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.
