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.