Hello all! I’ve loved this poem for a long time. It was written by my paternal grandfather while he was serving our country in Europe during World War II. It was my honor to read it at my high school graduation, but I haven’t shared it with a big group since. My grand-dad celebrated his 87th birthday on Halloween, so I figure now’s a good time to share it once again.
Ode to My Unknown Buddy
No doubt the world looks strange to you my boy
As now you gaze upon the open road
It’s true you’ll find a lot that you’ll enjoy
But just outside your door there waits a load.
A load of sorrow you alone must bare
Of heartaches, disappointments, pain, and strife
For you and you alone must pay the fare
Yes this my lad is what makes up your life
You’re waking in world that’s made with rage
Where man fights man and yet he knows not why
And now as history turns another page
It’s true the strong will live, the weak must die.
With eager eyes the people now await you
And at one trivial fault the whole world scorns
But you can find a place where man won’t hate you
If you can pick the roses from the thorns.
The world will pass you by and never wonder
If they can lend a hand to ease your pain
So watch your step my lad and never blunder
For you must find a refuge from the rain.
You must attain the heights where words don’t harm you.
When cursed you turn your head and carry on
When others fall don’t let their fall alarm you
Forget what’s left behind for it is gone.
Arise my boy you know now what’s before you
It’s up to you to even up the score
And with success the whole world will adore you
Then you will find this life worth fighting for.
I hope you all can find the shelter and pick the roses in your own lives.
(This post is going to be written in an uncharacteristic style for me. But being as I’m talking about boost day, why take time to explain all the little personal jokes? Let it be crazy! I’ll care about my writing for the next adventure post! 9!!!!!!!!)
It’s 9/9/09, isn’t it? And it’s time to take advantage of the last Boost Day for 90 years.
What is Boost Day? Well, that’s a long story that starts, as so many great stories do, in Malaysia (or Zanzibar). It was on 6/6/06 that I and my adventure companions headed towards Malaysia and also whipped out of time.
We time-traveled because our flight over the Pacific allowed us to skip 6/6/06. Having leapt into the future, we were awake for hours I never bothered to count before the sun went down our first night in Southeast Asia.
Our time in Malaysia was long, packed full of adventure, and full of insight. We braved Panang island’s jungles, sleeper trains, snake temples, torrential rains, giant twin towers, anti-gravity chambers, murderous little Asian girls, cold showers, cheap hostels, bouts of sickness, jellyfish stings, armies of mosquitoes, Michael Bolton, Singapore’s cityscape, and a duck that shook its rump at us vehemently. ALL true. Before this post starts to sound too much like “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” I should draw sketches of three people.
ERIC DOBBS
Eric Dobbs, a.k.a. “crazy hands” or “Muffie” is an enigmatic character capable of mastering any skill within the span of about two weeks. His blog (and Boost Day post) is to be found at http://eric22222.wordpress.com/. I urge you to visit it. *URGE* Eric is a computer and mathematical whiz, excellent structural climber, poet, etc. His Indian numerology indicates that he is beyond prediction, being an enigma shrouded in mystery.
LORAINE ADAMO/TIPTON
Loraine was the namesake of Team Malaysia Adamo, as we were called, till she went and lost her last name to Mr. Joey Tipton. They now live in Indiana, though I think it is actually Michigan or Idaho or somewhere else weird and northern. Loraine has very tasty blood, and is therefore an attraction to mosquitoes and vampiric creatures. Her calm, meditative demeanor and quiet voice screen a heart capable of enormous compassion. She is a scholar, author (though she won’t let me read her book), and traveler, a good combination if you ask me. She has also come much closer to conquering her big fear than I have mine. She has stared hers in the face, whereas I have merely poked mine.
MEREDITH MARTIN/MCDERMOTT
If I had a pet dragon, I’d name it Meredith. That’s neither here nor there, but seriously, Meredith can travel through time. She has a History degree and a secret time machine left to her by UT’s Professor McGraw-Hill after his untimely death. By day she works at a publishing house in the Nashville area, which is foolishly wasting its time with authors other than me, and by short intervals of a minute or two she leaps backwards or forwards in time for days to unravel mysteries of time. Meredith is an excellent leader (it helps cause she’s tall), dancer, and bunko player … cause that game is all about skill and strategy.
THE DERIVATION OF “BOOST”
9 is the boost. It just is. If you want more details you can read it from Eric here.
If you don’t believe me, here are some examples:
1. “Echinacea” has 9 letters, which explains its boosting properties.
2. The greatest video game of all time, “Final Fantasy VIII” was released on Sept. 9, 1999. That’s right 9.9.99. I purchased it that day, and it has never been outdone, owing primarily to its boost.
3. My blog “Life of Adventure” and my name “Brad Williams” upon addition of syllables, has 9 (the “s” is its own syllable), which explains the awesomeness of the adventures.
4. Actor Hugh Grant was born on Sept. 9th, 1960. Due to his birthday and 9-letter name, he has possessed fame, despite sucking.
5. Jalapenos get the boost from their 9-letter name.
6. Babies are born after 9 months. It is actually 9 lunar months, because “lunar” and “moon” add up to 9.
7. A good “rock climb” will boost you up to the tops of cliffs, isn’t it?
8. Shopkeepers know that a pricetag ending in .99 will help their products boost off the shelves.
9. Caffeine’s molecular structure has 9 parts. Don’t believe me? See here.
NASHVILLE AND MORE TIME TRAVEL
As it was Boost Day, the Malaysian gang had to get together to see adventures done. The meeting point? Nashville, TN.
On the way to Nashville, Eric Dobbs and I boosted an hour into the past. Which means we could be an hour behind us or there could be another us an hour ahead of ourselves. In any case, we resolved not to be in one place for an hour or revisit a spot an hour after we’d been there, for fear we’d see ourselves and create time paradoxes. As a physicist once told me about time travel, “Don’t get caught doing it.”
INDIAN FOOD
We dined at Sitar Indian restaurant in the Vanderbilt area of downtown Nashville. Why? Because in Malaysia there was a lovely little restaurant called Restoran Al Awal Maju right across from our dwelling and church. We ate there ALL the time. Convenient? Yes. Cheap. Yes. But we went there because the roti chanai was delicious.
Bright sky by windows, a steaming buffet, and the expectation of a cold mango lassi were great, but it was the smiles of Meredith and Loraine that gave the restaurant an even cheerier interior. (Cheerier interior! I thought of that! I thought of that!)
I was given, for dessert of course, a donut with a big bite out of it. Now I know this may be hard to believe, but there was a time when I was a very selfish person and didn’t even know it. So like a few days ago. But in Malaysia, Meredith ordered a donut. So did I. I liked the look of her donut. So I asked her for bite. I took a huge gaping chomp out of it, and I decided I liked it. So I went and bought one … for myself. Then I ate all of the new one and left Meredith with a bitten donut. Like the dates of my adventures with these folk, this time everything was turned on its head, and I got the used donut this time.
Also, when I was 19, I didn’t get sick at all. That’s cause I had 1 boost!
OPRY MILLS
Just another mall? No, not really.
In our searching for an arcade, which we found, of course, we had first to try the oxygen bar.
For 15 minutes, Dobbs and I laid in reclined massage chairs, which wheeled over our backs and mechanically stroked calves, occasionally rattling and tapping. I had very sore legs, so this was a welcome relief. Into our noses flowed a stream of concentrated oxygen, flavored by passage through aromatherapy liquid. Each space-aged oxygen bar console had 4 scents to choose from. Mine were eucalyptis, timber, watermelon, and pure (unflavored). Dials allowed you to select one or any combination of the available scents. I closed my eyes, listened to the peaceful music in my headphones and then noticed Loraine had come to join the fun. The saleswoman allowed Dobbs and I a longer session so we could finish with her. The combination of massage, music, scent and oxygen was tranquilizing, and better than most similarly priced spa treatments.
Breathing deep
Sentosa
We then moved to an actual bar, as in a high station and four stools, for 5 more minutes with oxygen bars to hook our nose tubes into. I got a different assortment of flavors this time. We were given an energy shot, back rub, head massage, and Poweraid. Satisfied and refreshed, we went on to search farther for the arcade.
DANGER!
There were also random encounters with fierce villains.
Snake!
Shark!
Crabs!
The mall also had some other health hazards.
Smoking everywhere?
BACK TO THE JUNGLE
Back in Singapore (we went there too), Team Malaysia Adamo — commonly known as TMA — went on a night … safari, yeeees. So back into the wilds we went.
This blacklight jungle indoor golf place was notable because of its “recharging stations” which made your golf ball glow. The glow would fade, but a pass through the recharger and it would look celestial again, in a creepy green sort of way.
The gials
Dancing for Loraine
The dark jungle
DAVE AND BUSTERS
We found the arcade after we got past that shark. I know things are a little mixed up in the timeframe here, but that’s true of any good time travel story.
We entered the arcade and …
We cashed in our tickets for some sweet treats and a Chinese finger trap or two, then proceeded to our next destination, which was, in many ways, my first destination.
WHERE IT ALL STARTED
Dedicated readers of this blog: you have come upon, buried in this strange narrative, a most sentimental account. It will remain hidden here, a gem for the peruser, rather than under its own entry.
When I was in middle school, my social life and my life experiences were, well, limited. I was at school or I was at home. I had never been out of Chattanooga and knew only a small part of that small city. I rarely had friends over, and I believe to that point I had never in my life so much as slept over at a friends’ house. Video games, movies, books and the internet were windows to the wider world, and I was always indoors. I had never really hiked, or swam in a large body of water (I was so young), or climbed mountains or traveled.
But being a good student has its advantages. The Junior Beta Club convention was to be my first parent-free multi-day excursion. Going to Nashville’s Opryland Hotel meant more to me than going to the moon, and my destination felt just as far away.
It is plain, in retrospect, that I have always been an adventurer at heart, always hungry for a new place full of new experiences. To android hell with all the world’s riches and gadgets; give me the world’s sights and sounds, flavors and thrills, full of interesting people, interesting buildings, diverse geography, diverse challenges. Having now traveled quite a bit, I can still say that hotel is worth visiting.
Middle school Brad was enthralled beyond what I can now describe to be there, exploring every nook and cranny, hungrily drinking every sight, relishing the cool mist of the waterfalls on his skin. He, under that huge glass dome of a roof was in paradise, ever smiling, bewitched by the little garden paths and pedestrian ways that weaved into deserted corners or people-packed thoroughfares.
The convention was at Christmas time, both my seventh and eighth grade years. As the bitter cold outside was a contrast to the warm, tropical city enclosed by the hotel, so being there was warm and comfy compared to the bleak prospect of life between class and home in Chattanooga.
Eighth grade was the last time I’d been to Opryland Hotel, the place that will always represent to me my first taste of travel. It was then I knew that the desires of my heart, when brought to reality, were just as sweet as I imagined them to be. Having set my toe into the vast ocean of adventure, I was given the drive, there in that hotel, to plunge in whenever and wherever I could. And I still am.
Not so many years later, I would achieve my dream (that started by seeing a single photo) of rock climbing in Krabi, Thailand. I would study martial arts in the Far East, visit temples, volcanoes, and museums. I would make friends from the other side of the world, ride rollercoasters in untouristed Japanese cities, enter jungles, dance all night and adventure all day.
And to this day, to this very minute, I have been true to the dreams of the Brad who walked into Opryland hotel to see what pleasures adventure and travel held: I live free. I live, not to work, though work is part of my life, but to sustain myself for new adventures, more sights of the world, more insights into its people. I live comfortably enough, if a bit spartan, because I’m not living for wealth or accumulation or mastery of any domain or routine. I live, in short, to find what is to be found, to discover the truth that leads its seeker ever on in the quest of it. I want to know the truth, the real truth behind what there is in this world and in the human spirit. I want to follow the ever-winding path of truth, to see how close to it I can get, because you can’t leave this world with anything but the wisdom and the strength you’ve picked up while you were in it.
I explain in the video what it was like to be back in the place where it all started, after so many adventures I never could have dreamed of then.
TIME TRAVEL
So you see, I did travel through time, as we all can. I revisited my past and changed my perspective on it. I let myself feel again what I felt then and added new actions and knowledge. And now those memories have changed. I came back to myself at a much younger age, and I sent a message that has swept through the past and changed me as I am now. I did it, little Brad. I’m doing all the things you dreamed of but couldn’t at the time. The pining for adventure and truth is being satisfied, day by day. And the feeling of excitement, of hope, of expectation and the joy of the good things in life, small and large, that I felt then, is still burning in me. We’re going on with no regrets and the strength of all the good that we’ve experienced, that’s beaten the tough times, to see what else there is to enjoy.
My thanks to my dear friend Matt Morris for keeping this blog alive while I was away.
Well, friends, I’m back. It’s been 2 months (plus). I’ve been a bad writer. I want the Internet at large to know I consider myself a serious blogger, and I desire to keep Life of Adventure regularly updated. There is no excuse. There is, however, a reason. I value the people who read my stories more than they know, and you all deserve to know the reason.
I’ve been doing what I do best; you could even say I’ve been up to what I was born to do. Immediately after this message is posted, I will post the adventure that took place on 9/9/09. I wrote it before dropping off the face of the blogosphere, but because I hadn’t edited it, I never posted. In it you will read about my desire to see the truth, to “see with eyes unclouded.” I talk about what I’m after, and what I pass by. I write about why I do what I do and why I write about it. It is about truth, and seeing how close to it I can get. Adventure is not just to be found in crossing seas, climbing mountains, or mastering skills. It is in stories, people, and our own drives and designs.
There have been many adventures since I last posted, and I have also been on a journey of the highest order throughout them. I have been on the heels of both adventure and truth, but the details aren’t suitable to publicize. And when I’m fresh on the trail of an unexpected and unfathomed new adventure, I’m quite like Sherlock Holmes and can spare no attention for anything else. It’s not just the blog, I’ve been aloof about many things in my life for some time. (I know you’re nodding).
It has presented me with new difficulties and caused me some great discomfort; I’ve had to face some things in myself I’m not pleased to mention. On the upside, every bit has been worth it. The anecdotal wisdom I’ve discovered, the people I’ve met, and the places I’ve been, I can’t share — not yet, and possibly never. It’s been an interesting couple of months. However I have found something entrancing and even supernatural, though it is surrounded and chained by foes among the greatest I’ve come to know up till now. Now how can I resist something like that?
Many disreputable and bad things I am, but a coward, I am not. Weak, I am not. I’m going down this road. I can’t turn back from this new place my attention has been brough to. So this truth I seek, as if a gleaming gem, is coming out of the mire, whether it wants to or not. Like a new cave I spy, I’m going in, whatever might be inside. The blackness and the foes are going to have to deal with me or get out of my way, and if I’m lucky, I might help a few souls, and add a new strength to my own … and who knows what else.
But while I keep this new persuit in close focus, I am back to writing on the blog. Two other factors need to be mentioned. I’m getting very serious with my dancing and have devoted lots of extra time to it. There may be some serious performances involved, and you’ll get notified of them! I am also learning how to horseback ride from a very talented instructor and new friend, Joannie. So expect a new kind of post — trail riding. Once I’m good enough, I will graduate to camping, and not having to lug all that stuff to the campsite. My faithful mare Winddance will. Ha! So exciting new adventures are forthcoming, and I’ve been preparing for them with new kinds of training.
All these reasons are, as I said, just reasons and not excuses.
I’m not trying to brag or anything, but hey, I’m a pretty funny guy. You’ve only seen a little bit of it in my posts, because I consider this website a serious project. But Brad and other friends will tell you, I can be anything from a witty raconteur to a flat out goofball depending on what I’m feeling literally in the second that I’m talking with them. Most people seem to get my humor; some don’t. It bugs me a little when people don’t laugh, but what really bugs me is some of the presumptions people make about people with a sense of humor. Some unfunny people label us as not just disrespectful, but even immature and irresponsible. I find those perceptions quite erroneous.
Now I could see how someone could arrive at the false conclusion that the folks with goofy personalities are immature. Let’s face it, you can’t watch an American comedy movie without seeing a grown man behave like a little kid. It’s sort of a hallmark of Western film. But come on, you’ve got to remember that’s acting. Jim Carrey isn’t Ace Ventura in his day-to-day life, and he never has been. He lives and faces the real world as much as anyone else, including his father’s death at an early age from depression and his step-child’s battle with autism. If a person really assumes you’re immature because of the characters you play, that’s a sign of their immaturity. The inability to differentiate between real life and movies is common among younger children but not adults. If someone thinks the guys in the comedy movies are really goofballs, what do they think of the actors that play murderers? Now you may say, “Yeah, I know Jim Carrey probably has a serious side, but it’s his job to make people laugh. I’ve got a friend who just seems to joke around all the time, and he’s no professional comedian.” Well, it is important to be serious sometimes, if the situation calls for it, but don’t you think people were saying the same thing about Jim Carrey 25 years ago? Whether they’re making millions or just lightening up the room, funny people are only acting immature. Don’t be fooled by false indicators. You want to evaluate someone’s maturity, you look at their life choices, not how many jokes they cracked at dinner.
Along those lines, I had an exchange with an English teacher back in high school that may always stick with me. We were watching a movie version of Tennessee Williams’ play The Glass Menagerie. In the climactic scene, the female lead and the young gentleman caller exchange a deep kiss. Then the gentleman steps back and after a pause offers the girl a stick of gum. Now, in reading the play at home days before, I was really into the story and loved when the two characters finally did kiss. But in the class, as we watched it, I decided to be funny. When the gentleman offered the lady gum, I said, “Hey, she must have had some pretty bad breath.” It got a solid laugh. Then my teacher, a woman named Mrs. Ireland said, “Matt, you’ve totally missed the beauty of that moment.” Now, I was pulling an A in her class at the time, so she could have cut me some slack, but let’s dig a little further than that.
Why would she assume I didn’t get the poignancy of the scene just because I made a joke? Did she presume that my joke could only come by looking at the scene exclusively as potential joke fodder? Did she believe it impossible for me to simultaneously view something on both a comedic and a more serious critical level? Because I know it certainly is possible to maintain those dual perspectives. Perhaps it’s just inconceivable for a closed-minded person.
And that’s really where this whole immaturity claim falls apart. As we look seriously at what being funny entails (and yes I note the irony), we see the humorist doing a lot of thing not associated with immaturity. First of all, to be considered funny you must have a quick mind. Beyond that, you must be analytical and eager to constantly look at things from different perspectives. Comedians, by nature, approach every new idea and situation with that general mentality, and that’s why they seemingly “find the funny” in the moment before everyone else does.
We even have a word in English that connects humor and intelligence: wit. It’s hidden in plain sight smack dab in the middle of our language, but it’s a clear indicator that at some level, Western culture recognizes its funny people are smart. Despite this, I’ve already experienced several times in my life when my comedic personality has caused people to underestimate my ability to do my job, lead a project, and generally just “take care of business.” I’ve enjoyed slipping under the radar and proving people wrong, but man, I’d prefer higher expectations. They keep me honest, and they are, in the end, a way of showing respect. On the flip side, low expectations are a sign of disrespect. Yes, comedians can be irreverent to the point of disrespect themselves, and it is important to find a good line. But often times, our sternest critics end up sounding very hypocritical. When you choose to pigeon-hole us as goofballs despite our hard-work or professionalism in our work or school life, then you try to turn around and lecture about respect, you really don’t have a leg to stand on.
Oh, one-legged man, that reminds me of a joke.
Peace Out Till Next Week Peeps,
=Matt=
PS If you dug this post, I suggest you find a copy of the Charlie Chaplin film The Great Dictator. If you can rent a copy with a documentary of Chaplin’s quest to make the anti-Nazi movie in the late 1930’s, it would definitely be worth your time.
I’ve got something on my to-do list that I keep avoiding, but I know I should start it soon. You see, it’s one of those things that won’t be fun, in fact it could even be heart-wrenching, but the more I think about it, the more essential I think it is. I’m going to create an insurance policy for my family and friends. Now, it’s probably not what you’re thinking. This policy won’t involve an agency and won’t have anything to do with money. No, this is strictly emotional insurance, but before I explain any further, let me first tell you about the events led me to this idea.
My kindergarten teacher was a woman I called Mrs. Ratchford. And in all the years since leaving her classroom, I’ve honestly never learned her first name. I do know her husband was a cop, and she had two boys, both a little younger than me (I’m now 25 for those who don’t know.) I also know, through a friend who lives near her, that her family has remained in Chattanooga for the twenty years since I moved on to 1st grade. I know my brother had Mrs. Ratchford the year before me and that my mom really liked her. I even remember once back in my elementary school days going with mom over to Mrs. Ratchford’s house, and of course, being at a teacher’s house seemed totally neat to me back then.
Unfortunately, I’ve recently learned some new things about Mrs. Ratchford and her family. I know one of her boys suffered from migraines. I know that one day, not even a year ago, her son had a particularly bad headache, and they assumed it was a migraine. I know it got so bad they decided to take him to the hospital. I know he fell down walking out to the car, collapsed I guess you’d say. I don’t know how long he laid there on that driveway, but I know he didn’t get back up. Mrs. Ratchford’s son died at his home of an aneurysm at only twenty-three years old. I’m sure his family would still appreciate your prayers.
“Life is precious.” We’ve all heard it. “Treat each day like it’s your last.” That one too. I’d advise you to never ignore a saying just because it’s become cliché’, but I don’t just want to leave you with a few good words today. I want to give you something practical. A home owner knows there might be a flood, so he buys flood insurance for his house. A car owner knows he might have a wreck, so he gets collision coverage for his car. Many people with families also have something called life insurance to help pay for their funeral, as well as to give their families a financial cushion while they get back on their feet. And these life insurance policies are sold on the idea of “taking care of the one’s you love.” But that sales pitch begs the question, in the case of your death, will your family’s only needs be financial? God, I hope not. If you have any type of family or any type of friend in your life, they would experience a deep emotional need if you passed away unexpectedly. But you can be wise and plan for the future.
Five letters, to whomever you choose. Tell them what you like about them, what you love, what experiences you’ve shared and have since always treasured. Tell them everything you were afraid to talk with them about, but you know is important. And most importantly, encourage them in what you believe they are and can become. No guilt trips. No promises. Just as much love and honesty as you can muster. If you can only think of four people that are close enough to you do this for, that’s fine. If you want to go for six or seven, that’s okay too. If you want to write some of the letters to families instead of individuals, go right ahead. You can update the letters every year or every ten. The details are totally up to you.
Once you have your final drafts finished, make copies. Put a complete set of letters in an envelope and give them to a someone you trust. Then give the other set to another person you trust who has never met and will likely never meet the first person. This is so that there’s little risk that a group tragedy (like a bad car wreck) could kill you and your two insurance holders at the same time. You might even want to give it a third person just to be safe. I know this is getting a little morbid for some of you, and that’s the reason a lot of people don’t plan for the unexpected. They’re scared to talk about it, or it just makes them too uncomfortable. But I have to be honest in saying that yielding to that discomfort is a form of selfishness. You do love these people that you’re going to write to, right? Well, sometimes tough love takes on a whole new meaning.
Speaking of tough, I’m being pretty tough on you, my readers, especially considering I’ve yet to tackle this project myself. But I promise I’m going to. Those around me will be better off for it, and there not the only ones. I have a feeling in the moments of deep reflection that these letters require, I’ll take a few steps in becoming a better son, brother, nephew, and friend. And on top of all that, I’ll rest a little easier knowing I’m insured.
I know I’m posting a day earlier than usual but I figure better than a day late. I am still working on a cruise ship and since we are back in port on Thursdays, it’s just more convenient for me to post then. The writing still gets on the site in advance of the weekend, which is the only thing that really matters to me. I’m guessing you guys don’t mind. Thanks for being cool; enjoy the rest of the story:
On the morning of May 2nd, I sat in my car outside of a medium-sized brick church with stain-glassed windows of mixed pink, blue, and yellow. A winding concrete pathway cut through dewy grass and led up to two large white doors, the church’s main entrance. But I wasn’t interested in the main entrance. I wanted to go behind the scenes. I wanted to find Annie. I felt like I had something worth telling her.
So I walked through the parking lot back behind the chapel to the adjoining two-story rectangular building. There I found an unlocked door and entered to a long hallway, flanked by Sunday school classrooms. The carpet was green, and the walls were a fresh white, probably recently painted. Down the hallway, what I assumed were Slomans and Wavermyers scurried around, nervously addressing last minute details and paying no attention to the stranger standing at the end of the hall.
The closest person to me was a little girl, maybe eight or nine, in a purple dress and white sandals, holding a white basket in front of her full of purple and white flowers. I stepped over to her. “Hello, my name’s Warren. What’s yours?”
“Jacqueline,” she said, with an air of formality which was completely undermined by her two missing front teeth.
“Well you look very pretty today Jacqueline.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where Annie is right now, would you?” Jacqueline took one hand off her basket and pointed to a closed door about fifteen feet down the hall.
“In there,” she said. I moved in that direction but then turned around for another question.
“Do you know if she’s alone, Jacqueline?” She cocked her head to the right as her shoulders did a high shrug. “All right, well thank you anyway.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. I was at the door. I leaned my forehead gently against it and held that position for a few seconds, gathering myself, before reaching down to the golden brass handle, turning, opening, and walking in.
Annie was alone, sitting down, but she quickly stood up. Her hair was straight once again, except at the ends, and it hung down in front past her shoulders. Her wedding dress had a veil (still up) and a plunging neckline, which showcased a golden necklace with pink gemstones. Something borrowed? I didn’t know. The dress only went slightly past her knees, so her heavenly ankles and her rope bracelet were still in clear view. Her lips were a darker shade of red than she ever wore to the cafeteria.
“Wow,” I said, “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she answered. Then with a nervous laugh, “I’m sorry, have I met you -already? There were just so many people at that rehearsal dinner last night that I-”
“No, I wasn’t around last night. I’m an old friend of Josh’s, and I just wanted to give you some advice I guess before you go out and, you know, tie the knot.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. “Hey, I like your vest.”
“Thank you. I-I’ve always worn a lot of blue. Some people think of it as a sad color, but I never understood why.”
“That’s kind of interesting,” she said with what seemed to be genuine interest, nodding with wide eyes.
“Really?” I said, digging into my jacket pocket and pulling out the crumpled sheet of paper where all my questions had waited for her. “I actually have been trying the last few years to, keep this list of questions, and,” then I stopped. What I am doing, I thought. “I’m sorry, I realize your time is limited.” I folded up the sheet and put it back in pocket. “What I want to share is an important lesson I’ve learned. Just always give yourself a chance. It doesn’t matter if you look stupid some times. It’s okay to lose, but you never have to forfeit.”
“That sounds good,” she said. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“Thanks. Well, good luck.” Then I leaned in and kissed Annie Wavermyer on the cheek. I’m not really sure if that was appropriate, but I promise it wasn’t planned. And she didn’t seem bothered by it. “Take a deep breath,” I said. “It’s going to be great.” As Annie breathed, I turned and walked back to the door.
“Wait,” she said. “I don’t think you told me your name.”
“My name is Warren.”
“Nice to meet you, Warren.”
“It was nice to have met you, Annie.” Then I walked out the door. That’s was all I had really come here for. I stood there wondering, should I stay for the ceremony? Would it be tough to watch? Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw Josh with a bow tie in his hands walking into one of the rooms. And I suddenly had the urge to go talk to him. If that advice I had just given was good enough for the bride, shouldn’t it be shared with the groom? So I walked down to the hall and knocked as I opened the door. A man with a short gray flat top was fixing Josh’s bowtie as he craned his neck upward. They both glanced over to me but continued with their task.
“There,” the gray-haired man said. “You look great.”
“Thanks Dad,” Josh said.
“Um,” I interrupted. “I’m sorry; can I speak with Josh alone for just a moment?”
His father stared at me for a little bit, then answered. “Sure, I guess.” Then to Josh, “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He walked out. Josh turned to me.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Where do I know you from?”
“Well, uh, I’m actually an old friend of Annie’s and I just wanted to give you my best wishes and tell you to always give yourself a chance.” For some reason my advice didn’t sound as sincere this second time. I tried to keep going. “You see, you can or your might, feel stupid sometimes about stuff, but, uh…” My words weren’t coming back to me. Something was clouding my mind. And as I stumbled through the beginnings of my little speech, I realized what it was: anger. Why was I giving Josh advice? Why was I sharing one iota of the knowledge and ideas I had been forced to save up because he was two people in front of me in some God-forsaken lunch line? “You see Josh, there’s, well, there’s a lot of people in the world and a lot of opportunity and, aw hell.” Then I stopped talking, balled my fist tight, and punched Josh Sloman right in the nose. He fell back to the ground. Now, I’m sure that wasn’t appropriate, but I swear it wasn’t planned. He looked up at me with a small stream of blood trickling down his chin, but the look on his face wasn’t one of rage. It was one of absolute bewilderment. He didn’t want a fight; he wanted an explanation.
“Uh, um,” I muttered. What could I say? I’m sorry? No! I wasn’t sorry. Why did I do that? Temporary insanity? No, it was a desperate escape from torture. I just couldn’t bear one more second standing face to face with the only nice guy in history that didn’t finish last.
“Well, uh.” My voice was like a whisper. Come on Warren, I thought to myself, don’t back down, not now. Then it came to me, the thing I’d been wanting to say to Josh every day in the cafeteria since the first time I saw him, scarfing down ribs and flirting with the prettiest girl in my world. “Stop talking to my girlfriend!”
Josh was still puzzled but getting to his feet. Someone was opening the door to check on the commotion. I ran past that person and into a full sprint down the hall. In my mad rush, I managed to knock the flower basket right out of Jacqueline’s hands and can only hope that she heard me yell, “I’m so sorry!” as I exited the building and continued running over to my vehicle. If you’ve never seen a man do the Dukes of Hazard slide over the hood of his car in a tux, then you should have come to Annie’s wedding. By the time a group of men got out to the parking lot, I was already at the end of the church’s driveway. I pulled out and drove back to the dorm, checking the rear view mirror often and taking back roads, just in case any of the wedding party tried to tail me.
Twenty minutes later, I walked into the Gibbs Hall’s lobby, and Wendy was behind the front desk. She must have just started sorting mail, because she had several stacks and piles of it all around. My hair was disheveled, and my collar was uneven. She noticed. “Whoa, what’d you do?”
“What I had to,” I answered.
“Ah. Well, how’d it go?”
“Crazy, weird. But overall, okay.”
“Good,” she answered, obviously unbothered by my mystery. “Oh,” she said, then began digging through one of her stacks of magazines. She pulled out one with a more than half nude chick on the front. The girl was blond, and her only coverings were small red ribbons. “Here, have a Playboy,” Wendy said. “On the house.” I stared at the girl on the magazine, then at the one holding it.
“Thanks, but if it’s just the same, I think I’ll pass. I need to get away from all that stuff for a while.”
“Oh alright, that’s fine.” Wendy sat the magazine back on the pile with a quick frown to let me know she cared. Then, looking back up, she pointed to my left arm. “What’s that?” she asked. I looked down to find a purple and white flower, desperately clinging to my tux coat’s sleeve.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Some flower. I guess one of them fell on me when I bumped into Jacqueline. That was the, uh, flower girl.” Wendy stared for a while at the flower and then with slow hands, she plucked it from my coat and placed it in her hair. She smiled. It was the kind of look that made me wonder if in this avenue of life, getting is really the highest pursuit. I stood there in the silence for a moment, then flashed a quick smile of my own before turning and walking over to the door which leads out to the first floor rooms. I ran my card, swung the door open, and strolled down the terrace to my home of three years, dorm 103.
Like always, my dorm room door squeaked a little as I opened it. I walked in and grabbed a beer from the mini-fridge, then flopped down on the bed. I took a sip and turned on the TV. It was the women’s tennis I’ve been watching for the last hour. I’m still a little stiff. It probably was the shoes. But like I said, it felt damn good.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, I watched Josh and Annie. And it was Josh and Annie. Never just one alone. Occasionally, I would be close enough to listen in a little on conversations. On the day we had banana pudding, Annie ate three bowls and barely anything else. “Oh my gosh, this is so good,” she said. “I love this stuff.” I heard about their worst accidents as kids. At the age of nine, during a bicycle race, Josh flew over the handlebars and broke his left cheekbone. At the age of eleven, Annie jumped out of the swing at school and broke one of her precious ankles. Annie’s architecture kept her busy and sometimes sleepy. Josh said he mainly worked nights at the shelter.
Meanwhile I was keeping a list of questions waiting for Annie’s attention. Do you think love is a choice or a feeling? Do you think fish know they’re wet? Was Jimmy Hendrix a genius or just a stoner? Why do kamikaze pilots wear helmets?
And I kept thinking back to that first day in the cafeteria, back to those ribs and Annie and Josh. Eventually, all that pondering led me to another memory. Back in high school, my slightly genius, slightly crazy friend Nathan once told me about a dream he’d had where he was leading this team of sprits or angels. Their task was a series of moments, an event. It was a child’s fifth birthday. They were to sit behind the scenes of the real world and make sure everything went smoothly, that everything lined up, and what was supposed to happen did happen. It was supposed to be a special day, and they would preserve that. After telling me about his dream, Nathan asked me to think about those significant, seemingly accidental moments in life, like when you have a car wreck or bump into a stranger that later becomes a great friend. Whatever you did up until that moment, he said, whether it was stopping to tie your shoes or hitting the snooze bar on the alarm clock that extra time or skipping breakfast because you were running late, maybe that was all there to either slow you down or speed you up to make sure you hit that important moment.
So I’d go back to that day, in the hours before I saw Annie and Josh in the cafeteria. Maybe if I would have just jaywalked on the way back to the dorm I could have made it into the cafeteria before Josh. Maybe if I would have asked all my questions before Physics class Professor Rahimadleana wouldn’t have run over. Maybe if I hadn’t of stopped to talk to Wendy…
But these thoughts wouldn’t have played on my mind at all if I had just gotten one minute with Annie. By the end of the year, she and Josh were sitting beside each other instead of across, holding hands under the table. Summer came and I went home. When I returned for my junior year that fall, I pretended to forget about her but secretly hoped her and Josh’s relationship had fizzled with the degree of separation summers brings. I didn’t see her in the cafeteria at all for the first few weeks back; in fact it wasn’t until the Tuesday after Labor Day. Her hair was longer, half way down her back and her cheeks had some redness on them like she’d gotten some sun over the long weekend. She was alone. I could feel the endorphins fire, as the dizziness gathered in my head. I went over to the other side of the cafeteria where they kept the small barrels of fruit. I grabbed a green apple and kissed it for no reason other than joy. I didn’t like apples, but I put it on my tray and was ready to eat it all while providing Annie with the most stimulating conversation she ever had. I’d ask if she ever thought there’d be peace in the mid-East. I’d ask what made blue such a sad color. I walked with purpose, head held high. I turned the corner to meet Annie’s sun-bathed features, only to find she had been joined. Josh was there, in what appeared to be a brand new white t-shirt that had the word Pensacola on the front in big, cursive letters.
And so I watched them that day and in the weeks to come. I tried not to. I tried to sit where there was an obstructed view, far distant, where there was no chance of hearing any more conversation. There was always a part of me that wanted to look, a desire from that weird corner of your brain that makes you tap the brake and turn your head towards the car in the ditch on fire. But every time I looked, I regretted. They were smiling and laughing more and more, falling dangerously closer to that thing called love, that thing which threatened to make the hope on my friends’ faces even more false. Days turned to weeks turned to months and suddenly, it had been a year, a year since that first meeting of Annie and Josh, now the sweethearts of the Gibbs Hall cafeteria. I couldn’t take it anymore. That spring I switched cafeterias; it didn’t matter that the food was great at Gibbs. Dining is an experience, and the package just wasn’t worth it.
I continued to live in the hall. It took some time to adjust to walking across campus for meals, but by my senior year, things were back to running smoothly. Wendy still did the mail, and Craig was still an RA. I still thought about Annie sometimes but never for too long. My list of questions had grown, and I never had the heart to throw away the old sheet of paper that contained such gems as, do you ever feel cool and what’s the deal with bad yearbook pictures? The months were winding down until my graduation, and my forced evacuation from the dorm I loved so dearly. I hoped to let some things go.
It was a foggy day in late April, when I walked out of my dorm room to the elevator in the lobby. I was carrying a hefty basket of dirty clothes, and I was going to ride the elevator down to the basement to use the laundry room. Craig and Wendy were behind the front desk, alone. Craig was in the nice computer chair and Wendy was on his lap with a small red blanket draped over her knees. They were watching a Family Guy DVD on the computer. Entranced by the screen’s glow, they didn’t notice me standing there. I had the feeling that Craig wasn’t routinely checking the row of security camera monitors on the top shelf area below the ceiling, and so I also felt that anyone who wanted to sneak in something or someone could. I wasn’t planning anything though. I swiped my ID in the chute beside the elevator and pressed the down button.
“Hey guys,” I said. Craig hit pause, and they both looked over to me, blinking as they turned their eyes back to the non-animated world.
“Oh hey Warren.” Craig said. “What’s up?”
“Not too much, man, just going to do some laundry.”
“That’s cool.” We nodded at each other for a few seconds, before he looked down and grabbed a folded section of the Knoxville paper off of the computer desk. “Oh listen to this man, John came by today.”
“Don’t,” Wendy said to Craig firmly, turning her head to stare right in his eyes.
“What?” he said to Wendy. “I’m sure he’s over her by now.” Then turning back to me, “It looks like that cousin of John’s is getting married. He said they’ve been going together for two years now. Can you believe that? It still seems a little quick to me, but hey, what do I know? Check it out.” Craig stood up, walked over to front desk, and held out the paper. “Here.” The elevator opened. I let it close as I grabbed the news from his hand. There it was in big, bold letters:
The Sloman Wavermyer Wedding
Annie Louise Wavermyer and Joshua Daniel Sloman will join in the union of holy matrimony at Hillsdale Baptist Church. Tuesday, May 2nd 2006
Above the announcement there was a picture of the two of them, Annie in curls and Josh in a button down plaid polo shirt. She was standing, with Josh sitting behind her with his head leaned out to her left. His arms were wrapped around her waist, and she was holding them.
“Crazy, isn’t it?” Craig asked.
Wendy took the paper from me gently. “You have some laundry to do right?”
“Yeah that’s, um, that’s right. I think I’ll just take the stairs.”
On the way down to the basement, I heard Wendy say “You’re such an idiot sometimes, Craig.” But I didn’t see any harm in his information.
The next week I was out running errands. I had picked up some groceries and browsed the scratched CD section of McKay’s (our used book store), then went by the liquor store to get more empty boxes for the upcoming move-out. I was driving home after these errands, when I noticed for the very first time Michael’s Formal Wear on the corner of Caledonia and Kingston. I decided to stop in, see if I could rent a tux. I was lucky; they had my sizes in for both pants and jacket. I also got a nice dark but not navy blue vest and some shoes. The lady who was working with me was short and chunky with poofey brown hair and big pieces of jewelry. Her name tag said, “Faye.”
“So Faye,” I said, staring with her at our images in the full length mirror. “Is there anyway I could get some more comfortable shoes?”
“I’m afraid not; they just don’t make tux shoes for comfort. Are you going to be on your feet a lot in them?”
“Oh,” I said. “I really don’t know. I might be going to a wedding this weekend. It’s out at Hillsdale Baptist. That’s out towards Alcoa right?”
“Yes it is” Faye answered. Then she asked with a pursed lip smile, “So are you a groomsman?”
“No.”
“Well,” she asked, still smiling. “Are you friends with the bride or the groom?”
There was a pause. “Um, I need to kind of wrap this up.”
“Oh of course,” Faye said. “Silly me, always so curious about people’s weddings. I’m sure you’re very busy with something helping to prepare. Come over to the register, and I’ll ring you up.”
“Thanks,” I said, embarrassed at my poor manners. The damages came to $75.18. I ran a debit card and walked out to my car with a heavy garment bag, which I threw across the backseat. Then I hopped in and headed back for campus.
On the morning of May 2nd, I sat in my car outside of a medium-sized brick church with stain-glassed windows of mixed pink, blue, and yellow. A winding concrete pathway cut through dewy grass and led up to two large white doors, the church’s main entrance. But I wasn’t interested in the main entrance. I wanted to go behind the scenes. I wanted to find Annie. I felt like I had something worth telling her.
Hey guys and gals, it is with great pleasure that I present to you one of my favorite short stories. I wrote this in between my junior and senior year in college, and I tried to make it the quintessential college story. I hope you dig it:
Like always, my dorm room door squeaks a little as I open it. I walk in and grab a beer from the mini-fridge, then flop down on the bed. I take a sip and turn on the TV. Women’s tennis, alright. I’m feeling a little stiff; maybe it was the shoes. The only thing I know for sure is that it felt damn good.
Today was the day. I was going to go into the Gibbs Hall cafeteria, sit down right beside her and say, “Hello, my name is Warren, and I think you’re pretty.” Okay, I wouldn’t tell her immediately that I thought she was pretty, but I’d get to it eventually. I’d begin by asking if the seat was taken. Then I’d launch into a set of questions custom- designed to get her talking about herself. What’s your major? Where you from? You like the food here? I’d also ask if she played a sport, since the dorm sits right next to the athletic offices and houses many student athletes. In past romantic situations I had left notes for girls, sent e-mails, ask friends. But this chick I knew nothing about, so I couldn’t weasel in. I had to be a man; I had to be conventional. And I was willing.
She has big brown eyes and crooked lips. She’s always tanned, like an Eastern European, and her hair is long and black and a little messy. She wears spaghetti strap tank tops, a gray zip up jacket, and on the days when God smiles down on me, blue bicycle shorts that reveal the smoothest set of legs I’ve ever seen. Usually a girl’s knees would turn me off. In the past I’d never claimed to be a leg man. But the first time I saw her, she was in those shorts, and I was converted. From the freckle on the slight inside of her upper left thigh, all the way down to the rope ankle bracelet and sandals, which hold in line ten unpainted but always pristine toenails, the kind of toenails you could eat off of or see yourself in, amazing. When she walks, a swish emanates from her shorts as they rub against each other between those upper thighs and up into to her forbidden zone. That is the soundtrack to a lonely guy’s dream. That is all you could feel when your heart stops beating. When she smiles, it’s incredible. I want to lick her teeth. They are like pearls half buried in the desert: the kind of treasure that could only be secured by a series of crazy, stupid risks that an adventuring man might just take. In short, I’m attracted to her. And so I was willing to play by the rules.
My 11:10 AM physics class ran over, which put me in a rush to the cafeteria. We have an exam next week, and Professor Rahimadleana loses track of time when he’s got a lot of material to cover. But it being a Tuesday, I knew I wouldn’t miss her. Tuesdays and Thursdays are sure fire; she must have an 11:10 class like me, because she’s always walking into the Gibbs Hall cafeteria around 12:30. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are hit or miss. I still see her in there some times, but it’s always a surprise.
At 12:40 PM I walked briskly through Gibbs Hall’s front entrance. Wendy was sorting mail behind the front desk. She’s a red head with fair skin, and her boyfriend Craig is one of our RA’s. The mail sorting job is just a way to spend more time with him.
“Hey,” she said. “Where’s the fire?”
“I don’t know,” I answered slowly.
“Well, you’re moving a little faster than usual.”
“Oh yeah. Um, this is stupid but I’m, uh, going to talk to this girl today.” I pointed towards the cafeteria doors.
“Ah,” Wendy said with a brightened smile, the kind of facial expression that always made me wonder why other people rooted for me. I walked over to the short line in front of the cafeteria.
Sure I was a little late, but I thought, that’s okay. It’s better if she’s already seated and settled in. By coming in second, I could just sit down across from her. I don’t quite know how I’d planned to work it if I was in the cafeteria before she was. It would have been ridiculous to start eating, wait for her to sit somewhere, then get up and move to her table. She might think I was creep if I did that, like I had intentions, you know, those kinds of intentions.
I swiped my student ID at the entrance, put my books into a cubby, and grabbed a tray. We had barbeque ribs today. Wow, I mean, this is the best cafeteria on campus we’re talking about. Entrees like fried chicken, Cajun shrimp pasta, chicken cordon bleau, and even steak are not that uncommon when half your customers are athletes, the very athletes you’re not supposed to be pampering. But even Gibbs has never had ribs before. This is great, I thought. It’ll open up a whole new line of discussion: “So, ribs today, you like the ribs? Say, what about these barbeque potato chips with the ribs? I know, it’s crazy. Barbeque with barbeque. Ha ha ha. I love you.” But that’s not the way it worked out.
After quickly grabbing some food, I spotted the chick sitting at the table right behind the condiment area. She was in a black tank top and light green parachute pants, which were short enough to expose her perfectly cylindrical ankle bones, the bracelet around the left leg, and just a parching glimpse of her ever-graceful shins. She was as lovely as always, but she wasn’t in the state I’d wished to find her in: alone. No, there was another guy there. He was what modern American society would call attractive: 6’ 2”, 6’3”, clear but not pale skin, short curly blonde hair, and worst of all, he was sitting right across from her. It was general admission at this cafeteria, and he had taken the best seat in the house.
I tried to be calm, keep an open mind. This guy might be some old friend; he might be her brother. He might be gay. So I sat down two seats to his right, beside the window. It was only the three of us at the table and so my proximity to them might have been suspicious. I planned to eavesdrop, but I could always use the window as an excuse. “Eavesdropping? Hey man, I just like to look out windows. You think I care about your conversation. Geez, get over yourself.”
But I did care, passionately. I needed to know what this guy was saying. So I listened in:
“So what’s your name?” he asked. That’s when I realized, he had just sat down. In fact, this guy was right in front of me in line two minutes ago.
“Annie,” she replied, or it could have been Danny, like Danielle. I really wasn’t close enough to be sure.
“I’m Josh. So what about these ribs?” He was using my material!
“Yeah, they’re good,” Annie answered. She picked up one and took a bite, jerking a little bit to get the meat off the bone, then looking up at Josh and laughing as she licked her fingers. Dammit, I said to myself, I knew those ribs were a conversation piece.
“So,” Josh said, “Where you from?”
“Around here. I went to Central High.” Annie’s voice was deeper than the average girl’s, and she had this spacey cadence that made her sound like she was high. She wasn’t.
“What’s your major?” he asked.
“Architecture.” She was happy; she was enjoying talking about herself. I was in trouble.
“I’ve heard that’s like hard stuff,” Josh said. “How’d you get into that?”
“Well, I was always pretty good at art in high school, and I’d heard about the program, so I figured I’d put together a portfolio.” After this Annie got up, left her tray, but grabbed her orange and white cup. She was going to refill her drink. Josh sat with a smirk as he finished off his third rib. She moved out of sight and ear shot, and I couldn’t bear the silence.
“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound accusatory. Josh turned towards me.
“Yeah, buddy?” he answered, holding that stupid smirk. And who said that I was his buddy? Anyway, I had to say something, so I asked what I already knew.
“You like this girl, don’t you?” I called her “this girl.” I was trying to sound informal, just barely interested but wise and perceptive enough to notice this young man’s attempts.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “Am I that obvious?”
“No,” I said. “I just see things some times.” I was playing it cool. I was staring at one of the worst hands college social life had dealt me, and I was bluffing.
“Hey, maybe you could critique me when this thing is over, give me some pointers.” Oh God no, I thought. I’d just been asked to be a pallbearer at my own funeral. Critique him! Now I’d not only have to watch this guy flirt with Annie, I’d have to tell him how good he was at it after he was done. Well, I thought, at least he didn’t shake my hand or introduce himself. Annie was walking back to the table, and the perfect critique came to me, one I yelled so loud in my head that I’m surprised Josh didn’t catch it through telekinesis. “Stop talking to my girlfriend!” Okay, I knew Annie wasn’t my girlfriend, but a part of me already felt she was mine. (Call me a freak for saying that, but I’d bet if you thought back real hard, you could remember a time in your life when you felt that same way about somebody.)
Annie sat down and kept talking with Josh. He said he was majoring in social work and was already volunteering at some shelter. She said she didn’t play any sports but just heard how good the food was at this cafeteria. He said he plays soccer but not for the school. He asked if she had gone anywhere for Spring Break. Sacramento, she said, to visit her aunt. He had stayed in town.
Soon Annie and Josh were finished with their meal and their conversation. She stood up and told him it had been nice talking to him. Then she walked away. Josh turned to me, “Hey, how’d I do?” I had a mouthful of food so it took a few seconds before I could answer. I could have put him down. I could have been like, hey, don’t waste your time, buddy. She’s loose, she’s taken, she’s queer, she’s crazy. She’s out of your league, out of your sport, out of your world, and you’ve got no shot. Trust me, I could have said. You’ll thank me later, I could have added, and then maybe I would never see Josh again. I could have said all of that. And I would have, but I really couldn’t. So I was honest.
“You did fine.”
“Really, thanks. I guess we’ll see.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” Josh said. “My name’s Josh. What’s yours?” He extended his hand. Crap, not this.
“My name’s Warren.” I shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Warren.” Then I had to tell a lie.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Josh.” He got up and left. I finished my ribs and headed out.
I walked back by the front desk area on the way to my first floor room. Wendy’s piles of mail were nearly diminished, and the blue notebook where she kept records was closed. Craig had joined her and was sitting in front of the computer playing games.
“Hey, how’d it go?” Wendy asked, once again sporting that mysterious and hopeful expression.
“How’d what go?” Craig interjected.
“Warren was going to talk a girl in the cafeteria today.”
“Oh yeah,” Craig said. “That girl you were talking about. What was her name?”
“We didn’t know it,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “We didn’t know.”
“It’s Annie. Or Danni, like Danielle. I’m not for sure.”
“Well, what happened?” Wendy asked. “Didn’t you talk to her?”
“I couldn’t. You see there was this other guy Josh, and he got there right before me. And he was asking her all the questions I was going to ask. Now I can’t just go in there tomorrow and ask the same questions.”
“Did it seem like she was into him?” Wendy asked.
“I don’t know. I mean, she was laughing some, but she didn’t give him a number or anything.”
“Where’s she from?” That was Craig. “She play any sports?”
“She said she went to Knox Central. She doesn’t play a sport but her cousins’ on the soccer team and lives here in Gibbs. John something”
“Oh yeah,” Craig remembered. “John Wavermyer, he lives up on the third floor. Wait, I think I’ve met this girl before, one night when she was going up to his room, and I was working the desk. Tan chick, in the cafeteria sometimes?”
“That’s right. She, um, always eats green apples.”
“Yeah man, she’s cute. It’s a damn shame what happened in there.” Wendy walked over and hit her boyfriend on the back of the head with a rolled-up Maxim magazine, before throwing it in a resident’s mailbox. “Hey,” he said. “What was that for?” She rolled her eyes at him before turning back to me.
“Well Warren, maybe if you just wait a while, this Josh guy will move out of the picture, and you can step in, with some new questions for her. All you need’s a chance.”
“Yeah, who’s to say I can’t come up with better questions, something intriguing, something meaningful?”
So you wanna know more about cruise ship work, eh? Well, this will be the final post on the topic for a while, so make sure and pay attention. My last post got you through my first day, which was crazy-busy. The rest of the first week is a little lighter but not by much. The second day brings with it two cocktail parties and two performances of an hour-long production show that’s brand new to me. (A show is deemed a “production show” when it includes singers and dancers. They may also include indoor fireworks called pyrotechnics) The cocktail music was simple enough, since I’d played some of the songs before on other ships. The first performances on a new boat are always a bit tense, but I got through the parties fine. I wish I could say the same for the shows.
My company has a weird policy about show music. Despite the fact that PDF has been around for a decade now, musicians cannot get their sheet music before arriving to the boat. So that means you perform the shows before they’re anywhere near ready, and your first few performances of any new show are basically glorified practice. It’s a bizarre situation, learning something in front of hundreds of people and wondering or worrying if they will notice. Fortunately, I found the sound tech that afternoon, and let him know that my microphone should be turned down considerably for the evening’s performances. I know what you’re thinking, what’s the point of being out there if no one can hear your part? The simple answer is, it’s the best way to learn without hurting the product. Well, it’s the best way if you live in some alternate universe where music can’t be scanned into a PDF and emailed to the musician several weeks in advance of his or her arrival. And apparently, my company has its home office in that alternate universe (Sorry for the gripe. I’ll soon get back to being positive.)
The next day was relatively light. These days, most ships are not giving musicians weekly nights off, so you have to do your best to relax and have some fun on a day like this one, where we only have one performance. This performance was a variety show, with a juggler and a comedian. The juggler was one of the Zuniga’s, the best juggling family from Mexico, although some of the family now lives in the Tampa area. I’ve actually worked with all three “active” Zuniga’s in my time on ships. Their accompaniment music is made up of fast latin numbers that are tough for anyone in the show band but especially for trombone players, since we have to move our whole arm instead of just fingers. Still, I consider it a fair trade since the Zuniga’s are such funny guys on-stage and off. Here’s an example from one of their performances. Manny Zuniga steps to center stage with seven rings. He announces to his audience, “Ladies and gentleman, I am about to attempt a very difficult trick. Has anyone here every seen someone juggle seven rings live?” He waits for a second, nobody raises their hands, then he tosses one of the rings on the ground. “So tonight, six rings, an incredible feat.” It gets a laugh. Trust me.
On the fourth night, I played the second of the production shows. This first one is themed around pop music of the 80’s, and it includes a break dance section with a lot of well-placed pyro. That leads into a Blues Brothers section, where everybody in the band puts on the trademark hat and sunglasses. And that all leads to a “Time of My Life”/ Dirty Dancing finale, where confetti comes down from the ceiling. The second production show is not so much themed around a period or genre of music, so much as a general concept: women. I’m not joking. Songs like “Dream Girls” and “Fever” give way to that Barbie world song from the 90’s, later a French tango, the Venus song (which you may know from the razor commercials) then “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story. You might think a guy would be a little embarrassed to be on stage playing for such a show. But to me, it’s pretty hip. I’m sure we’ll get more into it down the road, but I am a lover of women. That may sound cheesy, but please hear me out. All I’m saying is, I appreciate what makes women different and distinct from men, and I’m glad that they have the capacity to be the fairer sex, in their better moments. I could descend into a deeper discussion about how women are treated across the world and how that engenders my sympathy, but obviously now is not the time. Bottom line, these production shows are fun to perform, which is great, since I’ll be playing them for the next sixteen weeks straight.
By the fifth day, we’re back in home port, Cape Canaveral. And since I was technically returning to the US from the Bahamas, I had to go through immigration. Now, crew members only have to do this a few times per contract, but it’s always a must after your first cruise. My cruise line likes to get this crew immigration process out of the way as soon as the ship pulls in, so I had to be in the room with the US Customs officers by 6:30 AM with passport in hand. Thankfully, this ship allowed United States citizens to go first. The Customs guys take about ten seconds with each of us Americans, just checking to make sure the passport photo roughly matches the person standing before them. Many of the other countries have much longer verification processes, including photos, and fingerprinting (By way of reminder, most of our crew is international.) Even if you’re behind only a half-dozen people, if they’re Philippinos or Indonesians, it may take a half-hour. And when the line is twenty-five people long, and resembles the buffet line at the UN cafeteria, there’s a definite chance you’ll be there for over an hour. So when they called, “USC’s to the front!” at 6:35, it was hard not to smile. America the Beautiful rang in my head, and I might have even hummed the tune a little as I strolled back to my room and hopped back in bed at 6:45.
Because the ship I’m on does three and four day cruises, there is a relatively low amount of music to learn. You see, the general rule is that ships do a new show every night. That means that if you work on a boat that does seven-day cruises, you’ll have probably six different shows to prepare, with the hope that you’ll get one night off for a magic show that doesn’t use the band. A ship doing four day cruises only needs four shows, so there’s more repetitiveness but also less to learn. That means that for the last few days of my first week, I was able to start reviewing music, and get another crack at performing the shows I had already seen. The Bahamas and Port Canaveral looked beautiful from the ship, but I didn’t have the time or energy to get off. So really, there’s not a great amount more to report, but there is one more story I have to tell.
“Bravo, Bravo!” What do those words mean to you? To most performing artists, they mean the crowd has loved your performance, and it may be time for an encore. But for a cruise ship musician, those words carry a far darker connotation. Those words are code words given over the loudspeakers when a person has gone overboard. I hadn’t heard them in my first two-and-a-half years at sea, but I heard them in my first week of this new contract. It was around midnight when the announcement was made. Five minutes later my bandleader called me, checking to see if my roommate and I were alright. I told him we were and hung up the phone, wondering just how many other supervisors were making similar calls, hoping to get a hold of everybody.
I didn’t go out on the open deck to look for the person in the water. The details later came out that he had been in an argument with his girlfriend or wife and jumped off to prove a point. I guess he showed her. My friend said there were dozens of people out there trying to keep an eye on the man in the water as rescue crews prepared a smaller boat to fetch him. My friend also told me you could hear the man’s constant screams for help in the darkened distance. He was eventually rescued, though it was another cruise ship close by that actually retrieved the man. You could say all that matters is that he survived, but I worry what would have happened if we hadn’t had another ship helping us. (You’ll note I haven’t mentioned the company I work for any of these three posts, in part because of the concerns I just confessed.)
I know the story of the man’s rescue made it all the way to Denver, because for some reason, our ship TV’s get the broadcast networks through the Denver affiliates. That’s right, I watch the Denver news every night in the middle of the ocean. Anyway, my parents also saw the story on their local news in Tennessee. When I got a hold of them a few days later, I gave my dad some of the extra details but didn’t discuss them with mom. It’d only worry her. They asked how it was all going, and I said it looked like it was going to be a good contract. I didn’t want to say anything too definite though. There was still a lot of practicing to do, still a lot of people to get to know better, and still a lot of adventure to be had. One week down, fifteen to go.
Thanks for checking out this concluding post. I hope you’ve enjoyed learning about cruise ship work, and I hope I’ve managed to answer most of your questions. If not, leave a question in the comment section, and I’ll try to get to it. Come back next week for my first short story post.
Well, work is getting busier for me, but I am fighting to have the time for new posts. I want to post every Friday, because I figure most folks have casual reading time on the weekends. Plus, it keeps me honest. If I just say, hey, I’ll post when I can, then I wouldn’t post near as much as I genuinely want to. (By the way, I end sentences with prepositions in my writing. The language exists to serve the writer, not vice-versa. And besides, it’s the way we speak.) So the Friday deadline is as much for me as it is for you. These last two posts have come early on Saturday, so I’m not doing too bad. Still, I think a Friday morning post is ideal to fit all weekend schedules. I will try a little harder. For now, back to my long, strange trip.
After watching the remarkable shuttle launch, I returned with Jacob to his apartment and got a somewhat surprisingly nice night sleep out of the floored mattress. The next day I basically chilled, swimming in the pool, reading a book on Christian marriage, singing in a video game rock band, and of course, practicing my trombone in preparation for the start of my new contract. There was a unique situation in the evening when I went with Jacob’s roommate to a sports bar for dinner. As you may recall, this roommate worked the launch the previous day (Friday), as a part of a team that checks all the surfaces of the rocket for debris. Once at the bar, we met with another NASA friend, who actually is in training to work support for future missions. Jacob was dining elsewhere with his girlfriend’s parents but was going to try and meet us out there when he could. He never made it out, so it was just me and two guys from NASA, both of whom I hadn’t know 24 hours prior.
Guess what? It was actually a lot of fun. These guys were laid back and in a great mood. You see, if the launch on Friday had been cancelled because of those storm clouds, it would have been rescheduled for Saturday night or Sunday. They were thankful to have their big project done. Sending humans into space is an incredible achievement that great men dreamed of in vain for ages. Now, they are a part of the rarified group of lucky and bright individuals that get to help make that dream a reality. They could take pride in the fact that on Friday night, they took part in one of the great engineering feats in human history with the safe and successful launch of the shuttle Discovery. And doing it on a Friday night made it extra sweet for them. All that making dreams into reality is great and all, but you know, nobody wants to come in on weekends. (It was neat to see how the NASA guys were just like anybody else, at least in this one respect.)
Now, finally, to the ship. I got up Sunday morning and drove the final forty miles from Jacob’s apartment in East Orlando to Port Canaveral, and my new floating home for the next four fun-filled months. Once I was near the pier, I met with a nice parking director in his trailer. He copied my driver’s license, car registration, and insurance, then gave me a sticker that entitled me to park in a lot right near my ship for a year. This is awesome, and not the norm. I’ve heard some other ports have parking a half-mile away from where the ship pulls in, and they charge $100 a month for it.
After getting parked, I took my few big bags and put them in what’s called the crew cage, but it’s actually just a 6×4 foot steel container that can be moved by forklifts. Once the cage is close to full with other crew members’ luggage, it’s taken through security, then left for me to pickup outside the separate crew gangway. Of course, my cage was sitting out in the open, with the chaos of all the new people coming to take their vacation. And it’s not like once crew bags are screened, and then left beside the gangway, anyone contacts you to let you know they’re sitting there. I just had to keep checking back to be safe. Ironic isn’t it, taking your stuff through security seems awfully risky? Thankfully, I did eventually get that luggage back, about four hours later, and only about fifteen minutes before the ship left. But I guess I can’t complain on the slow turn-around. Well, I could always complain, but I have come to accept that a part of what a cruise ship employee is being paid for is second-class citizenship.
After dropping off that luggage, I took my carry-ons through security and proceeded to the crew office. It was there that I turned in all my required medical forms, which included full drug and blood tests as well as proof of vaccinations from measles, mumps, and rubella. This physical only has to be updated every two years, so it’s not ridiculous. I also turned in my passport and signed a contract. Our contracts, no matter what we’ve discussed with the entertainment people in the main office, never have an end date on them. If they want to send me home next week, from my limited understanding, it is within their legal rights.
After filling out the forms and dropping my little bit of carry-on luggage in in my new room, I had to go to orientation. In this 45 minute meeting, we got a brief speech about washing our hands, received a few handouts with different important phone numbers and schedules, viewed a couple basic safety videos, and watched a fire extinguisher demonstration from one of the safety officers (officers are the higher-ups on cruise ships, which I guess was co-opted from naval terminology. I sort of consider that an insult to Naval officers and Marines who’ve died in wars, but you have to pick your battles out here.)
Shortly after this orientation is completed, I had to attend my first guest boat drill. It’s a Coast Guard regulation that we have to do these drills, or so I’ve been told. You may think it a little odd that a guy who just got on the ship is helping guide people in an emergency drill, but most every cruise boat drill, no matter the ship, is the same. Plus, there’s no pressure on me to do anything major my first time. I could job shadow as much as I wanted to. (Another preposition ending, alright! Take that grammar-worshippers!)
After that, there’s a cruise staff meeting, backstage in the main lounge. I was introduced and tried to fix my hair as I stood up and smiled at all the new faces. This scenario has become very common for me over the last few years, since I’m only on each ship for one to four months before moving on. While the cycle of settling in only to pack up and leave, then settling in again can be frustrating, I hope I have at least learned to face a crowd of strangers with no apprehension. At the end of the meeting, I looked down at my watch, 5:00 PM. My first set (performance) was scheduled for 7:00, just enough time for a good nap and a decent meal in the crew cafeteria (nearly always referred to as the crew mess.) As I walked out the back of the lounge, my phone rang. Of course! It was my dad. I’d told him I would call and let the family know that everything went okay. It was great timing when he called. My cell phone only gets reception in a few places on a cruise ship and once I went down to my room, which sits below water level, I would have had no chance of receiving a call. With the chaos of the day, it had totally slipped my mind to call, but I’m so glad dad called when he did. I’d hate for my mom to be worrying just because of my forgetfulness. But that’s what a chaotic day does to you. It makes you careless. I reassured my dad everything was alright and went back to my room for the nap. However, shortly after laying down, someone came to fix the room’s broken TV. It was important, because I got to have TV to pass the time on these boats, but of course, it cut into the nap.
Post-nap, I grabbed a quick bite on my empty but nervous stomach, then headed up to the ship’s promenade deck (the main street of a cruise ship, where most of the bars and live music, as well as the casino and disco are located. And no, I don’t know why we still call the dance club a disco.) I cracked out my horn and played with my new band. This was a jazz set. That meant that each horn-player played melodies and took solos when he wanted to. This is a great first performance to have, since you can pick your spots, and everyone understands if you don’t want to play that much. Later that night, I played on the “Intro Show” with the dancers and singers and the band all on stage. But luckily, this show is very similar on all ships, so I’ve played much of the music before.
There are two things that consistently amaze people about my cruise ship work. The first is that I auditioned over the phone. This is quite common, and it makes since considering the cost to the company of holding open auditions in random big cities. The other amazing thing is playing on my first night on a ship. In my previous post, I talked about how, if I flew, I would have been up at 5:00 AM to catch my red-eye flight. Now perhaps you can see why I turned down a free plane ticket. I was tired for those first day performances, but I wasn’t the zombie I’ve been on previous contracts when I flew down. The day was hectic, but it wasn’t torture. As for the quality of performance I can give on my first day, it’s never been stellar. I must admit that I find this baptismal by fire approach of having musicians play right after getting aboard pretty unprofessional, and many friends who work in other areas of music have confirmed that assessment. But there is one cool thing that happens during these crazy first weeks.
There comes a point somewhere early on when I realize that, despite the fact that I’m seeing much of the music for the first time, I’m still playing most of it decently, not cracking under the pressure. And that, my friends, is an invigorating moment. That’s when I know I’m a professional musician and not the phony I sometimes worry I am. And that satisfying feeling must be very similar to what Brad has experienced on those mountain trails and rock faces. By being pushed to my limits, I know with much more certainty who I am. I don’t just play an instrument. Matt Morris earns his keep with his craft on this floating city. Now when your craft is also your passion, it makes a bad day at work even harder. It’s nearly impossible for me to leave a bad performance “at the office.” And I think this post has helped to debunk the myth that cruise ship music is some kind of dream job. But still, when your favorite moment of the day can come while you‘re clocked in, there is no way around it: you’re blessed.
Okay, I’m certain I can wrap this up by next week. So check back on Friday, then again on Saturday, just to be safe.
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