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.