping our ears. The ladies were impressed.

Running off the same high (as well as a light drunk and my pension for subversion and naiveté) I set my Blue Moon aside and stepped to the police officer posting guard outside the bar. He was standing, arms folded, board as shit.

“Excuse me officer. What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

I looked down the street. There were at least three cops per block as far as the eye could see, with squad cars parked every thirty yards.

“The police presence. I can’t remember the last time I saw a force out like this. Something’s gotta be going down.”

“Nope.”

“You mean this is standard fair for a Saturday night??”

“Yep.”

“Holy crap! The fuck you guys looking for?!”

“Looking to make money.”

It took me a few seconds for it to sink in.

“Wowwww. That’s absurd.”

He let out a monosyllabic laugh. “Yeah, well...that’s the way it goes.”

“I guess so. Well, thanks for your time.”

“No problem” he said, accepting the departing low-five I offered.

The rest of the posse was only slightly more tolerant of the scene than I, and with my encouragement we were shortly headed out.  After a few daps to departing friends, Dan and I made our way back to the car. As we pulled into his driveway, he noticed the lights still on in the neighbor’s house. I was informed that Vanessa and Mary were pretty cool cats who’d been in town just a few months, and as the night was still young (2am) we decided to see what they were up to. It wasn’t anything too exciting, but we hung for half an hour, making snarky comments at reality TV shows and finishing off the half-smoked bowl sitting on the coffee table.

9/24/10

              My alarm went off at ten fifteen. After a quick shower I packed up my bag: a feat that involved little more than shoving the one item dirty enough to be deemed laundry into the backpack’s bottom pouch. I put the thank-you bottle of gin I’d bought Sarcophagus on her night-stand, deciding that thank-you gifts were best left in secret and upon departure (a practice I habited across the country. It made me feel subversive and menchlidich at the same time.) I poured myself a cup of coffee and took my book onto the porch, letting the late morning sun ripple onto the pages as I waited for Teresa’s call.

“Yo! I’m on Main Street. Where ya at?”

“Orchard. I can be in front of The Statesman in a minute.”

“Word. I’ll drive down.”
            I washed out my mug, hoisted up the backpack, and walked down the block to the corner bar and the car that was waiting for me.

I’d met Teresa junior year when she returned from a study-abroad program as a close friend of my housemates’.  By senior year she was a staple of all-night living room paper writing sessions, as well as all-night bowl-and-Jamison sessions (which for her were more or less one in the same).
            The ride to Buffalo was nothing too special. Teresa played a CD of some of our friend’s music I hadn’t heard before. And she talked. And talked. And talked. It’d been a while since I’d seen her, and it was nice to be back.

We drove straight to the organic food store where Dan worked, finding him munching on some grilled tofu in a white apron behind the deli counter.

Dan was one of my earliest and closest college friends. (Introduced himself to me as a devout KRS One fan after I had spit “Can I Kick It” at a karaoke session way the fuck back at orientation. With our powers combined we formed 2/3-2/5 of the famed Thirsty Shrew Krewe - two hours of illicit, un-edited hip-hop, Thursdays 10-midnight. Be sure to tune in round 11:30 to hear my “brilliant” beat-boxing skills and the other boys rhymes, ‘cause we’re putting it on wax with The RatTail Special.) Dan was a man of brilliance: incredibly patient, quite smart, somewhat apathetic, and intensely committed to not getting his shit together ever. He gave me an epic hug.

When Dannie’s shift was over, the three of us headed to Amy’s Place, one of Dan’s favorite diner spots. There was some schmoozing with the wait-staff (whom he knew), and a delicious quesadilla. A flyer by the door caught my eye - a sketch of a suffragette-era woman holding a flowing “Strike!” banner. Upon closer inspection: “The Subversive Theatre Collective presents The Furies of Mother Jones. Musical accompaniment by The Erie Lackawanna Railroad Band. Thursdays-Sundays 9/24-10/9 @ 9pm. 255 Great Arrow Avenue.”

            “Yo Dan. You know this place?”

            “Nah. What is it?”

            “I have no idea, but it sounds fuckin’ sweet. Mother Jones was the ill turn of the century labor organizer. We should check it out.”

            “I’m in. Teresa?”

            “Did I hear the words ill labor organizer’? ‘Cause fuck yes.”

            We took down the address and drove to Dan’s house to hang until show time.

            Tonawanda was the reason I hated America. Well, not Tonawanda per-se, but the extent to which Tonawanda, NY was utterly indistinguishable from Elyria, OH. The same stretch of highway with the same Burger King next to the same Home Depot between the same independently-owned Jacuzzi show room. The first time I’d visited Dan I was struck by how much his neighborhood resembled the opening sequence of the first season of Weeds.

            Dan’s older brother Tim greeted the three of us with great big hugs. I didn’t know him well, but would’ve expect no less from an extra-chromosomed individual such as himself. I set up camp in Dan’s sister’s old room, and we spent the afternoon coolin’ around the house. A few hours in, one of Dan’s neighbors rolled through, a childhood friend whom I’d never met. Mike was a beefy kid who’s favorite topics of conversation appeared to be vitamin supplements and whey protein shakes. Late in the afternoon Dan’s mother poked her head out of her perpetual daytime TV.

“Michael, I saw you in the driveway the other day. Don’t talk back to your mother like that.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

            I was not in Kansas any more. It was the first (and practically last) time I’d see Dan’s mother. A nice enough lady from the little I experienced, she was the principal of the Catholic school Dan had attended. It was her conviction in the Lord that forced Teresa to sleep on the couch in the living room whenever she crashed at the house. At twenty-three years old we still had to smoke our bowls illicitly, in a darkened car across the street, tiptoeing back into the house so as not to awake the disapproving eye. It felt like I was in high school, and it made me laugh.

            At eight o’clock Dan, Teresa and I piled into the car and GPSed our way to the play. The neighborhoods got sketchier and sketchier as we followed the blue line on my spacephone.

            “Are you sure this is the place?”

            “According to google it is.”

            We were in some sort of decrepit industrial district (in Buffalo? Not a chance), staring at a seemingly abandoned warehouse. But it had the right number and was on the right street, so we hesitantly approached the entrance and made our way up the dimly lit stairway.

            The double doors on the third level opened onto a surprisingly buffed and bright floor. To our left was a long hallway of studio and gallery spaces, and directly in-front of us stood a poster-sized version of the flyer I’d seen earlier. Glancing around a group of people sipping wine out of plastic cups, I caught a glimpse inside a  blackbox. The set was sparse, but I dug it.  We approached the betableclothed ticket table.

            “Three please.”

            “Did you guys pre-order?”

            “Shit. No.  You sold out?”

            “Yep. All weekend unfortunately. If you wanna hang out for a while, I can put you on our standby list…”

            We popped our names down, perused the program (the show looked small and inspired and righteous) and peered into a few of the galleries. As the theater doors shut we were informed they were full-up, and we slunk back to the car in defeat.

            “Well that sucks.”

            “Yeah, it looked real cool. Maybe we’ll check it out next weekend.”

“If I’m still around. So now what. Find a bar, grab a drink?”

            “I guess we could. Doesn’t look like there’s much around here. You know what? Fuck it dude, lets go bowling.”

“Nice! I haven’t been since last time I visited. It’ll be like my Buffalo tradition.”

            “Word. We should call Kyle and Tom, they might want in.”

            I knew both kids vaguely – friends of Dan’s from high-school. Kyle had thrown a couple of impressionable parties during the college years, and Tom seemed to be perpetually in-between tours of Iraq. We picked up the boys, drove to the lanes, got high in the parking lot, and knocked down some pins. As game two wound down and rental shoes were being slipped off, Dan handed me a few of our emptied pint glasses.

            “Here. Take these.”

            I was a bit confused, but grabbed them and walked to the bar. When I turned back, the crew was nowhere to be found. I looked around the alley, went to the bathroom, and headed outside. The car was idling by the curb.

            “Quick! Get in!”

            “Where the fuck did you guys go?”

            The car pealed away.

            “Where are the beer glasses?”

            “Wait. You wanted me to jack ‘em?? Did we just steel two games of bowling???”

            “Yeah man.”

            “Really? We can’t afford $12 and a few beers?”

            “Look. Fuck those guys.”

            I felt lame, but I didn’t push it.
           We got back to Dan’s place around eleven, busted out a Nerf football, and played catch in the middle of the street, encased by the silence of midnight suburbia.

9/23/10

             The first time I’d visited Geneseo post-graduation had been a year ago. It was lovey seeing my friends and the town, but those were expected pleasures. What surprised me was the gratification and comfort I found in a five-minute chat with an old professor. Always a vocal student, it felt as though my teachers really knew me, and it was fun to connect with them in a context void of the power structures inherent in the collegiate system. It was the main force that made a four night stay in Geneseo passable.
              Some were less warm than I’d remembered (I was in her first class when she started teaching two years ago and she’s not giving me a hug? What gives??). Others had to dart out as they simply didn’t have the time (the twins are great but we’ve got a doctors appointment, I gotta run). But then there were the ones who really cared, and when they were able to put their grading aside, even just  for a few minutes, it was great.
              I took a class with Ed Gillin just once: a senior seminar my last semester of college. It was a seven-person-overly-informal-two-and-a-half-hour-Monday-afternoon experience. The topic was Henry David. We'd one text – the collected works – and covered all of Walden, as well as bits and pieces of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, Cape Cod, and the like. We spent an entire session talking about the concept of “a natural day,” and Ed was looking to develop a class devoted to works of travel-log. Naturally he was stoked about my trip.

            “You going by car?”

            “Nope. Can’t afforded one.  Buses, trains, ride-shares, couch-surfing, and a backpack.”

            “So you’re really doing it.”

            “Yep.”

            “Are you writing about it?”

            “I’m keeping a journal. No real prose. Just a bullet-pointed itinerary of days events.”

            “Good.”

When the proverbial bell rang Ed was off to class and I was off to breakfast (as one is want to call the first meal of the day, 2pm or not). I decided on Taco Bell, one of the few corporate entities that had weaseled it’s way onto campus. I sat on the balcony of the two-tiered Mary Jemison dining hall, student-watching and flipping through the campus newspaper.

I was fed up. An heroic road-trip had turned into a reprieve of college. I’d seen all the teachers and friends I’d wanted to, beheld all the sights, done the few things the town had to offer. Geneseo was beyond played out. Shit, it’d been played out two years ago. And four nights??? If I was spending half a week reliving the past, I’d be an asshole if I spent less time in newer lands. It was moving too slow, and not (yet) in a good way.

I called Teresa. We’d been in touch, but had yet to make a definitive plan.

“Yo. What’s up? Are we on for tomorrow??”

“Yes! I got the day off work. I can be in Geneseo by 11. Where am I picking you up?”

“I’m staying on Orchard”

“Cool. I’ll give you a ring when I get into town.”

“Excellent! See you tomorrow.”

I was hella relieved. I had an escape plan, and I could breath a little easier. But I still had nothing to do. So it was back up to Milne Library, where my favorite chair was yet again vacant. I put my shoulderbag down, headed to the reference computer, and punched in Guthrie.  Bound for Glory wasn’t in the stacks, but I did find a raged, packet-thin book of some collected letters. I took it back to the chair and started to read. The text was typewriter punched and faded, and I couldn’t handle the choppy read for much more than fifteen minutes. [But that first taste of the man’s folksy prose held me over until Minneapolis, where I finally picked up a perfectly sized soft-cover edition of the autobiography (from an anarchist bookstore. Of course.)]

When I put the booklet down I picked up Compulsion, the novel I was weaving my way through. In short turn I put that aside, took out my MP3 player, and slid in my ear-buds. I made a playlist of my favorite Woody covers and stared out the window towards the hills on the western horizon.

My phone rang.

“Sarcophagus. What’s up?”

“Not much. Just got outta class. I’m headed to Brodie to work on the show if  ya wanna come help out.”

“Sweet. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

            For her senior project, Sarcophagus was teching Museum, a show I can’t tell you about because I never saw it. But I was more than happy to be put to work. I did a little bit of focusing, a little bit of schmoozing, and more than my fair share of giving Johnnie grief.

            When Sarcophagus hade to return to class, I headed up to the liquor store and grabbed myself a 375 of Jack Daniel’s. From then on, rare was the moment I was found without a small bottle tucked in the folds of the towel at the top of my backpack (for the times when bars and basement beers were out of reach).

            It was Sidney’s sophomore year in the valley, so we’d never actually overlapped during college. I’d met her a few months prior at Berkshire Hills Emmanuel Camp. With summer camp deep in my blood  (a lifetime of Kinderland) I’d been offered a compelling opportunity to work at BHEC. I took it, and it was terrible. Abominable. An experience so absurd and dismal it’d be worthy of it’s own separate blog if I hadn’t repressed all the memories. But Sidney was cool, and I told her I’d look her up next time I was Geneseostyles. A sweet Jewish girl with Ginger attributes and cute suitemates, I hung out in her dorm and sipped whisky while we reminisced about the horrors of the summer and watched tv. I might’ve also stuffed my face with chocolate-covered pretzels her suitemates offered me. When I left the dorm it was dark.

            On a Thursday night in Geneseo there were few places as secluded as the track, so it was there I went to smoke. Anyone who knows me knows I’m no runner (I ran once. It was from the cops at a party in high school. They weren’t actually there). But the Geneseo track held a significance nonetheless . On late and stressful nights my sophomore year I’d coast my bike down the hill, slip on my headphones, and zip around the motherfucker for a good forty minutes. Nary a soul was there, and I’d fly, staring at the stars, gulping brisk winter air, and clearing my head.

I walked down the slope on the western edge of the track, leaned against the fence, and lit up.

I was at the opposite end of campus, so the walk up to Main Street took a good fifteen minutes. Once arrived, I sauntered into The Vital. The bouncer gave me a nod of approval as he caught wind of the scent while glancing at my I.D. The bar was fairly crowded due to the thirsty Thursday crowd. I had a few beers, made conversation with strangers, and remembered why my fonder memories of the town were set well outside the bars.

            Feeling good and loose I went out for an aimless walk around town. A couple  blocks up Center Street I ran into a girl I vaguely knew sitting with friends  on a couch on a cramped porch. In my overly friendly state, I gave an exuberant “Hey! What’s up?” The ensuing conversation was of substantial awkwardness but little consequence. I continued on.

            It was getting late and I thought about calling it, but as I sauntered down the street I saw 5 Main and the apartment (3) I’d lived in my senior year. I had a sudden urge to get inside, see who was there and what they’d done with the place. But it was midnight on a Thursday, and I didn’t want to be one of those obnoxious alum.

            As I got nearer, I saw the door open. There was some commotion, and people stepped onto the porch. I walked into the parking lot. A party maybe?? Was I in luck? But before I reached the steps I herd a voice of outgoing proportions directed towards me from above.

            “Hey dude! What’s up?”

            I looked up. There was a girl sitting on the roof above the porch, having apparently climbed out the window of the second floor apartment.

            “Um. Not too much. How’re you doing?”

            “Me? I’m Goooood!”

            She was far too loud and friendly to be sober.

            “Do you know her?” I whispered to the people who’d stepped out of my old, ground-floor apartment. By now it was clear that there was no party in #3 but rather a reaction to a party in #6.

            “Yeah,” one said “she was throwing loves of stale bread from up there the other night. Dented my fuckin’ car.”

            “What’s you’rrrre name?” we heard from above.

            “I’m Isaac. And yours?”

            “Nice to meet you Isaac. What brings you to Main Street this lovely evening??”

            I glanced at the kids on the porch, whom nameless roof-girl couldn’t see. They rolled their eyes.

            “Well, I actually lived in this house a few years ago. I’m taking a roadtrip and decided to stop in Geneseo for a few days”

            “Cooooool! Didn’t you LOVE college??”

            “Yeah…it was pretty fun….…are you sure you should be on the roof? I don’t know how safe it is up there.”

            “I’m fine! I’ve been out here plenty of times. Totally safe. Look.”

            She stood up and started prancing around her self-proclaimed balcony.

            “No, no. It’s cool I believe you. But you’re being kind of loud. It’s pretty late. You know the president of the college lives right there, right?” I pointed across the parking lot to the yellow mansion on the other side.

            “Chris can suck my dick!”

            The kids on the porch started getting anxious. 

              “Look. I really think you should go inside.”

            “Fuck you man. You’re not my mother! I thought we were cool. What gives?!?”

            A face poked out from the window that let onto the roof. “Lindsey, get your drunk ass inside!”

            “Nah man. This kid wants to fight!”

            “You should probably listen to your friends” I said.

            She spat at me. But in her state, the dribble didn’t make it off the roof.

            “Girl! Get ya ass over here!” A few hands lunged out of the window. And with a brief struggle and a little more shouting she was pulled through the window, and all was calm.

            “Nice girl.” I said to the kids on the porch.

            “They provide some excitement. I think they’re all gay. Confused the shit outta my mom when she came to visit. Playing rugby in the backyard, jumping all over each other in sports bras.”

            “Gotchya” I said. “That makes some sense” as I thought back to the incidents of utter shitshowiness my rugby friends had perpetrated.

            “Hey. Mind if I come in for a sec? I used to live here and I’d love to check out the pad if it’s not too much of an intrusion.”

            “Sure. Come on in.”

            The apartment was too small to be laid out substantially different from when I’d lived there. There was a tv in a corner where we’d had none, and a few chairs had shifted positions. But all looked relatively familiar. They still had the futon I’d reluctantly left, passed down to me from an upperclassman of my generation. (I refrained from letting them know the extent to which various – well, pretty much all – bodily fluids had been cleaned off it).

            I spent a good two hours talking to the girls who now lived there, telling the one who resided in my room how she’d want to invest in a space heater before winter set in, and sharing numerous stories of my wild college years. The conversation came to a lull around 2am, and I made my exit.

            Being my final night in the valley I thought it best to take in a bit more Livingston County air, so I crossed Court Street and walked to the soccer fields next to the  Armory - a grassy area of fond memory where I’d once taught friends how to play spaceman six years ago. I found a bench and finished off the spliff I’d started down by the track.

            I rambled down the hill back to Sarcophagus’, but was still not quite ready to crash once I reached Orchard Street. I snuck under the chain at the end of the road, and wandered around Highland, the low-income community complex where students weren’t allowed to live. It was a part of town I’d never seen before.

9/22/10

              The apartment was empty when I woke up. Feeling excessively grimy I jumped in the shower, and with nothing to do, headed back up to Muddy to grab a bagel (with in-house chi cream cheese) and take in a book. When the coffee bottomed out it was time for a change of venue, so I walked down to campus and over to the library, where armchairs on the upper level (notorious for rocking nap-craving students to sleep) looked out through floor-to-celling windows at one of the grander views of the valley. I read some more.

            When eyelids started sagging I knew it was time to move on; the day was much to young to be feeling lethargic. A splash of cold water to the face later and I was walking back to the radio station.

            When I raided the studios my first night in town the lounge had been locked. An oddly shaped room plastered in promotional band posters and CD inserts, it housed an impossibly worn couch, a small wall of cubbies for staff belongings, scattered chairs and end tables, a desk perpetually strewn with USPS crates full of CDs, a few bookshelves for forgotten books, and a mini fridge – forever empty with the exception of a half full two-liter of flat soda. The reason for the return was to see if pictures of my generation were still flimsily taped to the wall behind the couch. I found one or two of them sitting dusty under a pile of CDs, but the wall that had once been coated with my memories was now painted red. I found solace when I looked up and saw a bunch of DJ tags still sharpied on the stucco celling: DJ Casey Kasem, Brendan “Irish Bolt” Kelly, JD Dyslexia, my poorly scribbled  MC SweeTooth (before I’d embraced the more cultured spelling of EmmceesweetTooth).

            Glancing at my watch I saw that late afternoon was upon us and the time was ripe to stumble upon professors holding court. So back to the top floor of Welles I waltzed.

The endeavor proved successful. I found Dr. Greenfield, the quirky banjo-playing  academic who’s antics were perfectly suited for the ‘Theater of the Absurd’ class he’d offered my senior year. And then there was Kristen Gentry, with whom I’d taken a ‘Literature of Hip-Hop’ class, and then persuaded to direct a ‘Hip-Hop and Film’ independent study. She was a young down-home gal – a rarity for the Geneseo professorial scene, and it was nice to see her still kicking around and enjoying her classes.

            And finally there was Maria Lima (famous for unapologetically introducing herself at the beginning of every semester as a Brazilian-Feminist-Marxist-Divorcé). She was as energetic and passionate as ever, giving me names and looking up e-mail addresses of other former students involved in the New York theater scene.

            It was in Maria’s office I ran into Martin. His signature read beard was severely trimmed down, but I was able to recognized him.

[A couple years my senior, Martin had been involved in InfoShare, the student-led community-focused social justice group that fulfilled my need for college activism. While never overly friendly, I had grown particularly disdainful of Martin upon his spearheading the “Geneseo Free Speech Movement.” A rebel dissatisfied with our already established causes (campus date-rape, the war in Iraq, a community bike-share initiative) the GFSM spoke out against a school regulation (alleged regulation, I could never find it on the books) that designated only certain areas of campus to be “free speech zones.” For weeks, Martin and one or two others would stand in front of the admissions building with a banner and a bullhorn, encouraging fellow students to speak out against whatever injustices they felt need fighting. More often than not, Martian’s voice was the only one echoing around the quad, railing the administration for not letting students speak their mind. For the duration of the movement, not one school official asked him to take the activism elsewhere. Somehow, the irony was lost on Martin.]

            As we simultaneously informed Maria of our life circumstances, so we re-introduced ourselves. Turns out Martin was rambling as well, but with slightly less aim or means than I. Always a bit of a vagabond, he found himself back in Geneseo, keeping his few possessions in a locker on the main corridor  of the building and sleeping in empty classrooms, outside on tarps, or with whichever sophomores he could convince to share a bed. He talked openly about his un-stable and un-settled lifestyle and his wavering feelings on existence. When Maria offered us five bucks to buy a sandwich, he accepted, saying “I manage to never go hungry, but can always use beer money.” She slipped him the bill, saying that wine would be healthier.

            [Martin and I exchanged numbers in the hallway before parting ways, and met up for a drink late that night. His journey felt more authentic, more romantic, more Guthryian than mine; I was jealous, wishing I could be as hard-core and spacephoneless as he. He’d yet to hop trains, but knew the skinny: boxcars were out as the modern ones automatically locked from the outside upon closing. Instead, freight cars with buckets shaped like upside-down trapezoids provided a sheltered but accessible nesting area on both ends of the car. He drew me a picture in his moleskin, tore out the page, and handed it to me. Having already spent Maria’s green-back, he persuaded me into buy him a coupla beers, promising to hit me back later. As we discussed our mutual feelings of being Geneseoly trapped, we pledged to keep each other posted, should one of us find a ride out. When I contacted him two days later and told ‘em that I’d a way out of town, he texted back saying he’d already made his way down to the Southern Tier. Kid still owes me a beer.]

            After Welles I headed to the community garden. Located in the school’s arboretum, the community garden was one of the crowning achievements of InfoShare. In collaboration with the campus environmental organization, the biology department, and a few other enthusiastic professors and community members, the college had ceded us a plot of land for some much needed agricultural do-gooding.  The ‘arbo lay on the southernmost edge of campus, right next to my freshman dorm. Triangled in-between rt. 20A and the rt. 20A bypass, it’ was hard to get too lost in the groomed wilderness. But the spot was infamous for freshman hookups and illicit (and stupid) smoking sessions.

            Once within the trees, and not too far down the path to the garden, I passed a circular mosaic made of flower peddles and dead leaves. After appreciating its symmetry and random existence for half a minute, I realized it must’ve been a project for the same art class that spawned “LeafRock-Pompom-Rock” the day before. I smiled, and continued on.

            The garden was vibrant and full of people milling about - smelling flowers and noshing on green-beans. I saw a number of friendly faces: some I’d already run into over the past two days, others I hadn’t, and one or two I was surprised to see: fellow alumni acquaintances who happened to be in town as well. I was able to swing a five minute chat with Ken Cooper, an English professor and community garden enthusiast for whom my presence was so out of context that he barely remembered my name (but was quite excited about my trip non-the-less. After finding out that I’d never read any Kerouac, he recommended I pick up the The Dharma Bums as opposed to On the Road).

            The garden’s mini-bounty got me hungry for more substantial food, and I headed up to Main Street to taste Geneseo Hots, a new addition to the strip.  A bare bones drunk-food take out joint, I grabbed a grilled cheese to go and dined on a bench in Doty Field, the town green-space adjacent to campus.

            Remembering how fast the Jewish festival season tended to move, I realized that Sukkot was upon us, and there was a chance I’d be able to find my Hebrew brethren in the vicinity of the Interfaith Center.

[I  had started the majority of weekends of my college career by heading to Hillel’s Friday night services and free dinners. The prayer did little for me, but the community was a nice one to be part of. Growing up I’d always loved the weekly Shabbos dinner parties my parents would host, which were as stable and constant and lovely as anything in my life. And, while slightly less enjoyable (or secular) than the home version, the Hillel tradition was one well worth my time. If nothing else, it gave me a comfortable venue in which to schmooz and kibbitz  (and a venue to say schmooz and kibbitz comfortably)]

The Interfaith Center sat on the end of Franklin Street, one of the more bizarre streets in town. Neighboring the academic quads and overlooking north-campus dormitories, the street was confounded by contrast: the monotonous, boxy institutionalism of the Health Center on the south end and the Interfaith Center on the north, perfectly book-ended a couple of the village’s  skankiest and most coked-out frat houses. The scene was especially comical that day, as I strolled up to a bunch of Jews fastening together a sukkah on the front lawn of the IC, while crap commercial rap blasted from one of the adjacent fraternities.

            As I waltzed up to the sukkah-in-progress a few close friends shouted my name in surprise. There were hugs and smiles as I was introduced to the few faces I didn’t recognize (one of them being a new advisor, which came as no huge surprise; over my four years we’d run through three-and-a-half of ‘em). As the sun dipped low we thatched the roof and decorated the interior with chilly pepper lights and paper chains.

When it was too dark to continue assembly, I headed back to Sarcophagus’ and politely sat through an episode of America’s Next Top Model with her housemates.

            Being a Wednesday night, much of the town was paper-writing (or procrastinating doing so by facebookstalking). I was awake, board, and responsibility-free. So I decided a movie was in order, and caught the campus/town shuttle from lower Court Street took, up 20A, and down to the strip-mall where the five screen cinema was nestled neatly between the Wegman’s and a slew of fast food joints. Upon my questioning, the bus driver assured me the schedule had her stopping back when the movie got out.

I saw The Town, the Boston-based Ben Affleck heist flick. The movie was descent, and the air-conditioned theater was a nice break from an unusually muggy and warm fall night.

Back in the parking lot I waited for the bus. After a good fifteen minutes I said fuck it, and started walking up the sidewalkless road back into town. It was a sweaty and un-wanted fifty-minute trek, but the deep haze of a dark countryside night was surprisingly cradling.

9/21/10

 Sarcophagus was back from her first block of classes when I woke up in the mid-afternoon.

“I’ve got an assignment for class due tomorrow. Kaitlin and I are working together, and we’ve yet to decide what to do.”

“What’s the class?”
            “Sculpture 1 with DeZarn”

“Nice. I never had him, but I’ve heard he’s pretty sweet. What’s the assignment?”

“We’ve gotta make a piece of art that exists in nature, is made entirely of nature, and incorporates ‘negative spaces.’”

“Yikes. And you guys have no idea what you’re gonna do?”

“Not really. I think we’re head down towards the bluebells though. We’ll figure it out when we get there. Feel like taking a walk through the woods?”

“Sure” I said.

[The “bluebell woods” was one of Geneseo’s most strangely kept secrets. After three springs of complete oblivion, I had woken up a few weeks before graduation to hear all of my friends ranting about the flowers. One needed to be shown how to get there by another who had been before, as there was no clear or direct path: a walk down a road (that at first glance looked to be little more than a factory parking lot) took you past a sewage treatment plant and an abandoned junk-yard, before turning into a horse path. After seventy-five yards, a turn off of the path and a meander through a woods. Find the bank of a river, follow it north-west, and skirt the big field with the solitary dead tree in the middle. Soon enough you’d see the first patches of lavender. Keep going. The flowers are short lived (the bloom lasts barely two week, and are at peek flush for under forty-eight hours) but if you hit ‘em just right, a hundred and twenty seconds later you’d find yourself in wonderland: a lightly packed forest draped in a sea of shin-high purple flowers that stretch on in perpetuity - the sight of which is only rivaled by the enveloping smell. But springtime this wasn’t and bluebells there weren’t.]

The jaunt down the horse-path was slightly muddy, but not overly cold or excessively wet. A little past the turn-off one would take towards the bluebells, we came across a deep culvert carved out by a dribbling stream. Remnants of an early cement bride lingered in the stoned slope, and it was here that the girls took to the task of creating art. Feeling uninspired, I sat and watched, as they played with leaves and picked flowers and perused stones. Forty minutes later they presented me with their sculpture - “LeafRock-Pompom-Rock.” The title was derived from it’s form: a base-stone wrapped in damp fall foliage, followed by a layer of  dying dandelions and other such natural fluffies, toped with a much flatter and sharper rock. The sculpture was dutifully documented with a digital camera, and we strolled back to town, leaving nature to finish her off.

While Sarcophagus headed back to her apartment, I climbed straight up the hill to campus in pursuit of ex-professors with downtime at office hours. The first stop was Welles Hall. Originally built as an elementary school in the 1930s, the building felt truly collegiate (a combination of personal memories and semi-gothic architecture, I’m sure). I walked the hallways until I found Dr. Herzman sitting in a new office. Ron had been my advisor, but only for a year, as I didn’t declare a major until my junior year, and the punk had decided to take a sabbatical my senior year.  Thankfully, I had nabbed a few classes with the Distinguished Teaching Professor while still an undeclared hobo. The new office was bigger, but amounted to nothing more than a logistical space-shift. We got in five minutes of schmoozetime before I was kicked out for a meeting with a student. So I headed across the way to Brodie.

Brodie Hall housed the college’s fine arts program, and for those well-acquainted with theatrical side of  building, the name was as synonymous with drama off the stage as it was on. I passed a few faces I vaguely recognized in the hallways, but nobody I knew well enough to stop for, as I headed straight for the Alice Austin Theater.

The stage was mostly empty and the lights were dim, but the sound of a familiar grunt told me that my former mentor was indeed home. As Johnnie strolled on stage, he peered up to the catwalk, but before he could shout focus instructions to whomever was idling behind the lights, his eye caught my face. With little celebration and less surprise he looked me up and down, and with deep deadpan sarcasm, muttered “What do you want?” It felt good to be back in the presence of such an un-flappable man.

For the next half-hour we floated between the black-box, the shop, and the main stage as he filled me in on the latest department struggles, and I him on my brief foray into the New York stagehand world – the buzz of a light day in the shop behind us all the while. A few old co-workers popped in-and-out, and with each came a hug, a brief update of life circumstances, and a “lets hang out before I leave. “

But it felt too unnatural to be in the space for too long with no task to accomplish or wrench to swing, and I was promptly on my way. As I pushed open the door, Johnnie shouted at me “Get a job ya slacker” - a wink only half implied.

Feeling directionless and dull, I headed up to Main Street to grab a cup of Coffee. Muddy Waters opened my senior year, and proved to be a breath of fresh air to what had become a very stale Main Street. Ornate with local pop-art and furnished with a plethora of comfy couches and arm-chairs, the coffee shop became a favorite spot to meet up for a study sess, or to catch a late evening open mic for the few beatniks among us. Mug in hand, I sat and watched the town pass by.

As much as I loved calling New York City home, the impenetrable concreteness of the jungle could occasionally get to me, and I’d find myself yearning for long-lost country roads. As I peered out the window at the quaint houses that lined Main Street, rosy in the late afternoon sun, I decided it was time for a walk.

Despite the pleasant weather and slight caffeine buzz, a deep blue had settled over my spirits. It was completely irrational – I had the wind to my back, and a country at my fingertips. But I felt stuck; trapped. The town was too recognizable yet the faces too foreign. I had been here so many times before – why was I back? And where was I going? The road-trip had yet to turn into a Road Trip; so far it was all family and familiarity. In theory I knew I was in for adventure, but the pit of my stomach made me question my decisions. [In various ways, the depression stuck around until the slew of recognizable faces were to my east, and the true consciousness of possibility fully grabbed my spirits. Toledo, Ohio of all places.]

As Geneseo’s Main Street crosses Court Street (the de-facto demarcation of the northern edge of the village) it turns into Avon Road, and shortly after the County Complex ends and the Armory is behind you, the streetlights disappear and the houses spread further apart. Ten minutes later you’ll pass the Geneseo Central School, with it’s track and sports fields framing the valley below. After that, America becomes rural.

Two miles outside town, on the left side of Rt. 39, is a wide dirt-paved road that descends westward into the grazing and riding pastures of the valley. Nations Road was a frequent destination of the head-clearing bike rides I’d taken many a late afternoon as a student. Treading down its slope, I walked until the pavement of the highway was out of sight, and slipping under a green horse-gate (ignoring the “Warning – Untethered Bull” sign) I wandered into one of the fields, and found a toppled tree to sit on. I sat and inhaled the view.

As the sun sank low, my mind wandered from the landscape and towards unsettled feelings, and I felt for the phone in my pocket.

I walked back to town in the dark, and went straight to Kelly’s, the diveiest and towniest of the bars. A quick whisky later, It was across the street to Mamma Mia’s Pizzeria for two slices and a garlic knot, and then to the gas station for a candy-bar. Still adrift, I wandered aimlessly around campus, reliving the past as the dorms and academic buildings drifted by.

Once the old grounds were sufficiently stomped, I pulled out my phone again.

“Junior! You at your apartment?”

I had texted Mark (given the nickname as there was a synonymous person working in the scene-shop when Jr. arrived his freshman year) earlier in the day, but he’d been in class when I was bumbling Brodie, and we’d postponed our hang-sess until later that evening.

“Yeah man. You wanna swing by?”

“Sure. Toss me your address and I’ll come over.”

“Sounds good. See ya in a little.”

The text arrived seconds after I hung up, and I took the stroll up to Second Street. The door was open, and I walked into a surprisingly unique apartment, complete with a sunken living room and wall-to-wall 1970s era carpeting in both the kitchen and the bathroom. The catch-up session was a tad more interesting than others I’d had that day; it was fun to see Junior, still very much himself, but now with a beer in his hand and a girlfriend on his couch (the man had been a devout teetotaler up until his 21^st birthday, due mostly to a conservative up-bringing).

            The day had grown long and I was getting tired, so back down to Sarcophagus’ it was, for some cartoon’s, a bit too much reality TV, and sleep.

9/20/10

The first time I went to an AT&T Store on the road was not the last. It was with my cousins, for the purpose of fixing one of their phones. While there, I invested in a black rubber body glove for my spacephone, purchased just a few weeks prior. It had slipped out of my hands two days after I bought it, and while she was more or less fine, the cement of the sidewalk did indeed scratch her face. After the body glove, her face never changed. Her soul died on me in Chicago, but that’s another story for a later date.

Next was food at a Friendly’s across the street. My chicken strips came with waffle fries, but the fall air was crisp and I decided to skip on the ice-cream.

With an exchange of hugs and kisses we dropped our younger cousin off on the hills of the Syracuse campus, and my older cousin and I slid back into her car and headed west.

As we floated along the New York State Throughway my thoughts drifted towards the rolling slope of the Genesee Valley. This would be my third time visiting my alma-matter since graduation sixteen months prior. I was excited to see professors and the few colleged friends I still had, and the possibility of catching an epic Livingston County sunset always made my eyes gleam. But the excitement of adventure and possibility that would eventually become my daily companion was still weeks away from settling in my stomach. My stop in Geneseo was a chance to check in on a life past, not a contribution to a life future.

But first came Rochester, which, for all intents and purposes, was a nap on my cousin’s couch. She lived in an apartment complex well outside the downtown inner loop, complete with a community tennis-court and thin dry-wall interiors. It was much more vibrant and airy than her boyfriend’s place, and the stacks of board-games and half-finished knitted scarves confirmed that my cousin did indeed live there. While she settled down at a table to do doctoral work, I turned on her TV, found an old episodes of Law & Order: Criminal Intent, and proceeded to drool on her futon for the next few hours.

Forty minutes before sunset my friend Kristy pulled into my cousin’s parking-lot. I had known Kristy since freshman year and had managed to keep up a substantial friendship, as she had briefly moved to New York City a few months after graduation. She now lived in Rochester, and had agreed to drive me the twenty minutes down to our old stomping-grounds. The sun drifted below the horizon as we headed south on 390.

If there is one thing the village of Geneseo breeds as much as open and enriched minds, it’s alcoholism; so it was only fitting that our first stop was one of the tiny town’s five watering-holes. The Vital was the sports bar among them, and boasted one of the larger selections of draft beer, as well as quality wings and a tasty Cajon dipping sauce. It was early on a Monday evening, and we had the bar mostly to ourselves. Beers, conversation, and chicken ensued.

We parted ways in the parking lot, and I walked down Bank Street towards the university proper. It was a steep slope I had slid down hundreds of times before, but never with quite so much weight in my backpack. The air was a tad crisper than it had been in Syracuse, and the Green’s grass shone brown in the orange glow of campus lights.

In a somewhat cerebral manner I headed straight for the basement of Blake B, an academic building on the north side of one of the school’s main quads. With an anticipatory squeeze, the loose door-latch popped open, and I was in. The lights were off and the rooms glowed green and red with LEDs and digital displays of all sorts. Most of the interior doors were slightly ajar, and the buzz of transmitters and hum of a turned-down loop-show brought back a flood of memories. I went over to the wall of the main studio and perused the racks until I found a suitable track, sat down, adjusted the mike, checked my levels, and flipped the switch:

“You are listening to 89.3FM, WGSU, Geneseo - The Revolution. This is EmceeSweetTooth, back in full effect for a limited time only. ‘wanna give a shout-out to all Shrews out there, both thirst and not. Here’s Pseudosix with ‘Under the Waves.’ 585-245-5586 is the number to call. Keep your ears tuned here to 89 3, the place to be, WGSU, Geneseo. The voice - of the valley.”

I spent the next twenty minutes spinning records, not knowing (and not caring) if anyone was listening.

As I stepped out of the station I momentarily hesitated. I knew full well where I was going next, but just as I had instinctually headed to the WGSU studio, I was presently in an instinctual deadlock. There were so many rooms, apartments, and corners of the town I had once called home that my body wasn’t sure which way to turn. If it had been freshman year I would have headed to my dorm on south campus; if I was senior year it’d be up to my apartment at 5 Main. But it was 2010, I had a diploma stuffed in a closet somewhere in Newton Massachusetts, and there was no longer a home for me in Geneseo NY. So down the hill to Orchard St. I went.

I had met Sarcophagus Funk (as one is want to be called) my junior year, when, as a freshman, she was assigned to work-study in the theater department’s scene shop. For two years we spent many an hour side-by-side, hanging source-fours or ripping Masonite. She lived with three of her friends (all of whom I knew vaguely) in an upstairs apartment at the back end of the town’s frat row. School had been in session for less than six weeks, but their place was already fully colleged: littered with ankle-high stacks of laptops and textbooks, festooned with posters of Pink Floyd and Robert Smith, lit by lamps adorned with nylon leis, and boasting elements of an oft-used gravity-bong in the middle of all the other clutter.

In a relatively extreme act of grace, Sarcophagus gave me her bed for the next four nights, sleeping herself in a basket-like chair in the living room that looked more like a birds-nest than a piece of human furniture.