January 17-21, 1999.  Writing from a dark place. (#204)

My mind had been in a dark place all weekend.  Friday morning, in my student teaching class, I had problems with a student talking back to me.  I started to argue back, and Ms. Matthews told me condescendingly that I could not do that as a teacher.  Friday evening, I was at Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, but everyone was either too busy to hang out afterward or already had specific plans.  Sunday morning at church, I was talking to Pete Green and Caroline Pearson, and they mentioned having taken a day trip to Ralstonville yesterday for Sarah Winters’ wedding.

Sarah, a mathematics major like me, was one of my best friends during my undergraduate years. Sarah and I, and Pete and Caroline, were all in the same dorm as freshmen.  I had heard from Sarah much less frequently after she graduated in June and moved back home, where her fiancé was.  While weddings often left me feeling bittersweet at best, dwelling on my own lack of a girlfriend, I certainly would have gone to Sarah’s wedding, had I been invited.  “No one told me about Sarah’s wedding,” I said, feeling confused and left out.

“They wanted a really small wedding,” Caroline explained.  “There were only about twenty people there.”  This was no consolation to me, because if I were to get married right now, Sarah would probably be among the first twenty people I would want to invite.

To add insult to injury, I had a song stuck in my head: “Kiss Me,” by Sixpence None the Richer.  This song had been all over the radio in the last few weeks, and I was still making up my mind how I felt about this song.  I had heard of this band before; they got their start in Christian music, and these days, I took notice whenever a Christian band had a hit song on mainstream radio.  But this was not a Christian song; it was about kissing. I had spent the last three years listening to talks and sermons about taking things slow in relationships, not rushing physical contact, so I still had yet to experience my first kiss.  Now, vocalist Leigh Nash was over here singing in her soft, breathy voice about that thing I was not supposed to think about.  It was unfair.  Yet the song was hauntingly catchy, and growing on me.

What if I never met anyone?  What if I grew old and died alone?  Would anyone remember my life?  Would anyone care?  Would these intense feelings of loneliness and rejection, coupled with the romantic and sexual fantasies frequently playing in my head, drive me to madness?  I got home and made myself a sandwich for lunch, and by the time I finished eating, the ideas in my head were coming together to form a short story.

I sat down and started typing.  When it came time to name the characters, I still had that Sixpence None the Richer song stuck in my head, so the love interest character became “Leigh,” after the band’s vocalist.  I wrote for about three hours that night. I had time to finish a first draft the next day, because of the school holiday for Martin Luther King’s birthday. I did some editing during study breaks over the next few days.  By Thursday night, I had perfected the story enough to print and share.  I clicked Print on the computer, and the inkjet printer on my desk buzzed and whirred as five pages of my story emerged.


“Leigh’s Boyfriend”
By Gregory J. Dennison

“It’s good to see you tonight, Leigh,” Ryan said as they met outside the theater.

“Good to see you too,” Leigh replied, kissing Ryan on the lips.  “Shall we go in?”

“Sure,” Ryan replied, putting his arm in Leigh’s.  They walked into the theater and gave the employee their tickets.  The theater was not very crowded, so Ryan pointed toward the middle of the room, not too close to the screen but not too far in the back, and turned toward Leigh with a questioning glance.  She nodded.  He would have been happy sitting anywhere but the back row, though; the back row held bad memories for him.  The last girl Ryan brought here had wanted to sit in the back.  Ryan told her after the movie that he was interested in a relationship, and she turned him down.  Six days later, she started going out with his friend.  None of that mattered anymore, now that he had Leigh, but he still wanted to sit in the middle of the theater.  Leigh walked to the seats first, and Ryan followed her.

The lights dimmed a minute later, and the previews began.  Ryan took Leigh’s hand again.  He could sense her smile in the dark as her hand tightened around his, and he responded with a smile of his own.  He had felt so happy ever since he and Leigh had started dating.  Ryan had only had a girlfriend once before, in high school, and that had lasted about a month.  But Leigh was everything Ryan could ever want in a woman.  For years he had hoped for a woman he could take to the movies, or to dinner, or shopping, or just somewhere where they could talk and share each other’s lives.  And at last, Leigh was that woman.  He put his arm around her and began kissing her.

Ryan woke up Thursday morning at six to the sound of his alarm.  He looked at the empty bed next to him, and reconstructed the events of the previous night.  He brought Leigh home after the movie, and they snuggled on the couch for a while.  She left a little after midnight, and Ryan went up to bed.


Ryan showered, ate breakfast, and drove to work still thinking about Leigh.  When he arrived, he went to his desk to get his stuff prepared for the day.  He looked at his watch and saw that he was right on time, as usual.

“Good morning, Ryan,” his coworker Paul said on his arrival.

“Hi, Paul.  How are you?”

“I’m doing well.  Finishing up a project.  How about yourself?”

“Not bad.  I saw a movie with Leigh last night.”

“Which one?  How was it?”

Ryan gave Paul the movie’s title.  “I actually enjoyed it.  I wasn’t sure what to expect going into it, but it looked good,” Ryan said.

“I haven’t seen it yet.  I’ll have to tell my wife we should see it.  How is Leigh doing?”

“She’s doing well.  She started working at Value Foods a month ago.  She likes her job.”

“Good!  You’ll have to introduce me to Leigh sometime.  I’ve never met her.  Do you want to come over for dinner sometime?  You and Leigh, and me and Maria?”

The thought of a well-cooked meal appealed to Ryan’s bachelor taste buds instantly.  “Sure,” he said.  “When’s good for you?”

“How about Saturday night?”

“Sure.  I’ll check with Leigh and call you this afternoon to make sure it’s okay.”

“Sounds good.  Maria and I are looking forward to meeting Leigh.  She sounds nice.”

“Oh, she is,” Ryan said.  Another co-worker walked up to Paul’s desk as he finished his sentence, so Ryan turned his attention back to his work.


Ryan looked around the coffee shop.  “It’s not usually this full,” he told Leigh.

“You’re right.  I don’t know why it’s full tonight.”

“Excuse me.  May I join you?” a strange voice said.

Ryan jumped in his seat, startled, as if awakening from a dream.  He looked up to see a man standing next to his and Leigh’s table.  The man held a cup of coffee and was looking for an open seat.  Ryan’s table had only two chairs next to it.  “Sorry.  We’re busy,” Ryan explained.

The man looked at Leigh, then looked at Ryan, as if he were having difficulty processing Ryan’s response.  “Sorry,” the man said.  He walked away.

After the man walked away, Ryan turned back to Leigh.  “That guy scared me.  Is it just me, or was it rude for him to ask to share with us?  I mean, this is a two-seat table, isn’t it?”

Leigh nodded in agreement.  Ryan turned and looked out the window as it began to rain.  Rain used to make Ryan depressed, but he hasn’t been as depressed in general the last couple months.  He looked at Leigh.  “It’s raining,” he said.

“I know,” she replied.

Ryan looked into Leigh’s watery blue eyes and smiled.  She smiled back.  He took a sip of his mocha.

“I don’t suppose you’re up for a walk in the rain?” Leigh asked.

“Not particularly.  I’d rather do something indoors tonight.”

“Me too, now that you mention it.”

Ryan watched a car drive by out the window.  “You ready to go?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied.  Ryan opened the door of the coffee shop, holding it open for Leigh.  He opened his umbrella, and they both stood under it as they walked back to Ryan’s car.

“Where do you want to go now?” he asked.  “My place?  Yours?  Somewhere else?”

“How about your place?” she suggested.

“Sounds good.”  Ryan suddenly remembered something.  “Paul and Maria invited us to dinner Saturday night.  Can you make it?”

Leigh thought for a minute.  “Sure.  I don’t have to work at all on Saturday.”

“Paul keeps saying he wants to meet you.”

“I want to meet your friends too.  That’ll be fun.”

Ryan pulled into his driveway.  He opened the umbrella again and shared it with Leigh as they walked up to the porch.  He unlocked his front door, and she walked in, with him following.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” she replied, smiling.  “Come on,” she said, taking his hand.  Leigh turned the corner and went into Ryan’s bedroom.  She sat him down on the bed and joined him.  She took off her sweater and then proceeded to remove Ryan’s sweatshirt.  She put her arms around Ryan and kissed him passionately.

Ryan put his arms around Leigh and ran his fingers through her straight brown hair.  Leigh grinned and giggled; he knew she liked that very much.  Leigh reached down and pulled Ryan’s pants down around his ankles; Ryan did the same to Leigh.

Soon afterwards, Ryan and Leigh began a beautiful love-making session.  Ryan told Leigh how much he loved her several times.  And he did love her.  She was everything he could ever ask for in a woman.  Ryan had always known that the woman he ended up with would be someone who knew him inside out, someone who could understand all his quirks.  When he was with Leigh, he felt like she did understand.  He could, and did, talk to her about anything, and he could always trust her to help him through.  And now he and Leigh shared the most intimate parts of themselves with each other.

“Hold me,” Leigh said after they finished.

“Of course,” Ryan whispered.  He pulled Leigh’s back toward him and put his arms just below her bare breasts.  This was the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep.


Ryan woke up to the sound of his alarm, as usual.  One more day of work, and then the weekend.  As he crawled out of his empty bed, he realized that something felt wrong to him.  He also noticed that it was probably time to wash the sheets again.

Ryan walked into the office Friday morning with a smile on his face.  He replied to an asynchronous chorus of greetings with a wave.

“Hey.  I saw you at the coffee shop last night,” Paul said.

Ryan looked puzzled at first, but the look of puzzlement soon disappeared.  “Oh, yeah.  I had coffee with Leigh last night.”

“With Leigh?  I didn’t see anyone else with you.  It looked like you were sitting by yourself at a table in front of the window.”

“Hmm,” Ryan said.  “Maybe she was hidden behind something.”

“Maybe.  Are you two still coming for dinner tonight?”

“Yeah.  I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting Leigh.”

“I have to go make some copies.  I’ll be right back.”


Paul had just sat down to watch a basketball game on Saturday afternoon when the telephone rang.  Maria answered, and then called out to Paul, saying that the telephone was for him.  Paul walked to the telephone and took the receiver from Maria.  “Hello?” he said.

“Paul?  It’s Ryan,” the voice on the phone said.

“Hi, Ryan.  Are you and Leigh still coming for dinner tonight?”

“Well, that’s what I was calling about.  Leigh just found out she has to work today.”

“Oh, no,” Paul replied.  “I was looking forward to finally meeting her.”

“I’m really sorry about this.  There wasn’t anything I could do about it.”

“Well, Maria was still planning on having company tonight.  I know it won’t quite be the same, but do you still want to join us?  Just the three of us?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, sure.”

“Great,” Paul said.  “Tell Leigh I said I’m sorry she couldn’t make it.”

“I will.  Bye, Paul.”  Ryan hung up.

Paul replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle.  “Leigh can’t come,” he said to Maria.  “I told Ryan he could still come, though.”

“That’ll be nice to have him over,” Maria said.  “I just noticed a few minutes ago that we need tomatoes for the salad.  I’m going to run up to the store and get some.”

Paul thought about this.  “Can I get the tomatoes for you?”

“Sure,” Maria said.  “That’ll help.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  Paul grabbed his keys and wallet and left.


Something had told Paul that he should be the one to buy the tomatoes, and he thought he knew why.  He was curious about something, and in the heat of the moment his curiosity exceeded his patience.  He drove into the Value Foods parking lot and walked toward the store.  As he got there, he noticed a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair gathering shopping carts left in the parking lot.  Paul walked up to the young woman.  “Excuse me?” he called out.

“Yes?” the woman said, turning around.

Paul’s eyes instantly darted down to her name tag.  LEIGH, EMPLOYEE SINCE 1998.  Paul’s hunch was correct after all.  “Aren’t you Leigh Hawkins?”

”Yes,” Leigh said, examining Paul to determine how he knew this.  “Do I know you?”

“I’m Paul Richards.  I work with Ryan.”  Paul expected that Leigh would suddenly make the connections necessary to determine why she would know him.  However, her face maintained its prior look of confusion.  “Ryan Mathewson.  You and Ryan were supposed to have dinner with my wife and me tonight, but he told me you had to work.”

“Ryan?  He never invited me to dinner.  Are you sure you have the right person?  How did you know how to find me?”

“Ryan told me where you worked.  You’re Leigh Hawkins.  Ryan’s girlfriend.  Right?”

“I’m Leigh Hawkins, but I’m not Ryan’s girlfriend.  Ryan and I went out twice last month, but we’re not dating.  Things didn’t really work out like that.  What did he tell you about me?”

Suddenly, things seemed clear to Paul, and he did not like what he was figuring out.  “I’m sorry, Leigh,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“That’s okay.”

“I guess I got my stories a little mixed up.”

“That’s okay.  Have a nice day.  And tell Ryan I said hi.”

“Okay,” Paul said, although he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t.  It would do more harm than good at this point.


“Could you pass the mashed potatoes, please?” Ryan asked.

“Sure,” Maria replied.

“Thanks for still having me over.  I’m sorry I had to come alone.”

Paul waited for about a five-second lull in the conversation.  Ryan was about to break the silence when Paul spoke.  “I know why Leigh isn’t here,” Paul explained.

“Because she got called to work,” Ryan replied.  “I told you.”

“Ryan, it’s okay.  I don’t know why you’re doing this, but you can be honest with me.  I was at Value Foods today, and I talked to Leigh.”

Ryan looked at Paul.  His jaw dropped slightly.  No words came out of his mouth, though.  The look on his face was one of pure terror.  His last line of defense had fallen.

“Ryan, I want to help you.  I don’t know why you created this delusion, but you can get help for it.  It’s okay.  You don’t have to be embarrassed.  Let’s just finish dinner.”

Ryan stood up.  “I’m insulted,” he said.  “First you go spy on me by talking to Leigh behind my back, then you claim that I’m lying about our relationship.  Well, I’m not!  We—”

“Ryan, I didn’t spy on you.  I had to go to the store for something else, and I thought I would go meet Leigh.  And I’m trying to help you.  As a friend.”

“Some friend you are.  I’ll be sure to get your permission before Leigh and I go out again,” Ryan said sarcastically.  He stomped out the door, leaving his food uneaten.

Ryan started his car and pulled away from Paul’s house.  He had probably lost Paul as a friend for a while, but he thought that was all the better since he did not want friends who spied on him.  He was probably just jealous.

Ryan opened the door to his apartment.  “Hey, babe,” Leigh said from the couch.

“Leigh?  I thought you were at work.”

“I got off early,” she said.  “I thought I’d come hang out here for a while.”

Ryan sat on the couch next to Leigh.  She immediately snuggled up next to him.  Ryan put his arms around her and kissed her.  He loved everything about Leigh’s kisses, especially the way they always tasted like couch cushions.  He reached down and slowly unzipped Leigh’s pants; he felt her smooth legs as his hands ran along the surface of the cushion foam filling.  He took off his shirt and rubbed the cushion against it, with a blissful grin on his face.


“It’s weird,” Jed said after reading the story.  “But I like it!”

“Thanks,” I replied.  I wanted to share my story with someone, particularly to see how someone else would react to the twist in the ending, and since my roommate Jed was home, I started with him.

“What’s weird?” Brody, another of our housemates, asked, walking into the living room.

“I wrote a story,” I replied.

“Can I read it?”

“Sure.”  I handed Brody the printed copy of my story, and he said he would read it later.  Shortly before bedtime that night, he told me he thought the ending was hilarious.  That was not a word I would expect one to use to describe a serious, dark story, but he was right.  It was hilarious.

Fortunately, my actual life had not yet gotten to the point where I was making up an imaginary girlfriend.  But I had no one special in my life, except for a couple of silly unrequited crushes, and every time I tried to express interest in a girl, one of three things happened.  She was often not interested back, like Haley Channing junior year.  My words might get taken the wrong way, like what happened with Carrie Valentine last year.  Or I would get to know a girl as a friend first, the way that I was told to, and while I was getting to know her, she would run off and find someone else, like Sadie Rowland had.  This weekend, I would be attending something that I hoped might give me some answers about all of this, so I was feeling slightly optimistic and not completely consumed by darkness yet.  But that is a story for next time.  


Readers: Tell me about a time you channeled your dark thoughts into something creative.

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November 1, 1998. Having an off night at swing dancing. (#197)

I got in my car, which was parked next to my house, and drove off.  The radio came on, with a commercial attacking state attorney general David E. Larkin.  Larkin was running for governor, and the election was two days away.  I changed the channel; I was tired of political advertisements this time of year, and I was planning on voting for Larkin so I did not want to hear what his opponent had to say about him.  Many of the things he was being attacked for were the exact reasons I was voting for him. My candidate of choice, who could not run again because of term limits, won four years ago, but Larkin was expected to lose this election.

I parked outside of the University Bar & Grill and walked inside, by myself.  My roommate Jed sometimes rode with me, but he had told me this morning that he would not be home when I left, and he would get there later.  I looked around the room and saw some vaguely familiar faces, people I had seen here before, but no one I actually knew well enough to talk to. Matthew was about to begin teaching the beginner lesson, as he always did.  I walked out to the floor with the others, where Matthew was directing us to assemble into two concentric circles, those dancing the lead part on the inside and those following on the outside.  Traditionally men led and women followed, although I had seen a few people switch gender roles occasionally.  I stood on the inside, and a girl I had never seen at the U-Bar stood across from me.  This girl was very attractive, slim with reddish-brown hair pulled back into a pony tail, and blue eyes.   She wore a light blue dress.  “Hi,” I said.

“Hi!” the girl replied, smiling.  “I’m Brooke.”

“I’m Greg.  Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Brooke replied.  “I’ve never been here before. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” I replied.  “That’s why you’re taking the lesson before the dance starts, right?”

“Exactly!  So how long have you been dancing?”

“About four months.  I’m not that good.”

“I’m sure you’re better than me.”

“Give yourself more credit,” I said.  “Just have fun with it.”

“That’s a good way to look at it.”

We stopped talking as Matthew demonstrated the basic step.  I knew the basic step pretty well, but if Brooke was here for the first time, I wanted to make sure she saw what he was doing.  I practiced the basic step with Brooke a few times.  “I think you got it,” I said.

“Was that good?”

“Yes.  Looked good to me.”

“Thank you!”

Matthew called for us to switch partners.  “It was nice meeting you,” I said to Brooke.

“You too!” she replied as she moved on to the next partner.

Matthew had us practice the basic step again with our new partners; my next partner had not yet figured out the basic step the way Brooke had.  Next, he taught the outside and inside turns, as he always did, as we tried each one with a few new partners.  The second half of the lesson changed from week to week, and this week he was teaching the basic step of a different dance, the Charleston.  The last thing we learned was how to switch between East Coast Swing and the Charleston, something I had never learned before but wanted to, since I did not know enough Charleston to dance it for an entire song.  At this point, the circle of partners had gone completely around, and I got Brooke as my partner again.

“Hello again,” I said.

“Hi!” she replied.

“How are you doing so far?”

“I think I get it!  I just need to practice.”

Brooke and I worked through the basic step of the Charleston, and then transitioned into the basic step of East Coast Swing, just as Matthew had shown us.  “You’re doing really well,” I said.

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks!  So do you go to UJ?”

“Yes.  I graduated last year, and now I’m in the student teaching program.”

“You’re gonna be a teacher!  That’s exciting!  What grade level?”

“High school math.”

“Nice!  I always liked my math teachers, but it wasn’t my best subject.”

“I get that a lot.”

“I’m a freshman, majoring in psych for now but I might change that.”

“Do you know what you want to do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she said.

We tried the steps again, then Matthew called for us to switch partners. I asked Brooke, “Save me a dance later?”

“Yeah!” she replied.

After practicing Charleston, and switching from East Coast Swing to Charleston and back, with two more partners, the beginner lesson ended.  Brooke walked off the dance floor with her friends, and I would have done the same except that none of my usual group of friends was there tonight.

I stood to the side of the dance floor watching people dance the first song.  When the second song started, I looked around for someone to dance with.  Brooke was dancing with a guy from her group of friends that she came with, and I did not know any of the other girls there that night.  A girl I did not know stood next to me, not dancing, so I walked up to her and asked, “Would you like to dance?”

“No, thank you,” she said, with no other explanation or excuse offered.

I slowly walked around the room, in the general direction of the bar, but I did not attempt to ask anyone else to dance.  None of the people I felt safe asking to dance were here.  No Courtney, Cambria, or Erica.  No Bethany Bradshaw. No Michelle Parker; she was only sixteen, but I knew her family from church, and her older brother Brody was one of mine and Jed’s other roommates, so I was comfortable dancing with her, and she understood that I was not a creepy older man.  I would have even danced with Sasha if she were here, despite the awkward situation I created a few weeks ago when I confessed my unrequited feelings for her.  After having just been rejected asking someone I did not know, I was not sure that I felt comfortable asking another stranger.  I looked back to the bar and saw the bartender say, “Here you go,” pushing a reddish-brown drink with ice and a straw forward to a spot where no one was sitting.  No one claimed this drink.  After several seconds, the bartender was still looking at me.  I asked, “Is that drink mine?”

“Yeah,” she replied.  “I saw you coming over here, I remember you always order a Roy Rogers, so I just figured I’d get it for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling.  I took a sip of my drink, feeling pretty important that the bartender knew my usual drink.

I continued walking around the room, walking past a girl who was sitting alone, not dancing.  “Would you like to dance?” I asked as I walked up to her.

“No,” she replied, shaking her head in the negative.  Just a few seconds ago, I felt important, but apparently I was not that important after all.

I looked back toward the entrance and saw Candace Walker arriving.  I knew her from when I used to be in University Chorus, and I had seen her here relatively regularly since school started back up again.  “Hey,” I said to Candace.

“Hey, Greg,” she answered.  “What’s up?”

“Not much.”  I heard a new song start to play, so I asked her, “Would you like to dance?”

“Sure!” she said.  “Just give me a minute to put my stuff down.”

When Candace returned, I led her to the dance floor and started doing the basic step and turns.  “Is Jed coming tonight?” she asked me.  I had introduced Candace to Jed in September, the first night of dancing after he moved back up here for the school year, and the two of them seemed to hit it off well.  They had talked and danced together for most of the rest of that night, as well as most of the other times I had seen both of them at the U-Bar on the same night.

“Yeah,” I replied.  “He said he’d be here later.”

By the time we finished our dance, as I walked over to where I left my drink, I could see Jed walking in the door.  “There he is,” I said.  The two of us walked to Jed, saying hello.

“Hey,” Jed said to both of us, then turned to Candace and asked, “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?  You have a midterm tomorrow you should be studying for.”

“I know,” she said.  “I’ve been studying all day, and I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.  I needed a break.”

“Well, you came to the right place for a break!  You want to dance?”

“Sure.”  Candace walked onto the dance floor with Jed, leaving me alone.

I looked around.  Brooke, the girl I met during the beginner lesson, was standing not far from me, talking to one of her friends that she came with.  I remembered that Brooke promised me a dance, so I walked up to her and asked, “Would you like to dance?”

“Not right now,” she said.

Undeterred, I turned next to her friend and asked the same thing.  “No, thank you,” her friend said.

I sat at a table facing the dance floor, the same table where Candace and Jed had placed their things, and watched everyone dance, slowly sipping my Roy Rogers.  About three songs later, I got up to use the bathroom and get another drink, and when I returned, Jed and Candace had sat back down, deep in conversation.  I did not feel right interrupting and asking Candace for another dance.

No one else that I knew was there, and no one else that I knew showed up later that night except for Ben Lawton.  I had nothing against Ben, but I was not looking for guys to dance with.  After about an hour and a half, at the halfway point of the night, Matthew gathered everyone into a circle for the birthday dance.  I was bored and frustrated, since I had only danced two times so far that night, once with Candace and once with a stranger who was actually kind enough to say yes.

For the birthday dance, everyone with a birthday that week would stand in the middle of the circle, and people would jump in and dance with one of the birthday people until someone else cut in.  Usually each person’s turn lasted for about thirty seconds.  Today there were two guys and one girl in the circle.  I stepped in about a minute after the song started, slowly walking toward the birthday girl.  I took her and started doing the basic step, then turned her to the outside.  “Happy birthday!” I said.

“Thanks,” she replied, smiling.

I was about to try what I learned in the beginner lesson today, switching into the Charleston basic step, when another guy came up and stole her from me.  I walked back to the circle on the outside, feeling defeated.  I hardly got to dance with her at all.  That other guy cut in way too early.  I sat down for a while.  Maybe I would have more luck the second half of the night.

As the regular dancing started again, I sat on the sidelines slowly sipping on my third Roy Rogers of the night, wondering if drinking something alcoholic would make me feel better but not ready yet to give up my personal opposition to drinking alcohol. Ben Lawton saw me and came over to say hi.

“Hey, Ben,” I replied.

“How are you?”

“I’m not having a good night, honestly.  No one is dancing with me.”

“Just go up and ask.”

“I have been.  I’ve mostly gotten turned down.”

“That happens sometimes,” Ben said.  “Don’t let it get to you.”  But it was in fact getting to me.  Not only was I feeling like some kind of loser, but I was bored, just sitting there watching people dance.  I took a sip of my Roy Rogers, and Ben asked, “What are you drinking?”

“Roy Rogers,” I said.

“Do you not drink alcohol?” he asked.  “You’re old enough, aren’t you?  I always thought you were in my year.”

“I turned twenty-two in August,” I explained.  “I just don’t want to drink.  I don’t like the idea of being out of control of myself.  It doesn’t seem Christ-like to me.  And I didn’t grow up around drinking.  My dad drank a lot when he was younger, but he’s been sober since I was in elementary school.”

“Makes sense.”

Ben and I continued making small talk about my student teaching and his classes; he was my year in school, but he had not graduated yet.  When the next song began, he said, “I’m gonna go dance.  It was good talking to you.  I hope you enjoy the rest of the night.  Go ask someone to dance.”

“I’ll try.”

I got up and noticed Brooke standing by herself.  She promised that she would save a dance for me.  Maybe she was ready for that now.  I walked up to her and asked, “May I have that dance you promised now?”

“No,” she replied, sounding a bit uncomfortable and irritated.  She walked away from me.

I sat back down, confused.  She seemed so friendly when we were paired in the beginner lesson.  What changed?  It almost felt like she had suddenly found out something about me that made her want to avoid me.  But, if so, what did she find out?  And who told her?  The only people I knew here were Jed, Candace, and Ben, and none of them would have any reason to make Brooke not want to have anything to do with me.

I sat there bored and not dancing for another half hour after I talked to Ben.  By now, it was 10:15, and I had pretty much given up trying to find someone to dance with.  I was ready to go home.  Jed had driven separately, so I did not have to stay until closing and give him a ride home.  I was not having fun, and I was under no obligation to stay.  I walked around to make sure I said good night to the few people there whom I knew.  Jed and Candace were sitting at a table, talking; I told both of them that I was feeling unusually tired, and wanted to call it a night early, I said the same thing to Ben a few minutes later.

As I walked toward the door, I saw Brooke and her friends standing at the side of the dance floor.  Brooke made eye contact with me, and I stopped for a second, holding on to a shred of hope that she was about to realize that she had not yet fulfilled her promise to save me a dance.  Then I looked away and continued walking.  It was not worth getting turned down again.  I started to walk away.

Just as I turned away from Brooke and her friends, I heard a voice behind me shout, “Yeah!  Turn around and go home!  You’re weird!”  I turned back to look at them, and they were all giggling.  I started walking away from them again.

As I passed the bar, the bartender who had made my Roy Rogers asked me, “Another one?”

“No thanks,” I said.  “I’m gonna call it a night early.”

“Sleep well!  I’ll see you next week!”

I nodded, then walked to the car and sat there for about five minutes, thinking, before I turned the car on.  I do not know if it was Brooke or one of her friends who called me weird.  I do not even know for sure that their comment was directed at me, but it certainly appeared to be. None of this made sense to me. Brooke was inexplicably two-faced, acting friendly and nice and then suddenly turning on me.

One person was nice to me that night: the bartender who made my drink.  I genuinely appreciated her gesture.  The fact that she knew my regular drink without me even having to say it really made me feel like I belonged there, like Sunday swing dancing at the U-Bar was a part of my life and I had a place among the people there.

But nothing else tonight gave me that feeling.  My usual friends that I danced with were not there, and they had been showing up less and less often since school started.  And now I was finding it impossible to dance with new people. I realized on the way home that night that I was no longer having fun swing dancing.  New episodes of The X-Files were scheduled to begin the following week, at the same time as swing dancing, and when I found out that Eddie Baker and John Harvey and their roommates at the De Anza house were going to start their X-Files watch parties again, I chose that over swing dancing.  The nice bartender had said that she would see me next week, but she did not see me the following week.  In fact, I never saw her again.

This was not, however, my last time swing dancing ever, nor was it even my last time swing dancing at the U-Bar.  I went back under somewhat different circumstances several months later, but I eventually quit again.  That is a story for another time.

I came back to the world of swing dancing in 2007.  I was in my early thirties, living about thirty miles from Jeromeville across the Drawbridge in Laguna Ciervo, and I followed some friends from the church I went to at the time to a weekly swing dance in midtown Capital City called, appropriately enough, Midtown Swing.  As I went through the beginner lesson and started dancing with my friends, all the muscle memories from eight and nine years earlier came flooding back to me.  I even saw Ben Lawton there; he was still around and still swing dancing after all those years.

I was also caught off guard that night in 2007, because Lacey Kilpatrick was there.  That was only the second time I had seen her since moving away from Jeromeville, and things still felt a little awkward, plus it was completely unexpected because I never knew her as a swing dancer.  And that encounter was even more strange in hindsight, since I became a regular at Midtown Swing for about a decade after that, and I never saw Lacey there again.  Wait… I haven’t mentioned Lacey in this story yet.  Hold that thought.  That is also a story for another time.


Readers: Have you ever quit a regular hobby? What made you quit? Tell me about it in the comments.

I wrote on the other blog some behind-the-scenes information about this episode: click here.

If you like what you read, don’t forget to like this post and follow this blog. Also follow Don’t Let The Days Go By on Facebook and Instagram.


June 5, 1998.  Sharing my story while wearing a funny shirt. (#176)

I drove to campus that night feeling a little bit nervous.  I had been to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship almost every Friday night of every school year since October of sophomore year, but tonight was different for two reasons.

First of all, I was going to be speaking in front of the entire group tonight.

Three weeks earlier, Tabitha Sasaki was reading the announcements at JCF, and she asked all of us seniors to meet briefly afterward to plan our senior night.  Courtney Kohl, Erica Foster, and Sasha Travis were sitting behind me; I remember this because anything involving Sasha stuck out in my mind those days.  It was also the first time I had ever seen Sasha at JCF.  She was not a student at the University of Jeromevillle, she was still in high school, but she would be starting at UJ next year.  She knew me, and the girls she sat with, from church, and she was going to share an apartment with those girls next year.

I was making small talk with the girls after the last worship song and prayer ended.  About five minutes later, I said, “I should go to that senior meeting now.  Hey, Sasha, you should come.  You’re a senior.”

“Not the right kind of senior,” Sasha replied.  The three of them laughed.

I walked out to the lobby next to the lecture hall where JCF met.  After most of the seniors had arrived, we began to discuss the events for the upcoming senior night.  Three people would be sharing testimonies.  I had occasionally shared my testimony with small group Bible studies, and in individual one-on-one conversations, but I had never shared all of that with a large group.

“Anyone else want to share?” Tabitha asked after one person had volunteered so far.  Apparently she was in charge of planning the senior night.  “I think it would be good to hear from some people who haven’t shared a lot before.”

I looked around.  No one was raising their hand.  Maybe this was my chance.  I always wanted to be more of a part of this group, and since I was not in the inner cliques, I rarely got to share.  All I had to do was tell my story, and storytelling was something I was good at.  And maybe I had things to say that others might want, or need, to hear.  “May I share?” I asked.

“Greg!” Tabitha replied.  “Sure!”

“I think you have a great testimony,” Eddie Baker added.  “Thanks for volunteering.”

Now, three weeks later, even though I had volunteered for this, I was a little bit nervous.  I still wanted to share, and I was sure that I would do fine; it was just an unfamiliar situation.  And I was also nervous because I was wearing a silly t-shirt with Brent Wang’s face on it.

A few months ago, Taylor Santiago told me about a late-night conversation he had with Brent.  The two of them were talking about how most of the advice given in Christian youth and college groups regarding dating was, essentially, “don’t.”  I had heard a lot of preaching about dating with purpose, with an end goal of marriage, and of course about not having sex outside of marriage and setting boundaries to avoid this kind of temptation.  But, as Taylor suggested to me, these groups fell short of actually offering suggestions for Christians to form healthy dating relationships.  Taylor and Brent had had lengthy discussions among themselves about what such a group would look like.  As their idea began to take shape, they jokingly began referring to  the group as the Brent Wang Fellowship.

The group still had yet to plan any meetings, but Taylor had made T-shirts for the group.  I thought Taylor was joking when he first started talking about the T-shirts, but then a couple weeks ago he asked if I was still interested, and that he needed money if I was.  I said sure and paid him, and now I was wearing the shirt for the first time.  The shirt was white, with a picture of Brent’s grinning face, and the dark blue letters “BWF” at the bottom.

Brent was in the lobby of 170 Evans when I arrived.  He saw me and pointed at my shirt.  “Nice shirt!” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied, laughing a little.  I entered the lecture hall and looked around, noticing two other people who were friends with Brent and Taylor wearing their own BWF shirts.  I chose to wear this tonight, but I still felt a little silly.

Xander Mackey saw me approaching.  “Hey, Greg,” he said.  “What’s with those shirts?  Is this the Brent Wang Fan Club or something?”

“Brent Wang Fellowship,” I corrected.  “Brent and Taylor Santiago have this idea to start a group to talk about healthy Christian dating.”

“Shouldn’t you name your group after someone who actually has a girlfriend, then?”

“Ouch,” I said, laughing.  “Harsh.”

“Hey, you’re giving your testimony tonight, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.  “I’ve never done this before, but I think I’ll be all right.”

“You will.  God wants us all to tell our stories.  And you know the story, because it happened to you.”

“That’s true.”

“Where are you sitting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come sit with us,” Xander said.  I followed him to an empty seat next to where he was sitting; Raphael Stevens and John Harvey, also seniors, were sitting next to him.

When I heard music start to play, I looked to the front of the room, where Brent, Tabitha, and the rest of the worship team began playing.  “Welcome to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship!” Tabitha said into her microphone.  “It’s senior night!  You’re gonna hear some great testimonies from three of our graduating seniors.  But first, let’s worship the Lord.”  The band played three worship songs, all of which were familiar to me by now after having attended Jeromeville Christian Fellowship for a while.  “Lord Jesus,” Brent said into the microphone after the last song ended.  “I pray tonight that you will be with all of our seniors.  Give them the words that you want them to share, and open the ears and minds of those hearing their messages.  I pray that we will send off our graduating seniors with the knowledge that God is with them wherever they will go, and that they will be shining lights in the world.  Amen.”

Janet McAllen, who was on the paid staff team who ran JCF, along with her husband, came to the front next for announcements.  This was the last JCF meeting of the year, with final exams beginning in a week, so most of the announcements pertained to next year, signing up for Outreach Camp and small groups.  I already had a small group, and I would not be at Outreach Camp because I would be student teaching already by that time.  One announcement caught my attention: there would be a Bible study meeting this summer at the De Anza house, for anyone who would be in Jeromeville over the summer.  I would definitely be going to that.

“A few of our graduating seniors will be sharing their testimonies now,” Janet announced.  “First up, please welcome Greg Dennison.”  I walked up to the front of the room nervously as over a hundred students applauded, their eyes now all on me.  I pulled a note card out of my pocket, where I had outlined the major points of my talk, and placed it on a music stand that the worship team had been using.  I could refer back to this to make sure I did not forget any of the major points.  As soon as I turned to face the group, people began to giggle and chuckle.  “Is that Brent?” I heard someone nearby say.  They were not laughing at me; they were just laughing at the BWF shirt.

My shirt, I thought.  Suddenly I thought of a way to begin my talk that I had not thought of earlier.  “Hi,” I said.  “So I don’t really get up here in front of everyone very often.  I kind of think that maybe that’s from God.  Like, he knows that if I’m in the spotlight too often, it might, you know, go to my head, and I’d do something crazy, like put my face on a shirt.”  I paused as I heard laughter slowly rise from the crowd.  “I’m just kidding,” I said, laughing a little at my own joke.  “Brent is a great guy.  Anyway, I’m going to share my testimony now.

“I wasn’t involved in JCF at all my freshman year,” I explained.  “I grew up Catholic.  My mom’s family has been Catholic since before any of my great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents came to the US.  Growing up, my mom went to Mass every week, but she didn’t usually force me to go all the time.  I went maybe once a month.  My mom’s church doesn’t really have much for kids, and when I did do their stuff for kids, the other kids teased and bullied me, so I didn’t want to go.  As I got older, though, I started going more often.  I had an unrequited crush on a girl from school who also went to my church, and I have to admit, that was one of the things that got me going more often.”  A few people chuckled as I paused.  I gestured in Sarah Winters’ direction in the crowd and continued,  “I told the crush story once to Sarah Winters, and she told me that that was God knowing how to get my attention and bring me back to him.  I had never really thought of it that way at the time.

“So I got to Jeromeville, and Mom told me to look for the Newman Center, the Catholic student ministry.  I went to Mass there every week and got involved with singing in the church choir.  I lived in a dorm, and I didn’t drink or smoke or party or anything, so I hung out a lot with other people who didn’t do that stuff.  And most of those people were Christians.  Sarah.  Liz and Ramon and Jason.  Caroline.  Krista.  Charlie.”  Also Taylor and Pete, I thought, but neither of them appeared to be here tonight.  They had become more involved with Jeromeville Covenant Church and less involved with JCF over the years.  “I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up, and it was nice to know that there were people who actually cared about me.

One night, some of those people were sitting in the hall near my room, during quiet hours, and they woke me up at one in the morning.  I was really mad.  I picked up something to throw, it was a cardboard box, and I threw it into the hallway and almost hit Sarah.  Sorry, Sarah.”  I looked up at Sarah; she started laughing, and others in the room joined in.  “I had a lot of issues with outbursts like this when I was young, and I was so upset with myself that I had let my new friends see that side of me.  I ran outside and sat in my car for a while, contemplating quitting school and running away.  I finally decided I would just go back to my room, try to get some sleep, and apologize to everyone in the morning.  Just hope for the best, I guess.

“But I never got back to my room.  I walked into the lobby, and all of the people who saw me get upset, they had all been sitting in the lobby the whole time, praying for me.”  I paused for dramatic effect.  “This was the first time I can remember really having a meaningful experience of seeing Christians acting like Christians, and it blew me away.  I was so used to being scolded and corrected when I got upset like that, and it felt nice to know that some people were actually concerned for my well-being.

“The following year, sophomore year, I lived alone.  By the time I figured out that I had to hurry up and sign a lease for the next year, all my friends from the dorm already had plans.  So I was alone much of the time.  It wasn’t like in the dorm, where I could just wander around the halls if I felt like hanging out with someone.  I was depressed a lot.  My friends from freshman year had invited me to JCF before, so I took them up on their offer and started going to large group with them.  I wasn’t really looking for a deeper connection with Jesus yet; I just wanted to see my friends.  But the more I got to know people from JCF, I noticed something different about these people.  I kept hearing, and seeing, more and more that knowing Jesus meant something more than just going to church and not drinking and partying.

“A few months later, I had another experience with people caring for me on a bad day.  I was feeling down and lonely because all my friends were busy one night after large group, so I just sat there as everyone left.  Eddie and Xander found me while they were cleaning up, and we had a good talk about life and God and stuff.  They invited me to hang out with them afterward.  That was the weekend of the pro football championship, and two days later I was hanging out with them, watching the game.  The game was terrible, because the Texas Toros won.”  I heard a few laughs from the crowd, mixed with a few boos apparently coming from Toros fans.  “But I still had a lot of fun.

The final piece of the puzzle came a few weeks after the football game.  It was a Thursday afternoon, February 15, 1996.  I was feeling discouraged again, and I ran into Janet while I was walking through the MU.  She asked how I was doing, I said I wasn’t having a good day, and then she asked the most important question anyone has ever asked me.” I paused.  “She asked, ‘Do you know Jesus?’  If she had said, ‘Are you a Christian,’ I would have said yes.  But, honestly, I really didn’t know Jesus, so I asked what she meant.  Janet explained to me about how we are all sinful, fallen human beings, and that sin separates us from God.  Jesus died on the cross for us, to bring us eternal life, and nothing we can do without Jesus can bring us back to God.  Jesus says that he is the way, the truth, and the life. Paul says that if you confess that Jesus is Lord, and believe that he rose from the dead, you will be saved.  Janet asked me if I believed this, and if I was ready to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior.  I was ready.  I said yes, and we prayed.

“Since then, life certainly hasn’t been perfect.  The Bible never says that things will be perfect.  But life has felt more hopeful.  I know that God is with me, and that he has a plan for me, even when I can’t see it all.  Janet gave me a few verses to memorize, and that night, I memorized my first verse, Romans 5:5.  ‘And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.’

“So, all of you, please remember.  If you have a friend who doesn’t quite fit in, if you know someone who is feeling alone, reach out to that person.  There are a lot of people out there who just need a friend.  Your actions reaching out to those people just might plant a seed that will make a difference in eternity, just like how my friends planted that seed for me.”  I paused, then closed awkwardly with, “Thank you, and God bless.”

I nervously took a breath.  It was over.  I had told my story.  The entire room erupted into applause.  I smiled.  These people, some of whom I did not even know, were all being supportive of me.  But this was not about me.  I was just telling them how God had worked in my life, and hopefully someone heard something that God needed to tell them.

I walked back to my seat, where Xander patted me on the back.  Raphael stood up and squeezed past Xander and me; he was scheduled to speak next.  He told a story about having fallen in with a partying crowd in high school, but Eddie was his freshman roommate, and he started attending the Bible study that met in their room.  Kelly Graham, who was there that first night I hung out with Eddie and Xander, was the third speaker; she spoke about having grown up in a Christian family, and how her involvement with JCF, along with a year of studying abroad in Hungary, strengthened her desire to do missions overseas in the near future.

After Kelly’s testimony, all of the seniors were invited to the front of the room.  We stood in a line, and each of the staff members prayed for us, along with a few others.  We then sat back down and sang along with everyone else as the worship team played one more song.  After the song, I stood up and looked at the guys sitting next to me.

“That was good,” Xander said.  “You really shared your story well.”

“Thank you,” I replied.  “And thank you for being there that night.”

“We kind of had a common theme of friends inviting us to JCF,” Raphael commented.

“Yeah.  It’s so important to be in community with the people around you.”

“Hey, are you going to Man of Steel tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I replied.  “I’ll see you there?”

“Yeah!  I love Man of Steel.  It’s so much fun.”

Later that night, as I was mingling with others in the room, a freshman whom I did not know well, but had seen before, came up to me.  “Thanks so much for sharing your story, Greg,” he said.  “It was perfect, because I invited my roommate tonight.  He’s been curious to know more about Jesus, but this is the first time he actually came with me.”

“Nice,” I replied.  “God knew he needed to hear these testimonies.”

I had no plans that night, but unlike the night I met Eddie and Xander, I was okay with going home early this time.  Tomorrow was the Man of Steel competition, and I was going to be hanging out with a bunch of the guys from JCF all day.  I had to be at the De Anza house at ten in the morning, and I did not want to be too tired.  I went home after the room had mostly emptied, feeling like God really was using my story to help people, and as I walked to the car, I prayed for that freshman who had come for the first time.

I got to share this story at JCF one more time, at Alumni Night in the spring of 2016.  The head staff at the time were former students whose years on campus overlapped with mine, and I had recently gotten together with them to catch up.  At one point, I told some of the stories leading to how I became a Christian, and how my friendships in JCF played a key role. They said that my story would be a good one to share at that year’s Alumni Night.  The theme for that night was “God Working Through the Generations,” and as part of the multi-generational theme, they scheduled testimonies from an older alumnus, a younger alumnus, an upperclassman, and a freshman.  I was the older alumnus, 39 years old at the time. Students at UJ in 2016 lived in a completely different world than the world I knew as a student in the 1990s.  But the point of my message, about reaching out to friends when they go through tough times, was just as true. A few students afterward came up and told me that they had either invited friends to JCF or had been invited by friends, and that my words meant a lot to them.

I had many more adventures over the years involving the BWF shirt.  But those are stories for later.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone would remember me if I were to suddenly disappear.  Have I really made an impact?  Have I changed the world at all?  I may not have made the same kind of impact that others may have, I may not have my face on a T-shirt, but nights like that one, when I got to share my story, remind me that I have made an impact in some way to some people.  


If Don’t Let The Days Go By were a TV show, this would have been one of those episodes where the writers get lazy, and they just slap together a story using clips from previous episodes.

Readers: Has there ever been a time when you told someone about things you had been through, and it made an impact on them? Or have you ever been impacted by hearing someone else’s life story? Tell me about it in the comments.

If you like what you read, don’t forget to like this post and follow this blog. Also follow Don’t Let The Days Go By on Facebook and Instagram.


October 10, 1997.  A silly party game at Scott and Joe’s apartment. (#148)

As I walked from the parking lot toward Evans Hall for the Jeromeville Christian Fellowship meeting, I quickly realized that I was probably underdressed wearing just a t-shirt and jeans.  October days in Jeromeville were usually still warm and summerlike; I had worn shorts to class that morning.  But the nights were quickly becoming cooler, and the sun was setting earlier.  It was almost completely dark by the time JCF started that night, and I felt a chill in the air.  Once I got inside, though, I would probably be more comfortable.

I had more friends at this point of my life than I had ever had before, but I was definitely a follower, not a leader, when it came to socializing.  Although JCF was supposed to be a time of worship, prayer, and Scripture, one of the things I looked forward to the most was the possibility of people socializing afterward, whatever form that may take.  I did not typically initiate social activities; I was nervous, and afraid of rejection, and I was not always familiar with the kinds of things that normal people did for fun.  But I also did not want to be presumptuous and invite myself somewhere that I was not welcome.  And, of course, all of this socializing had not led to any better luck with finding a girlfriend.  I had never had a girlfriend, and I had never even so much as kissed a girl.

Now that I was taking my Christian faith more seriously, I was constantly being told to pray about this and submit to God’s will, but so far God’s will did not involve a girlfriend for me.  Nothing had ever worked out with anyone from my year or the year behind me.  There were two cute sophomore girls at JCF whom I was interested in, Carrie Valentine and Sadie Rowland, but so far no opportunities had come up to make anything happen.  Maybe I would have better luck with this year’s new freshmen, although that might bring up questions of whether or not an 18-year-old was too young for me. I was a 21-year-old senior hoping to graduate in 1998.

Sarah Winters and Liz Williams were working the name tag table.  “Hey, Greg,” Sarah said, writing “Greg” on a name tag.  At the same time, a guy named Silas walked up to Liz’s table, and she filled out a name tag for him.

“Hey,” I said, noticing something interesting.  I pointed back and forth between Sarah and Silas and said, “We’re all in Math 115 together.”

“Oh, yeah!” Sarah replied.

“How do you like that class so far?” Silas asked.

“Seems pretty straightforward.  Unlike Math 150.”

“I know!  150 gets kind of weird.”

“What class is that?” Liz asked.

“Number theory,” Sarah replied.  Sarah, Silas, and I were all mathematics majors.  I found it noteworthy that Silas had already taken Math 150, since it was usually a senior class and Silas was only a junior, a year behind me.  But I knew that he was some kind of mathematical genius who had completed a lot of university-level coursework before beginning at the University of Jeromeville.

I looked around the room and found an open seat next to Scott Madison and Amelia Dye.  “Hey, Greg,” Scott said.  “What are you doing after large group?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“You’re coming to my place.”

“What for?”

“Just hanging out.”

“Okay,” I said.  Finding appropriate situations for socializing can be difficult and scary for me sometimes, but other times it was easy, like tonight.

After large group ended, Scott told me he had some things to get ready, and he reminded me to show up at his apartment in half an hour.  I walked around, looking for other people to say hi to.  I saw Sadie a few rows behind me; I walked to the aisle and back toward her.  “Hey,” I said after she turned around and saw me.

“Hi, Greg!  How was your week?”

“Not bad,” I said.  “We had a performance yesterday for chorus.  They’re renaming the drama building after a professor who was instrumental in founding the department, and we had to sing this weird-sounding modern piece with lyrics that she wrote.”

“That’s cool!  I heard about that in the newsroom.  Oh, yeah, did you see I got my first article published in the Daily Colt this week?”

“I did!  I saw your name on the article.  It was the one about the girl who didn’t know she was pregnant, right?”

“Yeah!  Isn’t that crazy?  How do you not know you were pregnant?”

“I guess it’s possible, if you don’t gain much weight during the pregnancy.  But still, her doctor told her multiple times she wasn’t pregnant.  Isn’t it your job as a doctor to know what’s going on with your patient?”

“I know.  At least she and the baby are okay.  And I didn’t really want to write fluff pieces like this, but it’s a start.”

“Yeah.  Put in your time doing this now, and then later you can write the kind of stories you really want to write.”

“I want to write about city news and politics.  Last year’s city writers were way too nice to the crazy liberals who run this town.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “Someone needs to tell the truth, and not just suck up to them and their ilk.”

“Their what?”

“I never told you that story?”

“No,” Sadie replied.  I proceeded to tell her about the time I got into an argument on the Quad last year with a City Council member who was against a plan to widen an underpass.  Traffic backed up horribly at that underpass, but according to these elected officials, wide four-lane roads do not belong in a small town like Jeromeville.  “She told me that I was ‘of a different ilk.’”

“‘Ilk,’” Sadie replied.  “That’s a funny word.”

“Seriously.  Jeromeville has fifty-six thousand people.  That’s not a small town.  That’s big enough to have traffic jams.”

As the conversation paused for a few seconds, I contemplated whether or not to invite Sadie to Scott’s house, and if so, how to do so.  I did not feel right bringing an uninvited guest to someone else’s house.  But I really wanted to keep talking to her.  The point became moot, however, when Sadie said, “I should get going.  I’m really tired tonight.  I had a long day.”

“All right,” I replied.  “I’ll see you next week?”

“Yeah!  Have a good night!”  Sadie gave me a hug, then walked out of the building.


Scott led a Bible study on campus for freshmen, and when I arrived at Scott’s apartment that night, a good sized crowd had already shown up.  I recognized Tim and Blake, two freshmen from Scott’s study, sitting and talking to Scott. My Bible study that year was Joe Fox, Scott’s roommate; he was sitting next to his girlfriend, Alyssa Kramer. Kieran Ziegler, John Harvey, Brent Wang, a freshman girl named Chelsea, Silas the math major, and a few others were also there.

Blake and Scott were talking about weddings. Blake said that he had recently been to his cousin’s wedding, and Scott and Amelia were currently planning their wedding next summer. I walked to a couch and sat down, not in a mood to think about weddings. I would probably never have one myself.

After about twenty more minutes of mingling and snacks, Amelia began asking if anyone had ever played a party game called Psychologist.  “Have any of you guys ever played that?  One player is the psychologist, and he has to ask the others questions?”  One other person had some vague memory of the game, but most of us did not know this game.  Amelia continued explaining, “So the psychologist leaves the room, and everyone else decides that they’re going to answer the questions, like, in some certain way.  Not necessarily if it’s true or false, but according to something else.  We all know how we’re answering, and the psychologist has to figure it out.”

“I don’t get it,” Alyssa replied.

“It’ll make more sense when we start playing.  Can we try it?  It’s a fun group game.”  No one objected.  “Who wants to be the psychologist?” Amelia asked.

“I’ll do it,” John said.  “I feel like I should, since I’m a psych major.”

John stepped outside and closed the door behind him.  Amelia explained, “So the way I learned the game is that you answer the questions as if you are the person on your left.  So, for example, Brent is sitting to the left of Greg, so if John asks, ‘Greg, are you a math major,’ Greg would say no, because Brent isn’t a math major.  If John asks, ‘Greg, do you play piano,’ Greg would say yes, because that’s Brent’s answer.  Brent plays piano.  So do we all understand?”

“What if you don’t know the answer?” Brent said.  “Like, what if he asks me, I don’t know, ‘Have you ever been to France?’  I would answer for Scott, but I don’t know if Scott has ever been to France.”

“Just say I don’t know,” Amelia explained.  “I’ll go get John, and we can start playing.”  Amelia went outside to tell John to come in.

“It’s cold out there!” John said.  “You guys ready?”

“We’re ready,” Amelia replied.  “Just start asking yes-or-no questions.”

“Okay,” John said.  “Joe, is it cold outside?”

Joe appeared confused.  “Yes?” he replied.

“You should probably ask people questions about themselves,” Amelia explained.  “That’ll make this easier to figure out.”

“Okay,” John said.  “Amelia, are you getting married next year?”

Blake was on Amelia’s left.  “No,” Amelia replied.

“Hmm,” John said.  “Greg, are you tall?”

“No,” I said.  I was six foot four, but Brent, to my left, was shorter than average for a male university student.  A few people giggled, and Brent gave me a look as if to express humorous annoyance at me calling him out for being short.

“Chelsea, are you female?”

Tim was sitting to Chelsea’s left.  “No,” Chelsea replied, trying to hold back giggles.  A few others laughed.

John continued asking questions that had very obvious answers.  “Brent, do you have dark hair?”

“No,” dark-haired Brent said, with blond Scott to his left.

“Joe, are you a man?”

“Yes,” Joe replied.  I was on his left.

“Hmm,” John contemplated.  This was the first time someone had given an answer that was actually true.  “Greg, are you a man?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Alyssa, are you a man?”

“Yes,” Alyssa replied emphatically, with Joe to her left.  John continued this pattern of asking the same question to multiple people, and after about fifteen minutes, he figured out that we were all answering as if we were the person sitting to our left.

“I wanna play again,” Blake said.

“We can’t really play again, because everyone knows the secret now,” Tim replied.

“We could just think of a different way to answer the questions,” Amelia explained. “Who wants to be the psychologist this time?”

Silas volunteered to be the psychologist; he went into the bathroom and turned on the fan, instead of going outside in the cold.  “Anyone have any ideas of how to answer the questions?”

“We could answer for the person sitting, I don’t know, three to the right,” Alyssa suggested.

“That’ll be too easy to figure out, after we did the person to the left,” John replied.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Blake said.  “We all pick someone, and we look at that person’s hand.  If the hand is palm up, we say yes, and if the hand is palm down, we say no.”

“That’s a great idea!” Amelia said.

“I’ll do the hand,” Kieran said.  “I’m sitting in an armchair, so it’s easy to see.  If my left hand is palm up, say yes, and if my left hand is palm down, say no.”

We called Silas back into the room.  Kieran sat in the armchair with his palm down.  “Tim, are you a freshman?”

“No.”

“Greg, are you in my Math 115 class?”

“No.”

“Kieran, are you a man?”

I looked around the room, where I could see people trying to hold back laughter.  Kieran’s own left hand was the only thing requiring him to claim that he was not a man, and Silas had unwittingly exposed this just three questions into the game.  But Kieran had the perfect response.  “Hmm,” he said loudly as he furrowed his brow and scratched his chin with his left hand, palm up, as if pantomiming being deep in thought.  “Yes,” he said while his palm was up.  A ripple of giggles flowed through the room, since everyone but Silas knew exactly while Kieran moved his hand that way.  Kieran then put his hand back down, palm still up.

Silas, confused about why everyone was laughing, asked, “Tim, do you wear glasses?”

“Yes.”

“Greg, do you wear glasses?”

I did not.  “Yes,” I said.

“Brent, do you wear glasses?”

Brent did wear glasses, but Kieran had switched his hand to the palm down position as Silas was asking the question.  “No,” Brent said.

The questions went around in circles for almost an hour, with people occasionally laughing when humorous answers were given.  At one point, Silas asked me if I was tall; Kieran’s hand was palm up, so I said yes.  Next, Silas asked Chelsea if she was tall; she was five foot two, but Kieran’s hand was still palm up, so she said yes.  That made people laugh.  Kieran switched his hand as Silas was asking other people if they were tall, and he inadvertently asked me again with Kieran’s palm down this time.

“No,” I said.

Silas paused, realizing what had just happened.  “Wait,” he said.  “Earlier, you said you were tall.”  I smiled silently, wondering if he was finally figuring this out.  “Alyssa, do you have brown hair?”

“No.”

Silas thought about this.  “Alyssa, do you have brown hair?”

“No.”

“Alyssa, do you have brown hair?”

“No.”

Kieran switched his hand, grinning.  “Alyssa, do you have brown hair?”

“Yes.”

“Greg, are the Captains your favorite football team?” Silas asked.  I was wearing a Bay City Captains shirt that night.

“Yes.”

“Greg, are the Captains your favorite team?”

“Yes.”

Kieran switched his hand.  “Are the Captains your favorite team?”

“No.”

This continued for another several minutes.  Silas seemed to be counting how many times we answered one way before switching to the other answer, and Kieran wisely switched his hand after inconsistent numbers of questions and answers.  Silas began watching things in the room more carefully, and he eventually noticed Kieran’s hand and figured it out.

“Finally!” Silas said.  “That was a good one.”

“I know,” Kieran replied.  “I thought I was in trouble when you asked if I was a man.”

“That was hilarious,” I said.  “Brilliant performance.”

By the time our second game of Psychologist ended, it was getting late, and the crowd at Scott and Joe’s apartment began dispersing.  I drove home, quietly unlocked the door because I did not know if any of my roommates were asleep yet, and went to bed.

It took me a while to fall asleep, and I thought about the events of that night as I drifted off to sleep.  Psychologist was a fun game.  I wondered if I would ever be able to introduce the game to a new group.  I never did, though, and to this day, I have only played it that one time.  The game was fascinating.  At first, everything looks like nonsense, but after asking enough questions, and making enough careful observations, some order begins to emerge in the players’ replies.

Would I really never get to experience my own wedding?  I did not know, but it sure felt like it.  Everyone else was getting into relationships.  Scott and Amelia were getting married soon, and so was Josh, one of my roommates.  I knew plenty of girls, but I did not know how to make anything happen.  Sadie was lots of fun to talk to, but she always seemed too busy to do fun things after JCF.  Carrie Valentine was not even at large group tonight; I had not talked to her all week.  When would it be my turn?  Maybe life really was like a game of Psychologist.  Maybe God was working behind the scenes in ways that I could not understand.  Things happen to everyone that make no sense.  But after asking enough questions and enough observation, an order begins to emerge.  It takes time to understand what is happening, sometimes decades or more, but God has a plan, and someday it will all make sense.


Readers: What’s your favorite party game? Tell me about it in the comments.

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August 1, 1997. Oh, how I wish that I might be the one. (#140)

While I was in Oregon that summer, away from all of my friends and with less of a social life than I had in Jeromeville, my mind had plenty of time to explore some creative ideas.  Since I did not have my computer with me, I could not make any new episodes of Dog Crap and Vince.  I also could not work on Try, Try Again, a novel I had begun a year and a half ago about a high school student who needs a fresh start, but is not ready to move on to the next stage in life, so he runs away and fakes his age to get a few more years of high school.  That manuscript was saved on the hard drive of my computer back in Jeromeville.  By now I had lost interest in finishing Try, Try Again; I had moved on from whatever thoughts had inspired its creation.  I never worked on it again; it remains unfinished to this day.

I was playing with an idea for a multi-part science fiction story, inspired by my recent rediscovery of Star Wars.  My story began with humans living on another planet, ruled by another race.  Their rebellion against their overlords would take up the first three stories.  Then, hundreds of years later, in the next episode, it would be revealed that the alien overlords had been secretly living among the humans, plotting to reconquer their planet when the time was right.  Unlike Star Wars, I was not going to leave my readers hanging with just the middle of the story, waiting to get the beginning and end of the story in movies that would never be made.  My story had not only a beginning and a middle, but also an ending, in which hundreds more years would pass, and the humans would battle their overlords again, winning once and for all.  But then I would write one more story, in which the conquering race would reappear.  They could never truly be defeated.  This idea never made it farther than an outline in which I would summarize each of the ten tentative episodes in one sentence each.

I had no computer in my room, so if I wanted to write for an extended period of time, I either had to write by hand with pencil and paper, or walk all the way to Keller Hall and use the computer in room 202, the study room for the other students from the summer math research program.  Writing in 202 Keller carried the risk that one of my classmates would ask me about my writing.  I did not feel particularly comfortable with the idea of sharing my writing with those people.

Also, with no computer in my room, I had to do all my emailing from 202 Keller.  My mother wrote almost every day.  I also had a few girls I met flirting in chat rooms who emailed me occasionally, and a few of my friends from Jeromeville actually checked their email during the summer when school was out.  Many of my friends were currently on summer mission trips with churches or Christian ministry organizations; although they did not have frequent access to email, some of them occasionally sent out mass emails to their supporters.

I got one such email today, from Erica Foster.  It was Friday, I was tired, and I decided in the late morning while sitting frustrated in front of a computer in 202 Keller that I was done doing math research for the day.  Keith and Marjorie were sitting on a couch across the room, talking about things that were not math.  Ivan and Emily, the other students working on the same project as me, each had their own things to work on, so I was not hindering their work by taking the rest of the day off.  I closed the window in which I was writing scripts with the math software Mathematica and opened another window where I could get to my email.

This email was the first time I had heard from Erica since I left Jeromeville in mid-June.  Erica, like me, was a youth group leader at Jeromeville Covenant Church.  She was three years younger than me, having just graduated from Jeromeville High School; she would be joining me and most of the rest of the youth leaders at the University of Jeromeville in the fall.  Her younger brother, Danny, was one of the kids in the youth group at J-Cov.  Danny and his friends were a big part of the reason I got involved in youth ministry, after they randomly brought me with them on an adventure after church one day six months ago.

Erica was in Turkey for the summer, volunteering as a nanny for a family of full-time missionaries that J-Cov supported.  The concept of mission trips and full-time missionaries was relatively new to me.  I grew up Catholic, where missionary work looks a bit different from that of evangelical Christians.

In Erica’s email, she told all about the three children of the family she was helping, what they were learning in school, their hobbies, and what she had been teaching them weekly in place of a proper Sunday school.  She also talked about helping their parents with the Bible study they had started in their community, and about some of the locals who had made a decision to follow Jesus or were asking questions indicating interest in doing so.  At the end of the message, Erica had mentioned that the Turkish word for turkey, the animal, was the same as the Turkish word for India.  “I wonder what they call turkeys in India?” she wrote.  I laughed.

Erica was truly a woman of God.  It took a huge leap of faith to go overseas and do God’s work, and as much as I supported the concept, I could never see myself as the one to actually go overseas.  This trip seemed like the perfect experience for her; she had a very motherly side to her personality, suited to nannying, and having grown up at J-Cov, she had known this family that she was working with for many years.  I needed to find a woman like that for myself, one who showed through the way she lived her life that she truly loved God.

Every once in a while, a poetic phrase will pop into my head regarding whatever, or as the case usually is, whoever is on my mind at the moment, and if the right words come, I will build a poem around that phrase.  I was still thinking about Erica when I walked back to Howard Hall to warm up something in the microwave for lunch, and in my mind, I kept saying to myself, Reflected in her face, I see the Lord.  Iambic pentameter, just like Shakespeare.  This could work.  By the time I got back to my room, I had a second line: Each move she makes the love of Christ reveals.

I would occasionally hide secret messages in my stories and poems.  A few months ago, when Haley Channing told me she did not like me back and I was in the process of getting over her, I wrote a story in which the first letter of each paragraph spelled her name.  Conveniently enough, “Erica Ann Foster” had fourteen letters, and a Shakespearean sonnet had fourteen lines.  And the first two lines I thought of for my poem started with R and E, which were the first two letters of Erica’s full name spelled backward.  I could hide her name in the first letters of each line, but spell it backward.

I wrote down the start of the poem as soon as I got back to my room.  After I ate lunch, I went for a long walk around the Grandvale State campus, composing poetry in my head and occasionally taking a piece of paper out of my pocket and writing something I wanted to make sure to remember.

Erica had done another short mission trip over spring break, to northern Mexico, as part of the high school group at J-Cov.  That was a big trip with hundreds of students from all over the West, organized by a Christian university in California.  The students on that trip got a t-shirt that said “Be The One,” with a Bible verse on the back, saying to be the one that God sends out to spread the Gospel.  I wrote that down, making a note in my head to incorporate that phrase into the poem somehow.

What was I doing?  Was I developing a thing for Erica, falling for her?  This could never work.  We did not really have much in common other than being youth leaders at J-Cov.  And what if Erica did become a full-time missionary someday?  If something serious did happen between us, and we got married, I would have to follow her to some faraway land.  Should I even be letting these thoughts into my head enough to write a poem about it?

Or, perhaps, could I incorporate these thoughts into the poem itself?

Somewhere around the seventh line, I got stuck; I could not make the poem sound like I wanted while making the line start with N, to fit the secret message.  The line I had in mind started with I, and Erica’s name did have an I in it, but not at line 7.  I decided to give up on making the first lines spell Erica’s name backward, opting for the simpler task of making the first letters of each line an anagram, unscrambling to spell “Erica Ann Foster.”  This way, I would not have to change the first six lines that I had already tentatively written.

After I got back from my walk, I got out my copy of Needful Things by Stephen King, a long novel which I had been reading off and on all summer.  I was near the end.  I took a break from reading every once in a while to continue thinking about my poem.  I warmed up something in the microwave again for dinner, and by about ten o’clock I had finished the poem.  At some point, the pronouns in the beginning of the poem had changed, so that I wrote as if I were addressing the woman directly instead of writing about her.

“That I Might Be The One”

Reflected in your face, I see the Lord,
Each move you make the love of Christ reveals;
Through you, His love on everyone is poured,
Such strength in Him no worldly thing conceals.
Oh, how I wish that I might be the one
For which you save that special love, so dear,
In all your smiles I feel the shining sun,
No worries trouble me when you are near.
Now always will these dreams go unfulfilled,
Can bridges cross the years and miles between?
And we’ve no common ground on which to build
Except for Christ, Whose blood has made us clean;
Regarding this, I put my dreams aside,
And lift my cross, and let Him be our guide.

Fourteen lines of iambic pentameter, with the Shakespearean sonnet rhyme scheme, and the first letters of each line unscrambling to spell Erica Ann Foster.  It was perfect.


After my poem was done, I walked back to Keller Hall and went straight to room 202.  This was exactly the kind of quiet, boring night that seemed perfect for logging on to Internet Relay Chat and finding strangers to talk to, particularly girls.  I certainly was not meeting any girls here, and all the cute girls I knew back in Jeromeville were not keeping in touch regularly this summer.

A girl named Valerie whom I had seen off and on in this room for a long time was on tonight.  We had talked some over the last year or so; sometimes she was friendly and sweet, but other times she seemed too busy for me.  A girl who was outgoing and friendly and claimed to be young and pretty would be really popular in any Internet chat room, probably inundated with messages from lonely, horny guys like me.

gjd76: hey
sweetgirl417: hey u! what’s up ;)
gjd76: not much, bored tonight.  i told you i was in oregon for a research internship this summer right?
sweetgirl417: no! how’s that going?
gjd76: i really don’t like it.  math research is weird.  and i don’t have anything in common with the other students in the program.  i really can’t wait to get back to jeromeville
sweetgirl417: oh no :( when do you go back?
gjd76: i leave grandvale august 15, which is also my birthday.  then i’ll be with my family for two weeks.  then back to jeromeville.
sweetgirl417: happy early birthday ;)
gjd76: thanks :) i just keep telling myself it’s almost over… i’ve been telling myself that for a month now though
sweetgirl417: too bad your program isn’t here in missouri, then you could hang out with me ;)
gjd76: that sounds nice ;) i wish
sweetgirl417: so did you ever find a girlfriend? ;)
gjd76: no.  there are four girls in the math program, they’re not my type.
sweetgirl417: anyone you like back home?
gjd76: kinda.  i wrote a poem earlier today, it’s about someone i know back home who is a great girl but it just wouldn’t work between us
sweetgirl417: can i read it?

I sent Valerie my poem; she said it was really good.  I did not tell her about the secret message, and she never found it.  She asked me why I did not think things could ever work out with Erica, and I told her everything that had been on my mind lately.  Valerie then messaged me a winking face and told me again to come to Missouri.  I asked her if she had a boyfriend; she did not.  She had gone through a breakup a few months ago and had not met anyone else, and the only guy interested in her was kind of a creep.  I told her that she should come out west to see me.

After a couple hours of small talk, with lots of winking faces and some jokes about what it would be like if I went to Missouri to meet Valerie, and some talk of kissing, I asked Valerie what she was wearing.  She said a tank top and pajama shorts.  I looked around the room, hoping that, since it was almost one in the morning by now (and two hours later for Valerie in Missouri), no one would come to 202 Keller and ask me what I was doing up so late.  I attempted to take the conversation in a much more intimate direction, and I was pleased that Valerie reciprocated.  The flirty messages soon became overtly sexual, with a lot of touching myself on my end, and at one point I had to tell Valerie that I would be back in a few minutes, since I had to go to the bathroom and take care of something.  I really hoped I was alone in the building, and that no one would question an obviously aroused undergraduate wandering the halls.

I had the sense to log out of the computer before I stepped away from it, just in case anyone else came to 202 Keller while I was gone, and when I returned a few minutes later, I logged back into IRC and typed to Valerie with my recently-washed hands that she was great and that I had had a wonderful time, but I should probably go to bed.  She agreed, since it was even later for her.  I told her that we would talk soon.

I always felt ashamed of myself for having these feelings and acting on them.  My freshman year in the dorm at UJ, I had made the Walk of Shame back from the bathroom after taking care of myself in this way many times.  Tonight, the Walk of Shame was much longer, walking all the way from Keller Hall across the Quad and down the street to Howard Hall.  I was a follower of Jesus, and Jesus said that lust was a sin.  I should be stronger than this; giving in to these moments made me feel weak in my faith.

About a third of the way across the Quad, I saw someone else approaching on the same path.  Whoever it was, I hoped I was not going to have to interact; I was not in the mood.  As the thin figure approached, I realized in horror that it was Marcus Lee, one of the other students from my math program.  Now I was going to have to explain why I was making the Walk of Shame in the middle of the night.  The Quad was wide open, I was over a hundred feet from the nearest tree or any other object that I could hide behind, and Marcus was only about twenty feet away now.  There was no avoiding this interaction.

I looked up at Marcus.  “Greg?” he said.  “What are you doing out so late?”

“I was bored.  Just doing stuff on the computer in Keller.  Emailing people back home.”  I was not lying; early when I was first catching up with Valerie, telling her about the math program, I had my email open in another window, and I had replied to one message.  “I need to get to sleep.”

“Yeah, it’s late,” Marcus replied.  “Hope you sleep well.”

“Thanks.”

I went straight to bed when I got back to Howard Hall, but my mind was so full of guilt and shame that it took a long time to calm down enough to sleep.  Eventually my mind went back to the poem I wrote earlier.  Oh, how I wish that I might be the one.  Erica was a Godly woman who would never want to be with someone who talked dirty with strangers from the Internet.  And neither would any other Christian girl I would ever be interested in.  I was only making things worse for myself.

I never did find out why Marcus was out so late himself.  Could he also have been sneaking off to do something he wanted to keep secret?  Was he just out for a walk?  Or was he going to work on math all night, since he was so focused on his career?  I did not ask; it was none of my business, and if I did not want people to know where I was at night, it was not my place to care where anyone else was.

After tossing and turning for almost an hour, I read Psalm 51.  “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions.”  I knew that God was a God of love, and that he sent Jesus to Earth to atone for my sin.  I knew that no one was perfect, and that the fact that humanity needed a Savior just indicated that no one was perfect.  Psalm 51 was written by King David after he slept with another man’s wife and got the other man killed to cover up the affair.  I often read this psalm on nights like this.  I prayed for a while, that God would create a pure heart in me, just as David had asked.  I did eventually get some sleep, but not much, and I woke up with a headache.  I was tired of being alone, I was tired of all the good Christian girls passing me up, but I still had no idea what to do about any of this, so I felt stuck as I drifted off to sleep, consumed by darkness.


Readers: Have you ever written anything with a secret message hidden inside? Tell me about it in the comments.

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January 26, 1996. Pieces falling into place. (#68)

I had been in a bad mood all week.  I woke to rain Tuesday morning, and since then clouds had covered Jeromeville the entire time.  My week had been boring and uneventful, and I was feeling particularly grumpy about not having a girlfriend.  Earlier today, I saw Sabrina Murphy from church on campus, and she introduced me to her boyfriend.  I knew she had a boyfriend, I had been through the disappointment of learning that a month ago, but meeting him felt like a reminder that I was not good enough to date a girl like Sabrina.

It was now Friday evening, and once I got home from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship tonight, I would be alone studying the entire weekend.  The National Football League championship game was coming up Sunday afternoon, but this year I would probably be watching it alone in my apartment.  Maybe that was a good thing; the team I despised the most, the Texas Toros, was heavily favored to win.

Dave McAllen of the JCF staff team spoke that night.  “‘I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel,’” Dave said, reading from Paul’s letter to the Philippians.  “If you look back in Acts chapter 19, it tells about when Paul first visited Philippi.  The first Philippian to receive the gospel was a woman named Lydia.  It says, ‘When she and the members of her household were baptized, she invited us to her home.’  Paul and his companions did not just baptize her and take off.  They started a church that met at her house.”

I had been attending JCF since October.  At first, most of my thoughts during the group meetings were on learning people’s names, figuring out how the group worked, and wondering whether they would have a problem with me being Catholic.  But now that I had been part of the group for a few months, I was paying more attention to the actual content of the message.  I got a different perspective on Scripture from JCF than I got from Mass at the Newman Center.  Father Bill’s homily was usually something fairly brief and general, vaguely related to that week’s Scripture, but the messages given by Dave and the JCF staff applied specific Scriptures in relevant ways for university students in 1996.  Relationship was a big part of spreading the Gospel at a large university.  It was also, unfortunately, something deficient in my life.

After Dave’s talk and the final worship song, I stood and turned to my friends.  I had been sitting next to Pete Green, Charlie Watson, Caroline Pearson, and Jason Costello, all friends from my freshman dorm last year.  “How’s it going, Greg?” Charlie asked.

“I’m doing okay,” I said.  “Except all my classes have midterms this week.”

“Good luck,” Caroline said.  

“Where are Liz and Ramon?” Charlie asked.

“They went to go see Ramon’s parents this weekend,” Caroline replied.

“Ramon said they’ll be back Sunday morning,” Jason added.  “I need to get going.  I had a midterm today, and I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Yeah,” Caroline said.  “I need to go too.  I need to start my paper.  It’s due Monday.”

“Good luck with that,” I said.  “Is anyone else doing anything tonight?”

“Not me,” Pete replied.  “I have to study all weekend.  I’m so behind in all my classes.”

“Pete’s my ride,” Charlie said, “and I’m behind too.”

“Good luck with your studying,” I said.  “I’ll see you guys later!”

The others said their goodbyes, and I walked around the room.  I knew that learning about the Bible should be the most important part of these meetings, but I was also enjoying the social aspect.  Dave spoke tonight about building relationships, so being social is important too, apparently.  Last week I went to a movie with those friends after JCF, and I was hoping something like that would happen tonight too.  If it did, though, it would not be with them; my opportunity had been stolen by studying, and by Liz and Ramon doing couple stuff.

A freshman named Brent Wang saw me and waved.  I approached him and the others standing next to him.  “Hey, Greg,” Brent said.  “How’s it going?”

“Not bad.  Just busy with school.  How are you guys?”

“I had a midterm today.  I don’t think I did too great.”

“I had one too,” said a tall curly-haired boy whose name I thought was Todd.  “I know I didn’t do too great.”

“That’s too bad,” I replied.  “But you never know.  What are you guys up to tonight?”

“We’re having an overnighter at our Bible study leader’s apartment,” Brent explained.  “Just something for the guys of our group to get to know each other.  We should actually get going; we told him we’d be there in just a minute.”

“Have fun!” I said.  “See you guys next week!”

Over the next twenty minutes, I had some positive small talk experiences but was ultimately unsuccessful in finding something to do.  By now, only ten people remained in the room, and most of them seemed to be helping clean up.  I sat in a seat by myself away from people and put my head down.  What was wrong with me?  Why was it so hard for me to make friends?  I hated being me sometimes.  I hated living alone and feeling out of the loop, and the only reason I lived alone was because I was out of the loop when people were making housing plans for the following year.  And would I ever know the feeling of being in love?

I looked down at the floor, fighting back tears, as I heard more and more of the few remaining students putting things away, saying goodbye, and leaving the room.  When the room was silent, as the last people were getting ready to leave, I heard footsteps approaching, probably to tell me that it was time to go, that they had to lock up.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked.  I looked up to see two guys of average height and build now sitting next to me.  The closer one had black hair and olive skin, and the one behind him had light brown hair and pointed features.

“I’m okay,” I said.  “I’m just having a rough night.  I feel like I don’t fit in around here.”

“Why’s that?  Did something happen?” the dark-haired guy asked me.  He was the same one who had spoken before, and I had seen him around JCF; I was pretty sure his name was Eddie.  I did not know the other guy.

“I haven’t been going here very long.  I don’t know a lot of people.  And the people I do know, sometimes I feel like I’m not really part of their group.”

“Your name’s Greg, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Eddie, and this is Xander.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Who would you say you know here?”

“Pete Green, Taylor Santiago, Charlie Watson, Caroline Pearson, Liz Williams, Ramon Quintero, Jason Costello, Sarah Winters, Krista Curtis… we were all in the same dorm last year.  A lot of them weren’t here this week, though, and the ones who were went home early.”

“Sometimes people just have stuff going on,” Xander said.  “Don’t take it personally.”

“I know.”

“So you’re a sophomore?” Eddie asked.  “We are too.  Do you have roommates?”

“No.  I was in a single room in the dorm last year, and when everyone was making their plans for this year, I didn’t know what was going on until everyone had plans already.”

“Living alone can be nice,” Xander said.  “We live in a big house with eight of us total, and it gets noisy sometimes.”

“Yeah, but it gets lonely too.”

“Can we pray with you?” Eddie asked.

“Sure,” I said.  I found this to be another difference between students at JCF and students at the Newman Center, the willingness to pray for people openly in public like this.

Eddie placed his hand on my back and began speaking.  “Father God, I thank you for bringing Greg to JCF and having our lives intersect tonight.  I pray that Greg will know that he is loved.  I pray that he will experience your love in a whole new way this weekend.  I pray that you will come in and transform his life.  Wash away all the hurt and the pain and show him your blessings anew.”

“Jesus,” Xander added.  “I pray that you will help Greg find his place in our community.  I pray that he will hear from you and know your plan for his life.  I pray that you will bring him into the community you have prepared for him, and I thank you that we got to talk to him tonight.”  After a pause, he concluded, “In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Do you have any plans this weekend?” Eddie asked.

“No.  Just study and homework, but it won’t take the whole weekend.”

“Tonight we’re going to play games with some girls from JCF who live down the street from us.  And we’re going to watch the football championship on Sunday.  You want to come hang out with us?”

“Sure,” I said.  “Where do you guys live?”

“I’ll draw you a map.”  Eddie tore off a piece of paper and drew a map to a street called Baron Court, near Valdez Street and Cornell Boulevard.  He marked two locations at opposite ends of the street, labeling one of them “2212 – Eddie & Xander” and the other “2234 – Girls.”  “Do you know where that is?” he asked.  “It’s in south Jeromeville.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “I can find my way there.  Are you guys going there now?”

“Yeah.  We said we’d be there a while ago.:

“Sounds good.  I’ll see you in a bit then.”



Baron Court was about two miles from campus on the other side of Highway 100.  I had explored this neighborhood on my bike a few months earlier.  On one side of Baron Court was a large apartment complex with its main entrance around the corner on Valdez Street, and a row of duplexes lined the other side, ending in a cul-de-sac opening up to one of the Greenbelts.  The girls lived in the second to last duplex.  I did not know who these girls were, and I did not know if Eddie and Xander had arrived yet.  If I knocked, and they were not expecting me, would they be comfortable letting some strange man into their home at ten o’clock at night?  After waiting in the car nervously for over five minutes, I had not seen Eddie and Xander arrive, so I assumed that they had gotten there before me.  I walked up and rang the doorbell.

A shorter than average girl with dark curly hair opened the door.  Behind her I could see Eddie and Xander sitting on a couch, looking at the door as if they were expecting me.  “Greg!” Eddie said.  “You made it!  Come on in!”

“Hi, Greg.  I’m Kristina,” said the girl who answered the door.

“Nice to meet you,” I replied.  We shook hands, and I walked to the couch and sat next to Xander.  On a second couch, placed against the front wall out of view of the doorway, sat two other girls, one small and thin with brown hair and an athletic build, and one average height, but the tallest of the three, with bright blue eyes and straight light brown hair just past her shoulders.  I could not remember ever having met any of these girls before.  Around 150 students attended JCF on an average Friday, so I had not met everyone yet.  “These are my roommates, Kelly and Haley,” Kristina said.  “Six of us live here, but the other three went home for the weekend.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“You too,” Kelly, the small athletic one, replied.

“So you go to JCF?” Haley asked.  “I don’t think I’ve met you before.”

“I’ve only been going for three months.  I don’t know a lot of people yet.”

“I didn’t have that experience.  It seems like everyone knew me the first time I went to large group,” Haley said, and the others chuckled.  I got the impression that she was referring to something specific that I did not know about, and just as I was about to ask, Eddie explained, “Haley’s brother goes to JCF too.  He’s a senior.  Do you know Christian Channing?  Glasses, goatee, about the same color hair as Haley.”

“I think I know who you’re talking about,” I said.

“Are you a freshman?” Haley asked.

“Sophomore.”

“Me too.”

“All of us are,” Kelly added, gesturing toward the six of us in the room.

“How’d you find out about JCF?” Kristina asked.

“A bunch of my friends from my dorm last year invited me.”  I told Kristina which JCF people lived in my dorm, and she and the other girls nodded.

“Are you in a Bible study?” Xander asked me.

“I’m not,” I said.  Hoping that this would not make my new friends gasp in horror, I added, “I actually don’t even have a Bible.”

“I think I have an extra Bible,” Kristina said.  “I’ll go look for it before you can leave.  You can have it.”

“Thank you,” I replied.  “That would be nice.”

“So what do you want to play?” Eddie asked.

“We can always start with Uno,” Kristina replied.  “Is everyone okay with Uno?”

“Sure,” I said.  Kristina got up and returned a minute later with Uno and a few other games.  She dealt the cards, and we began playing, taking turns trying to match the color or the number of the previously played card.  We made small talk while we were playing, about classes and other things going on around JCF.

Xander played a red 3 card.  My turn was next, but Kristina jumped in and played the other red 3 card, out of turn.  “What?” I said.  “It’s my turn.”

“I had the other red 3,” Kristina explained.

“What do you mean?  Why did you play out of turn?”

“Because I had the exact match.”

“I don’t think that’s an actual rule,” Eddie said.  “Greg, you don’t play that way?”

“No.  It’s not a rule.  I read the rules when I was a kid.”

“That’s how we always play,” Kristina argued.

“That’s fine, as long as I know about it.  Are there any other made-up rules?”

“What about adding to draw cards?” Eddie asked.  “Like if I play a Draw Two, then instead of drawing two, Xander can play another Draw Two, and you would have to draw four.  And if you play another Draw Two, Haley would have to draw six.”

“I don’t know that one either, but that sounds interesting.”

We played three long games of Uno with these house rules that were new to me; I did not win any of them, but it was fun, especially when Kristina, after a great deal of playful trash-talking, had to draw twelve when three Wild Draw Four cards were played consecutively.  After Uno, we played Scattergories.  In this game, each player was given a list of categories and a short amount of time to write things in each category beginning with a predetermined letter.  Only unique answers, different from those of all other players, counted for points.  For the first round the letter was B.  I read the categories and began writing.

Heroes: Batman, but I made a note to change it if I had time, since someone else would probably say that.  Terms of endearment: Babe.  Same thing, someone else would probably say it.  Tropical locations: Bikini Atoll.  Items in your purse/wallet: Bucks.  As in money.  That was creative.  Things that are black: Barry Bonds.  Not exactly politically correct, but good for laughs, and I would get two points for using something with two B words.  I started to panic as the timer inched closer to 0.  At the last minute, I crossed out Batman and put “Bueller, Ferris” for Heroes.  In the movie, Cameron calls him his hero, so I thought I had a good argument.

When the timer went off, we began reading our answers.  “Heroes,” Kristina said.  “Batman.”  Kelly and Xander both groaned that they had also written Batman, so I had made a good choice to change mine.  “Bueller, Ferris,” I said.  Imitating Cameron from the movie, I added, “Ferris Bueller, you’re my hero,” in an exaggerated nasal deadpan.  The others laughed and agreed that my answer counted.

“Items in your purse,” Eddie said.

“Big bills!” Kristina shouted.  “Two points!”

“Isn’t that only one point?” I asked.  “Because ‘big’ isn’t really a necessary part of the answer.  It’s just ‘bills.’”

“Yeah,” Eddie said.  “I think you only get the point for ‘bills.’”

We continued reading our answers; I scored eight points that round.  We chose a new list for the next round, and Kelly rolled the alphabet die; it landed on C.  I read my new categories and tried to think of C words.  Famous females: Christina Applegate.  Things made of metal: Crowbar.  Medicine/Drugs: Cocaine.  Names in the Bible: This is where my lack of a Bible might hurt me.  I wrote Caleb; I was pretty sure there was a Caleb in the Bible.

“Famous females,” Eddie said as the timer went off.

“Christina Applegate,” I said.  No one else had that.

“Sheryl Crow!” Kristina exclaimed loudly.

“That’s only one point,” I said.  “Sheryl is spelled with an S, not a C.”

“Well, aren’t you the king of not letting me get two points!” Kristina said with mock indignation.

“And you’re the queen of answers that don’t count,” I replied.  Everyone laughed.

It was past midnight by the time we finished the third and final round of Scattergories.  “We should probably get going,” Eddie said.  “It’s getting late.  I’ll see you Sunday?”

“Probably,” Kristina replied.  “Wait.  Hang on.”  She walked out of the room, then returned a minute later holding a Bible, which she handed me.  “Here, Greg.  You said you needed this.”

“Yes!  Thank you!”

“It was nice to meet you, Greg,” Haley said, smiling.

“You too.”  I looked at her and smiled back.

“Yeah,” Kelly added.  “Nice meeting you, Greg.”

As we left, walking outside toward the sidewalk, I pointed to my left and asked, “So your house is right down there?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said.  “We’ll see you Sunday?”

“Yes.  I’ll be there.  Thanks for inviting me.”

“Drive safely,” Xander said.  “See you Sunday.”

“See you guys then,” I replied.

I got in my car and put Kristina’s Bible on the front seat.  Things really turned around tonight.  Dave spoke tonight about the ministry of the early Christians being built on relationships, and Eddie and Xander heard that message loud and clear, reaching out to me to build friendships that have lasted to this day, even though we now live far apart.  Decades later, I was given the chance to pass on this message about ministry through building relationships.  I was invited to speak at JCF’s Alumni Night in 2016, and I told the students about the night I got upset and threw a cardboard box at Sarah Winters and my friends prayed for me, as well as this night, when Eddie and Xander invited to play Uno and Scattergories.

I went to bed shortly after I got home that night.  It felt like pieces were finally falling into place.  I had many more pieces to go to solve this great puzzle of life, but I felt a little closer to figuring things out tonight than I had earlier.  As I drifted off to sleep, I felt at peace, thinking about my new friends, how Eddie and Xander had included me in their life tonight.  I was going to see them again on Sunday, and it was going to be awesome.

And I also thought quite a bit about Haley Channing and her beautiful blue eyes.  I really, really hoped that she did not have a boyfriend.

The actual bible Kristina gave me on that day, a bit more worn now.

October 31 – November 9, 1995.  In a funk. (#58)

I was in a funk.  I had been in a funk for a while by the time my physics lab got out.  My funk had stretched into its fourth day, and one of those days was an hour longer because of the end of daylight saving time.  One small consolation was that it was Halloween, and I had the pleasantly silly experience of seeing many full-grown college students come to campus in costume.  Earlier I saw a guy walking across the Quad in a very accurate costume of Jack from the Jack in the Box restaurant commercials, with a perfectly round clown head as from a child’s jack-in-the-box toy over a business suit.  I also saw at least three different Batmen walking around campus.

Batman… that reminded me of last Saturday, when this funk started.  I still was unhappy with myself about Saturday.

Friday night went okay.  I went to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship again, which was good, but I felt more like an outsider.  I talked to all my friends who were there, but I did not talk to anyone else, and everyone was talking about the Fall Conference next weekend, which I was not going to.  I woke up Saturday morning still feeling down, and that feeling worsened as the day dragged on.  I got some homework done, but I also moped around the apartment doing nothing quite a bit.

Saturday evening, I decided to go to campus, where second-run movies play on weekends in 199 Stone, the largest lecture hall on campus at the time.  Batman Forever was playing that night.  I had seen the movie once, and honestly I did not like it that well.  Jim Carrey, who at the time was building his career on annoying mindless movies where he made a lot of faces and funny loud noises, played the Riddler.  He played the character like the annoying people in his other movies, and I did not like it.  The movie did not help me get out of my funk, and I left about two-thirds of the way through.  That was the first time I ever went to a movie alone, and to this day, it remains the only time I have ever walked out of a movie that I paid for.  I went home, down two dollars and fifty cents and still in my funk.

Despite having won Best Costume my senior year at Plumdale High, I never got too excited about Halloween.  I outgrew trick-or-treating around fourth grade and spent the rest of my childhood staying home handing out candy.  The only reason I even dressed up at school that day two years ago was because Melissa asked me to.  She dressed as Mona Lisa, with a drawn replica of the painting and her face sticking through a hole in it, and asked me to be Leonardo painting her.  I had a big crush on Melissa at the time, so I probably would have dressed up as dog poop if she had asked me to.  The problem was that, during the one period that we were not in the same class, her costume worked by itself, but no one could tell what I was without her.  No, I am not Charlton Heston playing Moses.  No, I am not Father Time.  And during the costume contest at lunch, we were introduced as “Mona Lisa and Michelangelo,” which says something about the quality of education at Plumdale High School.

When I got home from my physics lab, I made sure the porch light was off.  Mom taught me as a kid that this tells trick-or-treaters not to come to your house, although many do not seem to know that rule.  I had no candy to give out tonight.  I did not know whether the local children of Jeromeville even went trick-or-treating in apartment complexes full of students.  (None did that night.)

I signed on to the university computer network after dinner that night, intending to get on Internet Relay Chat and find some girl to talk to.  But before I did that, I checked to see who else was signed on to the exact same server, as I occasionally did back then out of curiosity.  Every once in a while, I found someone I knew.  I looked through the thirty or so names and account numbers that scrolled past, and my pulse briefly quickened when I saw this:

stu042537 Megan McCauley

I typed “talk” and sent “hello :)” to account stu042537.  Megan replied about a minute later.

stu042537: Hi, Greg!  How have you been?  I haven’t seen you in a while!
stu049886: i’m doing ok, just busy with school.  it’s a lot of work but i’m doing pretty well in my classes.  what are you up to?
stu042537: Just the usual.  This chem class is kicking my butt!  But I knew chemical engineering would be a hard major.  Didn’t you say you were a tutor for the Learning Skills Center this quarter?
stu049886: yes!  that’s going well.  i’m working 10 hours a week with small groups of calculus and precalculus students.  i enjoy it.
stu042537: Good!
stu049886: how is your building this year?
stu042537: It’s definitely easier being an RA the second time around.  I have more of an idea of what to expect.  But, of course, my residents are full of surprises too.  I like this group so far.
stu049886: that’s good
stu042537: How is it being in your own apartment?
stu049886: it’s nice and quiet.  but i miss seeing my friends from last year.  some of them are involved with jeromeville christian fellowship, i’ve started going to that sometimes with them
stu042537: It’s important to find things you can be involved with.
stu049886: definitely!  any plans for halloween tonight?
stu042537: Not this year.  What about you?
stu049886: nothing.  halloween was never that big a deal to me.  i thought it was funny, though, i saw three people on campus today dressed as batman
stu042537: That’s great!  I should actually go in a few minutes.  I need to pick up the person I’m dating from the airport.  But it was good to hear from you!

I stared at that last message, heartbroken and crestfallen, typing my closing line in the conversation much more apathetically than I had typed earlier.

stu049886: you too, drive safely
stu042537: Bye!

I stared at those four words again before I closed the window… “the person I’m dating.”  Nothing can drain the last bit of hope from a crush more quickly than that.  I knew I probably had no shot with Megan anyway, but at least I could hope that maybe she liked me too.  Not anymore.  I could not compete with some cool guy who traveled on airplanes and knew how to talk to girls.

I turned on the television later that night.  It was Tuesday, so Home Improvement was on.   I liked that show, but Tim Allen’s stereotypical guy antics were not enough to lift me out of my funk.  I returned to the computer and signed on to the IRC chat channel I had wanted to go to earlier when I messaged Megan instead.  No one there was talking to me, and no one I knew I was on.  I halfheartedly replied to an email, but I needed to talk to someone in real time, not by email.  I could not get the image out of my head of Megan and some guy driving back from the airport in Capital City, across the Drawbridge and to his apartment, where he would probably invite her in and go to bed with her.  I wanted to be doing that, not whoever this jerk was.

I was tired of this.  I was tired of being alone, not knowing how to talk to girls.  I hated being different and not having grown up with all the experiences that the people around me had, like having friends and taking trips on airplanes and doing fun things on Halloween.  I wished I could quit life and start over again.  Or maybe go back to high school for another few years; I was finally starting to have some of those experiences or having friends senior year, but then everything else ended too soon, and I lost touch with everyone except Renee Robertson, Melissa Holmes, and Rachel Copeland, none of whom lived in the same place as me or as each other now.

Around 10:30 that night, desperate and with nowhere else to turn, I picked up the phone.  I had seen public service announcements for a suicide prevention hotline with a local phone number.  I was not sure if I was actually feeling suicidal, but at least these people could talk to me.  I dialed the number quickly.

“Suicide Prevention,” said the voice on the other end.  “This is Anna.  To whom am I speaking?”

“Greg,” I said.

“And how are you feeling tonight?” Anna asked.

“I need someone to talk to.”

“What’s going on?  Why do you say that?”

I told Anna the abbreviated version of my thoughts on feeling different, being alone, and not knowing how to talk to girls.  I explained that there was one girl I really liked who I did not have much of a chance with, and how I had found out tonight that she had a boyfriend (at the time, I did not understand that there was a distinction between the words “person I’m dating” and “boyfriend”).

“That is a lot weighing on your mind,” Anna said.  “Are you taking any medication for depression or anxiety, or other mental health medications?”

“No.

“Are you in any sort of therapy or treatment?”

“No.”

“How often do you use alcohol or drugs?”

“Never.”

“Are you thinking about ending your life or harming yourself?”

“I don’t know.  I know I shouldn’t give up like that, but I don’t want to go on like this either.”

“That is understandable.  Is your life in danger right now?”

“I’m sitting at home in my apartment.  So probably not.”

“Have these thoughts you’ve been having interfered with your day-to-day functioning?  Like your ability to work or attend class?”

“Not really.  I’m a student at UJ, and my grades are still good.”

“That’s good.”

“I guess.”

Anna asked me more questions about how I felt about things, as well as my day-to-day life and my history with mental health and medication.  After talking for another ten minutes, she said, “We are meant to be a one-time service, so I can give you names and phone numbers of some mental health professionals in your area, so you can call someone to set up an appointment and meet more regularly?  May I do that?”

“I guess.”

I got a pencil and paper and wrote down the names Anna gave me.  “So tomorrow, give one of those people a call, and set up an appointment.  Can you do that?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to be okay tonight?”

“I think so.  Thank you.”

“Thank you for calling.  I hope everything works out for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Good night!”

“Bye,” I said, hanging up the phone.  I did not feel great about this.  I was not looking forward to seeing a therapist, and I did not even know if that was what I wanted.  But I had calmed down to the point that I might be able to sleep now.

 

I arrived about five minutes before my appointment.  It had been a little more than a week since the night I called the Suicide Prevention number.  It was a cool, cloudy, depressing Thursday afternoon.  The address was in a small office building at the corner of Maple Lane and West Coventry Boulevard, less than half a mile from my apartment, behind a nondescript door with the names of two therapists on it.  The waiting room was small, about the size of my tiny dorm room from last year.  A few chairs were arranged around a table with outdated magazines on it, and two doors on the other side of the room led farther into the building.  I picked up a Time magazine from July with former U.S. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Colin Powell on the cover.  I started reading through the magazine in order until a man with graying brown hair, a mustache, glasses, and a button-up shirt emerged from one of the doors.

“Gregory?” he said.

“That’s me,” I replied.  “You can call me Greg.”

“Hi, Greg.  I’m Ron Kilbourne.”  Ron extended his hand for me to shake it.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.  I followed him into his office and sat down.

“So tell me again what brings you here.”

“I feel down a lot,” I said.  “I feel alone, I don’t see my friends as often as I used to, I don’t have a girlfriend, and I don’t know how to talk to girls.”

“Okay,” Ron said, apparently waiting for me to say something.”

“I haven’t seen a therapist in a couple years.  I was in and out of therapy all my life, going back to second grade.  We saw a therapist as a family for a while, because I was getting teased a lot at school and having trouble behaving, and my dad was dealing with a lot being a newly recovering alcoholic.”

“And how old are you now?”

“19.”

“Okay.”  Ron scribbled some notes on a clipboard, then looked at me.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me more.”

“I told you.  I don’t know what to do.”

“I can’t help you if you aren’t going to tell me anything.”

Who was this jerk?  Why am I paying him all this money just to sit there?  I did not know what to say to him.  I told him more about not having friends in school growing up, about how being in the dorm was good for me but I lived alone now, about never having had a girlfriend, and about what happened with Megan.

Ron kept writing on his clipboard.  “What else?” he said when he was done.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said angrily through clenched teeth.

“Then I guess we’ll just sit here until you’re ready to talk,” Ron replied calmly.

“Fine.”  I sat in the chair and stared at Ron for almost ten minutes, saying nothing.  He just sat looking at me, occasionally writing on his clipboard.  “Why does anyone pay you all this money not to do anything?” I finally said.

“Why did you?” Ron asked.  “Why are you here?”

“I’m here because I’m depressed and alone and I don’t know how to make friends or have a girlfriend.”

“What else?”

“I need to know what to do.”

“What are you doing now?” Ron asked.

I told him about my friends from the dorm last year, and tutoring, and singing at Mass, and Jeromeville Christian Fellowship.  After he finished writing in his clipboard, Ron sat there looking at me, waiting for me to say more.  “And I don’t know what else to do.”  We stared at each other for another five minutes, saying nothing.  I clenched my fists, fighting every urge to punch this man in the face.

About forty minutes into the appointment, before the end of the hour-long session, I pulled out my checkbook and paid him for the session.  “This was a waste,” I said, walking toward the door.

“Greg,” Ron said in a flat tone.  “I can’t help you if you’re going to walk out.”

“And you can’t help me if I’m here either.  So what’s the point?”

“I don’t know.  You tell me.”

I left the check on his desk and walked out of the office, slamming the door and throwing the stack of old magazines against the wall on my way out.  I was still hot-headed and angry when I got back to the apartment.  I lay on the bed for about an hour, at which time I did homework for a while, and then ate dinner.  Was I really beyond help?  Was I so messed up that even going to a therapist could not help me?

I never saw Ron Kilbourne again.  I got a letter in the mail from him a few days later encouraging me to continue to seek therapy; I tore it into small pieces and threw it away.  I never did call any of the other names that I had gotten from Anna at Suicide Prevention; after my experience with Ron Kilbourne, I was convinced that there was no point to seeking therapy.

After Ron Kilbourne, I did not attempt to seek therapy again until 2002; by that time, I had long since graduated and moved from Jeromeville to Pleasant Creek.  I now know as an adult that I have had therapists who were good fits for me and others who were not; Ron Kilbourne was not, and I should have at least tried a different therapist at the time.  Although I have grown, and life has changed, many of the issues for which I sought therapy in the past are still struggles for me.  I have also learned that seeking therapy is far more complicated than just going through motions and having all of my problems fixed.  Therapy only works when the patient wants help, and to this day I feel like in some ways I do not want help.  I want the rest of the world to change around me, or to find a place where the world makes more sense than it does here.  This remains an ongoing issue for me.  On the day I walked out of Ron Kilbourne’s office, I knew that the only way I had left to deal with that funk was the way I have usually dealt with being in a funk all my adult life; just ride it out, put one foot in front of the other, and go through the motions, hoping that better days will come.


(Author’s note: I know that “talk” on a Unix-based system from 1995 did not format conversations the way my conversation with Megan was formatted in this story.  I changed it to make it easier to read.)


September 9, 1995. The night I did something crazy and spontaneous. (#50)

In my life so far, I have had a long history of not being popular with the ladies. No one taught me anything about dating and relationships growing up, and my teen years were a string of awkward failed crushes. Rachelle Benedetti, whom I never understood why I liked her in the first place. Kim Jensen, an outgoing popular cheerleader in a few of my classes, but she dated older football players, not guys like me. Melissa Holmes, a good friend who did not like me back that way. Jennifer Henson, a popular girl who started treating me like a good friend when we were seniors, but then moved away without saying goodbye. Annie Gambrell, a younger girl I met through a class project we did together, but she had a boyfriend. And last year there was Megan McCauley, my first older friend in college; she was really nice, but I felt intimidated just by the fact that she was a year older, and currently I did not know how to interpret the fact that she had not emailed me back for the last three weeks.

After waking up and doing absolutely nothing productive for several hours, I walked to the mailboxes. Maybe I had a letter from a girl, I thought. And I did have a letter from a girl. I actually had gotten a letter from a girl yesterday, the first letter I received since moving into this apartment a week ago. It was from Sarah Winters, who lived downstairs from me in the dorm last year. I opened the mailbox and saw another letter from a girl… except today, the girl in question was my grandma. It was always nice to hear from her, but I wanted to interact with girls my age.

From the mailboxes, I could see the pool. A girl was lying face down on a pool chair. She had brown hair, put up in a bun, and perfectly shaped legs. She appeared to be wearing nothing but black bikini bottoms. I looked closer and noticed that she was wearing a bikini top, but she had untied it in the back, presumably to avoid having a tan line. The strings hung down over the side of the pool chair, exposing the side of a fairly large and round breast.

After staring for about thirty seconds, I walked back to my apartment, trying to think of a way I could look at the sexy girl by the pool and maybe get her to notice me. Back inside, I read Grandma’s letter, but I was only half paying attention because my mind was formulating a plan.

I picked up the book I had been reading, part 4 of Stephen King’s The Green Mile, and took it outside with me. The pool was open to everyone; why couldn’t I sit and read by the pool? I found an empty pool chair, on the other side of the pool from the girl, and began reading. Stephen King originally wrote this book as a serial, in six parts each around 100 pages long, published about a month apart. Mom had gotten me parts 1 through 5 for my birthday last month, before part 6 had been published. I would get part 6 at the campus bookstore when I finished part 5, or order it in advance if it had not been released yet.

It was a hot day, and after about ten minutes, I was sweating uncomfortably. Do people really sit by the pool like this? That can’t be right, I thought. I noticed a spot a few feet from me that was in the shadow of a nearby tree. I moved the chair into the shadow; it made noise as I moved it. I looked at the girl, hoping that what I was doing looked natural and ordinary and that the noise would not attract attention. She did not react, and I sat back down and continued reading.

After about another ten minutes, the girl reattached the string in the back of her bikini top. She put on shorts and a tank top over her bikini, slid her feet into flip-flops, gathered her belongings, and began walking toward me. I looked back down at my book, trying not to stare, then looked up as she walked past me. I smiled at her. “Hi,” I said.

“You know you’re lying in the shade,” she replied.

“Yeah,” I said as the weight of her words sank into my brain. She was right. Normal people do not lie in the shade. I was pretty sure I blew it with this girl, and just made myself look like a pervert, or at best a weirdo.

After the girl was gone, I took my book back to my apartment, leaving the pool chair in the shade.  I was too embarrassed to move it back and make any more noise that might get me noticed. I lay on the bed, dejected and discouraged. I was bored. Moving back to Jeromeville early was not as exciting as it had been in my head all summer, mostly because most of my friends had not moved back yet. Since I had just gotten a letter from Sarah, I knew that she would be moving back on September 17, a week from tomorrow, but then leaving right away on a retreat with Jeromeville Christian Fellowship until Friday the 22nd. Several of my friends were involved with Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, so I suspected most of them would be back on the 22nd as well.  The first day of class was Thursday the 28th.

I continued reading The Green Mile lying on my bed. When I finished part 4, I put a frozen pot pie in the oven and spent the rest of the night wasting time on the computer. I wrote emails, I played SimCity 2000, I checked my Usenet groups, and I got on IRC chat, in that order. I had been spending a lot of time on IRC lately, and I had even met two girls my age who lived nearby: Colleen, who attended University of the Bay, and Allison, who was a student right here at University of Jeromeville. Around quarter to nine, I saw Allison enter the channel I was already in, and I messaged her.

gjd76: hey
darksparkles: hi
gjd76: what’s up
darksparkles: not much
gjd76: me either. i’m bored. i got a letter from my grandma, that was the highlight of my day
darksparkles: aww how sweet

I decided not to tell her about making a fool of myself in front of the girl at the pool. No one needed to know about that.

gjd76: i moved back to jeromeville early because i was bored at my parents’ house. now i’m bored here, but at least i’m on my own
darksparkles: i know what you mean. my roommate isn’t moving in until right before fall quarter starts. so i have the place to myself until then. i like it though
gjd76: that’s good
darksparkles: i’m a little scared to have a roommate again. i hated my roommate in the dorm last year
gjd76: ugh, roommate drama
darksparkles: but she moved out at the end of winter quarter and i had the room to myself the rest of the year
gjd76: they can do that? and just leave the room empty?
darksparkles: i guess
gjd76: how do you know your roommate from this year?
darksparkles: she lived down the hall from me. she was one of the few people in my building that i talked to, although we weren’t really close friends
gjd76: aww… hopefully living together works out
darksparkles: i hope so too

An outlandishly spontaneous idea popped into my head.  In real life, if I want to say something that makes me nervous, in which I am apprehensive about the other person’s possible reaction, I usually blurt it out loudly, so as not to hesitate or second-guess myself. I typed the next sentence very quickly and pressed Enter, the typing equivalent of blurting something out. It was a crazy idea, but boredom and loneliness can occasionally drive me to desperation.

gjd76: you want to meet in person?
darksparkles: huh? you mean like now?
gjd76: yeah. we can stay outside or in public if you’re worried about being alone with some guy from the internet
darksparkles: sure, there’s a picnic table by the pool in my apartment complex, i’ll meet you there
gjd76: where is that? we both live in north jeromeville, right?
darksparkles: yeah, redwood grove apartments on alvarez, there’s only one way into the parking lot, and the pool is right there, you’ll see it. you know where that is?
gjd76: yes i do. i’ll be there in about 10 minutes. i’m wearing jeans and a green shirt
darksparkles: i’m wearing a black shirt and jeans with holes in them
gjd76: ok, see you in a few minutes

Allison had told me the last time we talked that she lived in north Jeromeville. I did not realize until now that she was only a quarter mile away. I could have gotten there much faster than the 10 minutes I told her, but before I left I brushed my teeth and used the bathroom, and I changed out of my shorts into the jeans I told her I was wearing.  It was not warm enough this late at night to be outside in shorts for a long time. I also scribbled a note on a sheet of paper and placed it on my desk:


9/9/95 9:28pm

In case I don’t come back alive, and the police need leads, I’m going to meet a girl from the Internet named Allison. We’re meeting by the pool at Redwood Square apartments; she told me she lives there. I don’t know her last name, but her IRC name is darksparkles and her account ID is stu050637@mail.jeromeville.edu


 

It was a nice night outside, not too warm but not cold either. My short-sleeve shirt and jeans felt physically comfortable as I started to feel nervous about this situation which I had suddenly put myself in. I had only talked to Allison two other times. I had a rough description of what she looked like, and I had the impression that she was quiet and kept to herself a lot, but other than that I had no idea who to expect. I was pretty sure from our previous conversations that we had never had a class together, and we would not have run into each other at the dining hall since she lived in a different dorm area with its own dining facilities.

I walked into the parking lot of the Redwood Grove Apartments. I could see the pool about a hundred feet back from the sidewalk, and as I approached the pool more closely, I noticed a girl sitting at a table inside the pool area. She turned her head and saw me, and she got up and opened the gate.

“Allison?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Greg?”

“Yes. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” she said, smiling halfway and leading me back to the table where she had been sitting. She was shorter than me, about five foot five, and thin. Her black shirt had the name of something I had never heard of, maybe a band, maybe a brand of clothing, I did not know. It was a unisex shirt, fitting loosely on her body. Her skin was pale, and her hair appeared to be dyed black, although I could not tell for sure with the lack of natural light and the only illumination coming from a few outdoor light posts. I got the impression that she did not smile much in general, so the awkward half-smile with which she had greeted me was probably the best she could do.

“So what’s up?” she asked, speaking quietly.

“I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Met someone off the Internet.”

“Oh. I did once last year.”

“Oh yeah? Was it also someone from Jeromeville?”

“No. He flew out here from Oklahoma.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. He said he really liked me and wanted to be with me. But when he got here, he wasn’t really the nice guy he acted like online. He was kind of a jerk.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. He made me give him a blow job the first night he was here. I didn’t want to.”

“That’s messed up,” I said. I was not expecting such a graphic description.

“He tasted nasty,” Allison continued. I just nodded, not really sure how to reply to that.  “So you’ve just been sitting around all day since you moved back here?”

“Mostly. I’ve been riding around on my bike, and reading a lot too.”

“You like riding your bike?”

“Yeah. I’m not really competitive or athletic or anything. I just like exploring.”

“I don’t even have a bike,” Allison explained. I thought that was unusual, with Jeromeville being a Bicycle Friendly City and having one of the highest rates of bicycle ownership in the United States. “I take the bus to campus.”

“I’ll probably do that on rainy days. You said you’re taking a class this summer session?”

“Yeah. An English class. One more week.”

“How is it so far?”

“It’s easy.”

“That’s good.” After a few seconds of silence, I asked, “So how has your weekend been?”

“Good. I didn’t really do much.”

“Me either,” I replied.

We made small talk for a while. She told me about this underground band she liked and something she had to read for class. I told her about the bookstore job and what my summer back home in Plumdale had been like. She told me that she liked to draw and paint, and I told her about Skeeter’s watercolor set and the paintings we made in the common room in the dorm last year.

After a while, Allison said, “I should probably go back inside. It’s getting late.”

“Okay,” I replied. “Thanks for hanging out. It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah. You too.”

“I’ll talk to you soon?”

“Sure. Good night.”

“Good night,” I answered. I walked out of the gate, back toward the street. I had a feeling that I left a bad impression on Allison, and that we probably would not be seeing much of each other in the future. However, this did not feel like a blown opportunity, like sitting by the pool earlier today had been. Allison just was not my type. We were not interested in the same things, and with us both being so quiet, neither of us was able to get the other to open up much. I often pictured my ideal girlfriend being more talkative and outgoing than me, for that reason.

I got home a few minutes later; I had been gone for about an hour. I turned on the computer and thought about getting back on IRC chat, but something about that felt wrong, particularly if I were to see Allison online again so soon after seeing her in person. Instead, I played SimCity 2000, and went to bed around midnight.

I did talk to Allison a few more times on IRC. I did not want to be rude and stop talking to her altogether just because I did not think she was my type. But we never saw each other in person again, and I stopped seeing her on IRC around the time fall quarter started. As I drifted off to sleep that night, I kept replaying in my mind everything that had happened tonight. I felt sad that things had not gone better with Allison, but I had probably done nothing wrong. Maybe it was more of a feeling of disappointment, in the sense that I had wished Allison had been different and that we would have clicked better. But there was nothing I could do about that. It was perfectly normal for a guy and a girl not to click. At least I tried.

 

January 12, 1995. Bricks in the wall. (#19)

The British rock band Pink Floyd, a staple of classic rock radio which had been around since the late 1960s, released an album last year, late in my senior year of high school, called The Division Bell. That would be their last album of new material, and their tour last summer and fall was their last tour together.

With increased attention focused on the band, their older material got played much more often on classic rock radio, and I went through a Pink Floyd phase that lasted for about two years. I had my CD of The Division Bell, as well as tapes I had made of a few other Pink Floyd CDs I had borrowed from a few friends in Building C. But during that time, much of my knowledge of Pink Floyd came from their Usenet community.

Usenet was the progenitor of the Internet forum, where people make posts to ask questions or share something and others reply to it. Unlike modern fora, though, Usenet only supported messages in monochrome text; no pictures, formatting, or emojis. I subscribed to a few groups once I got to UJ and started using Usenet, mostly groups for bands and sports teams that I liked. The Pink Floyd group was by far the most active of the ones I followed, and like many active communities throughout the history of the Internet, this group featured many people with strong opinions. There was much arguing on which of Pink Floyd’s songs and albums was the best. Bassist Roger Waters, who was the songwriting heart and soul of Pink Floyd during their heyday in the 1970s and provided lead vocals for many of the songs, had left the band in the mid-1980s, and there was much arguing about whether or not the two subsequent Pink Floyd albums recorded by the other band members were in fact to be considered legitimate Pink Floyd material.

Much of the activity on this Usenet forum, however, was related to a cryptic message that had been posted using an anonymous email address a few months before I started following the group. In June of 1994, someone using the name Publius posted a disjointed message saying that the Division Bell album contained a hidden meaning, and that there would be a reward for whomever solved the enigma. Two more Publius messages followed, and among them was a prediction that something would happen at a certain time at a Pink Floyd concert a few days later. At exactly the time predicted by Publius, the word “ENIGMA” appeared on a screen on stage, suggesting that whomever was writing these strange posts actually had a connection with the band. This led to a great deal of discussion and speculation about the true meaning of the lyrics and artwork for the album. Some of the theories behind the Publius Enigma were relatively ordinary, usually involving the band coming up with this idea to get people talking about the true meaning of the songs. Others came up with significantly more outlandish theories, with one user even suggesting that Pink Floyd had made contact with aliens, and that the reward would be getting to go with the band to the aliens’ home planet.

All of this got me a little obsessed with the possibility of secret messages in songs. Last week, I had made a tape of Pink Floyd’s The Wall, borrowing the CD from Aaron in the room next door to me, and I had pretty much listened to it at least once a day, sometimes more, ever since. The Wall was a rock opera telling the story of a rock star with a troubled past, building a metaphorical wall to isolate himself from the world and others, and eventually becoming a fascist dictator-like figure. It spawned a few hit songs in 1979 and 1980, including their most commercially successful song, “Another Brick In The Wall, Part 2” (often known by its opening line, “we don’t need no education”). This was one of the first songs I ever remember recognizing when hearing it on the radio as a preschool-aged child, along with Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” and Supertramp’s “Take The Long Way Home.”

This was the first week of classes, and I was still getting used to my schedule. Today, Thursday, consisted only of a three hour chemistry lab in the morning. Our first lab today mostly consisted of lab safety procedures, with a very short experiment at the end so that the teacher assistant running the lab could demonstrate more procedures for us. Nothing too exciting. Nothing burned or blew up. The chemistry building, which in 1995 was just called the Chemistry Building rather than bearing the name of a significant individual in UJ’s history, was closer to the South Residential Area than any other building where I had ever had a class so far. Because of this, five minutes after my lab let out, I had already locked my bike, dropped off my backpack in my room, and started climbing the stairs to the dining hall.

I looked at the Asian girl with chin-length black hair climbing down the stairs and tried to remember why she looked familiar, whether or not I had actually met her, or if I had just seen her around the dining commons building. I remembered who she was just as we made eye contact: Tabitha, from Building B, who knew a bunch of people in my building because they were all part of Jeromeville Christian Fellowship. “Hi,” I said as we made eye contact.

“Hi,” Tabitha said as she passed me down the stairs. I didn’t know if she remembered me. Hard to tell.

After I got my food, I looked around for a place to sit. I knew exactly no one in the building, so I sat at a table by myself. I watched people walk past me as I ate alone. Friends laughing about something. Happy couples holding hands. A few other loners like me, but not many. Would I ever be part of a happy couple holding hands? There were times that I was at a table with friends laughing about something, but where were those people today? When I finished eating, I made a huge ice cream cone at the soft serve machine and brought it back to my room. On the way back, I saw Sarah Winters and Krista Curtis walking toward the dining commons as I headed back toward Building C.

“Hey, Greg,” Sarah said. “How are you?”

“Ok, I guess. Done with classes for the day.”

“Nice! See you later.”

I almost thought about turning around and eating lunch again just so I would have someone to talk to today. But that seemed a little creepy and desperate. I was feeling lonely, but there were still at least another ten hours of being awake today. Maybe people would be hanging out in the common room later tonight, or maybe I’d find someone to sit with at dinner.

I had math homework due tomorrow, and I worked on this in front of the computer screen while connected to IRC chat and listening to Pink Floyd’s The Wall yet again. Nothing interesting was happening; there were people in the chat room whom I had talked to before, but not any of the girls whom I had gotten flirty or sexually explicit with in the past. By 2:00, I had finished my math homework, and shortly afterward I got bored with the chat room.

I tried to take a nap, but thoughts that I could not silence kept running through my mind. I let my mind wander in a stream of consciousness. Another brick in the wall. Tear down the wall. Building my own wall. Being alone. Every day is the same. I go to class, I study, I waste my time in front of a computer screen. People talk to me, sure, but I’m not very social beyond talking. I never go on dates or to movies or out to eat or anything like that. Well, maybe occasionally, but today I wanted to do something and no one was around. Would I ever find my way and adjust to this new life? How long would this take?

I wished I had one more year at Plumdale High. I had grown so much last year. I was brave enough to do that skit in front of the whole school. I had people encouraging me, like Melissa Holmes and Lisa Swan and Jessica Halloran, even Catherine Yaras all the way from Austria. Jason Lambert and Stacey Orr and I dominated that debate in government class taking the conservative side. Stacey’s feminist views bothered me at first, but we agreed on a lot of other political issues, and we were friends for the most part by the time we graduated. I did some class competitions at lunch. We lost the overall class competition point total to the sophomores. They clearly cheated, or at least bent the rules, on the competition for best Homecoming float, and everyone who wasn’t a sophomore knew it. I was pissed off about that, and I hated the entire class of 1996. I worked hard on that float, and so did a lot of other people. But a month later, I met Annie Gambrell when I made that video for her group project, and she ended up being my only friend from the year that beat us. Annie was really cute, and a sweetheart too. She wrote a very encouraging and thoughtful message in the back of my yearbook last year, something I would expect to hear from a very close friend rather than someone I had only known for six months. But of course, Annie had a boyfriend, and even if she hadn’t, I probably didn’t have a chance with a popular girl like her.

I sat up. Nap time wasn’t happening. I turned the computer back on and spent the next few hours writing, putting my stream of consciousness to words. And not just any words. Rhyming couplets of iambic pentameter. And not just any rhyming couplets of iambic pentameter; I also hid a secret message in my poem.

When we studied Shakespeare in high school , I had a hard time at first hearing iambic pentameter, because I was used to popular music that had four beats per line instead of Shakespeare’s five. But the form eventually grew on me. Sonnet 29 in particular has always been a favorite of mine. And the secret message in my poem was definitely inspired by the Publius Enigma. I envisioned this poem as the first in a series all telling a story around a common theme, much like how the songs in The Wall told a story around a common theme.

I got up to use the bathroom while I was writing, and I left the door open a crack in case anyone came by to say hi. I doubted anyone would, though. After an hour or so, I had my finished product.

“Almost Extinct”

However hard the lonely young man tries,
Each night he stagnates, tears come to his eyes.
Around him, people moving here and there,
Variety, in his life, very rare.
It’s not much like the past, with lots of friends,
Like those to whom his happy times he lends,
Yes, now he has friends too, but something’s gone;
In this place no one’s there to push him on,
No goofy acting role before his peers,
Friends care, but not like in his high school years,
Like helping him become one of their own.
Under their domination he had grown,
Each day becoming stronger than before.
New friends came knocking on his open door.
Come crashing down, great wall of ninety-six!
End all the hate! build bridges with those bricks!
Do videos! the memories will transcend;
Behold the liberal wonder, now a friend.
Yet suddenly, one happy summer night,
Pure happiness made everything seem right,
In fact, however, that night was the last;
Now all that happiness lies in the past,
Killed off by evil forces time has wrought;
Far, far away, his happiness is naught;
Long gone is all the friendship from before,
Once there, it’s hard to stop that upward soar.
Yet he believes that he might soar again;
Does anybody know exactly when?

“Greg?” I heard someone say from the hallway. Sarah poked her head in the door. “Is everything okay? You seemed kind of down when I saw you earlier.”

“I’m just having a bad day,” I said. “A lot of thoughts running around in my head.”

“Anything you need to talk about?”

“I feel alone, mostly.”

“You’re not alone. You have friends here.”

“Well, like, you guys are my friends, but I don’t really do stuff with you other than classes and living here. I’m not good at making plans with people. I didn’t really have friends back home until senior year, and I wasn’t the one making plans. I would just get invited to stuff. And, I’m not good with girls. I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

“Greg, just be yourself. I know a lot of people in this building care about you. I care about you. And we’re not out there having fun and doing stuff every night. Most of the time we’re studying.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“But I’ll try to make sure you feel included.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You know some of us here are in a Bible study on Tuesdays. You’re always welcome to come to that.”

“Maybe.”

“By the way, was I interrupting anything? Are you studying?”

“No. I was… well, I was writing poetry about how I’ve been feeling.”

“Really? Can I read it?”

“Sure.” I didn’t feel like my poem was personal enough to hide from people, and I was curious about people’s reactions. I was also curious if she would find the secret message, or be curious about some of my oddly specific descriptions, like the Wall of Ninety-Six. She didn’t find the secret message, which was hidden in plain sight down the left side of the poem, reading the first letters of each line.

“That’s interesting,” Sarah said after she finished reading. “I like it.”

“I was thinking of writing a whole series of poems, kind of telling a story about this guy.”

“That’s a good idea. I didn’t know you wrote poetry.”

“I don’t really, at least not very often. But like I said, I was thinking about a lot of stuff earlier, and it just came out as poetry.”

“That’s really cool. Do you have anything else?”

“Well, I wrote another one a few days ago. A funny one. It’s actually a song parody.”

“I want to see it!”

I opened this file on my computer, which replaced Almost Extinct on the screen.

“Amazing Gas”

Amazing gas, how sweet the sound,
But oh, how bad the smell!
It kills your nose, makes trees fall down,
That’s how my old oak fell.

If there are lots of folks nearby
That you don’t want to see
Just cut the cheese, and they will fly,
The crowd will cease to be.

One man broke wind, his friend dropped dead,
They went for Murder One;
‘Twas just a heart attack, they said,
He walked, but it was fun.

Beware that wind from someone’s ass!
That pow’rful, putrid smell!
But if you want to smell the gas
Just eat at Taco Bell.

“That’s bad!” Sarah said, laughing. “And hilarious! Such a guy sense of humor.”

“I can’t help it. I grew up around fart jokes.”

Just then, the telephone rang. “Can you answer that?” I asked Sarah.

“What? Why?”

“It’s my mother. She’s the only person who ever calls me here. And I want to see her reaction when someone else answers.”

Sarah picked up the phone on the third ring. “Hello?” she said. She listened for a few seconds, and then laughed. “No, it’s not the wrong number. Greg is here,” she explained. She handed me the phone a few seconds later.

“Hello?” I said.

“Who was that?” Mom asked.

“Sarah. She was in here talking about something, and I just wanted to see your reaction when someone else answered the phone.”

“You got me. I was confused. I wondered, did I dial the wrong number? Did I forget Greg’s phone number?”

“I was just messing with you,” I said. I wouldn’t put it past Mom to forget my phone number, however. She tried to send me a package in 2008 that ended up getting returned to her after three weeks because she forgot my address. As I noticed Sarah gesturing as if she wanted to tell me something, I told Mom, “Hang on. Just a minute.”

“I’m going to let you go,” Sarah said quietly. “We’ll be going to the DC around 6 for dinner if you want to join us.”

“Okay,” I said. Sarah left and closed the door. “Sorry about that,” I said to Mom. “Sarah was telling me something. She just left.”

Mom and I continued talking for about 10 or 15 minutes. Most of the time Mom was telling me about work and people at church whom she knew and I didn’t. I told her a little bit about my new classes for winter quarter.

After I hung up with Mom, I started working on my chemistry lab report. It wasn’t due until next week, but I figured I may as well do it now while it was fresh in my mind. I was feeling a little bit better. It took me a long time to start being social in high school. I was still adjusting to the routine of being in college, and it might take a while here too. But I had some advantages here. In high school, I had never had a social life before, but since I started to have a social life at the end of high school, I knew a little more how social lives worked. And being in the IHP, living with people in my classes, I didn’t have to look very far to find friends, at least not as far as one would expect to look at a university with over twenty thousand students. Sarah was right. A lot of people in this building cared about me. Like Sarah and Krista and Taylor and Pete, with whom I had dinner at the dining commons that night. And they weren’t the only ones. There was also Liz and Ramon and Charlie and Caroline and Danielle and Rebekah and David and Keith and so many others, and having that many people who were becoming friends was not something to take lightly. I did not entirely realize at the time how fortunate I was to have an experience like this.

(Author’s note: These were actual poems I actually wrote in 1995.  And I did continue the series that started with Almost Extinct, but I’m not going to share the rest here.  It’s just weird.)

November 19, 1994. The Help Window. (#14)

After being in Building C for eight weeks now, it was inevitable that couples would begin to form.  And being that I was generally oblivious to this sort of thing, I’m sure there was probably more going on than the two obvious couples I knew about.  And, sadly, as usual, I was not a part of any of these couples.

It was a Saturday night, and I saw one of those couples, Pat Hart and Karen Francis, at the dining commons.  Pat was tall and athletic, with blond hair and a stereotypical golden-boy appearance. Karen was short and sassy, with brown hair and eyes and an occasional hint of Southern mannerisms, because she had spent the first half of her life in Georgia.  She was younger than the rest of us, since she had finished high school early.  But I didn’t know if any of that made Pat and Karen a typical couple, or an unlikely pairing, or what, because I knew nothing of relationships and was oblivious to a lot of things.

Pat and Karen sat at a table with Mike, Keith, and a girl named Gina Stalteri who lived next to Mike on the third floor.  Two other people who did not live in Building C were with them as well; one was Pat’s twin brother, Nate, but I did not recognize the other one.  There was one empty chair at the table; I approached and asked if I could sit there. They looked like they were almost done eating, so I might have the table to myself eventually.

“Go for it,” Mike said.

I sat quietly eating and listened to their conversation.  “We’re gonna have to take two cars there,” Pat said. “It’s too far to walk.  Can anyone else drive?”

“I will,” Mike offered.  “Where did you say he lives?”

“An apartment in north Jeromeville, on the corner of Andrews and Alvarez.  Las Casas Apartments, he said it was called.”

“‘Las Casas.’  That’s kind of a dumb name.  It means ‘The Houses.’”

“That’s kind of like one time, I was visiting my relatives in Bidwell,” I said, “and we went to this Mexican restaurant called ‘La Comida.’”  Everyone laughed, except Karen.

“What does ‘La Comida’ mean?” Karen asked.  “I took French in high school, not Spanish.”

“‘The Food!’” shouted Mike.

“There’s actually a restaurant called ‘The Food?’” Gina asked.

“It’s real,” Keith said.  “I’ve been there. My sister went to Bidwell State.”

“We should probably get going,” Pat said.  “You guys ready?” The others nodded and answered in the affirmative.  “Greg? You want to come with us?” Pat asked.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“My friend from back home, he’s a senior, he’s having a party at his apartment.  I’m sure he’d be ok with more people showing up.”

A party off campus was probably not my scene.  It was probably going to be loud, with lots of drinking.  But maybe I needed to get out of the dorm for a night. “Maybe,” I said.  “I was going to get stuff done tonight.”

“Just show up if you decide to.  It’s at Las Casas Apartments, number 109.  Somewhere near Andrews Road and Alvarez Avenue,” he said.  “Sorry I can’t give better directions. That’s what my friend told me”

“Greg will be able to find it,” Mike said.  “He’s good with maps and directions, remember?”

I chuckled.  “For sure,” I said.

“Bye, Greg!” Gina said as the seven of them began picking up their food trays.

“Maybe we’ll see you there?” Pat asked.

“Maybe.”

 

I got back to my room around fifteen minutes later.  I really didn’t want to go to that party. I didn’t hang around with partiers growing up.  If anything, the mere existence of these kind of parties made me angry that everyone else seemed to know how to get alcohol when younger than the legal drinking age, except for me, and that there were no consequences for these lawbreakers.  And yet, I had no desire to drink; I had seen and heard about too many lives ruined by alcohol.

I didn’t have any other plans tonight.  This was the last week of football season, and it was an away game, so there was no game to go to.  I had a very small TV in my dorm room; I got six channels from its antenna, four of them came in fuzzy, and none of them was showing anything good on a Saturday night.

I got on the computer.  I checked my email; I had a message from a girl in Wisconsin whom I had met in an IRC chat a couple weeks earlier. I wrote her back, nothing too important, just telling her about my day and answering some questions she had about what classes I was in and what UJ was like.

I got on IRC next.  Nothing exciting was going on in my usual chat room, nor did anyone I knew appear to be on.  I tried unsuccessfully to talk to a few people over the course of about fifteen minutes, after which I gave up and signed off.

I went to the bathroom.  I walked all the way up and down the second floor.  It was quiet. The only door that was open was Pat and Charlie’s room, and it was only open a crack.  I poked my head in the door to say hi, and Charlie told me that he had a huge paper to write by Monday, and he was thankful that Pat was gone for the night, so he could have the room to himself.  I figured he probably didn’t want to be bothered.

I went back to my room and played a few games of Tetris on the computer.  After I got bored with that, I walked down to the first floor. The common room was empty, and the only person I saw was Phuong, who was also busy writing a term paper.

I walked up to the third floor and thought about how lifeless Building C was tonight.  There weren’t many signs of life on the third floor either. When I got to the other end of the hallway, where the other staircase was, I saw the other Building C couple that I knew about: Liz Williams, thin with straight brown hair, who lived just down the hall from me, and tall, curly-haired Ramon Quintero, who lived in the room which he and Liz were just leaving when I saw them.  They were holding hands as they approached the stairwell. “Hey, Greg,” Liz said. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.  Just bored.  What about you guys?”

“We’re going out to dinner,” Ramon said.

“Have fun!” I said.

“You too!” Liz smiled.  “Hope you find something to do.”

“I’ll be fine.”

I walked back downstairs and down the hallway to my room.  I tried reading the chapter I had to read by Monday for Rise and Fall of Empires, but I couldn’t concentrate.  Something just felt discouraging about all these happy couples and drunken revelers out having fun, while I was here being bored.

I put the book down.

Depression sucks.

I got back on IRC.  I messaged a girl in the room.  “Hi! How are you?” I typed.

“Leave me alone, you ugly fat virgin,” she replied.

How did she know?

I signed off after about an hour of wasting time with nothing interesting happening.  I checked my email again; no one had written.

I tried reading for pleasure for a while.  I was currently working my way through all 1100-plus pages of Stephen King’s It.  This had been one of my mom’s favorite books, and I borrowed it when I had been home three weeks earlier.  Creepy book, but in a good way. That kept me occupied for about an hour, but I couldn’t become completely immersed in the story because I kept thinking about how I hated being lonely like this, and I wished I knew how to be more social.

Maybe I should have gone to that party at Las Casas Apartments after all.  Maybe it’s not too late.

No, I don’t belong there.  That’s not really where I want to be.

I went to the bathroom and walked up and down all three hallways again.  Still nothing going on.

I went back to my computer and played a few more games of Tetris.  By now, it was after ten o’clock, and I was starting to get tired. I tried going to sleep, but my mind was racing, and I couldn’t fall asleep.  I kept thinking about Liz and Ramon, Pat and Karen, the party at Las Casas, all the cute girls I didn’t know how to talk to, and all my friends back home who had mostly abandoned me.  The situation with my friends at home wasn’t all bad, though: Renee had finally gotten her email set up, so we had been back in touch for a couple weeks, and I had gotten a second letter from Melissa.  However, that wasn’t going to help me tonight

I eventually decided to give up on trying to sleep for a while; the clock said 11:19.  I was tired of being cooped up in this boring room. I put on the jeans I had been wearing earlier and my UJ hoodie, and I walked outside.  I circled the entire South Residential Area, then came back toward the dining commons building.

The dining hall was on the second floor, and it was dark this time of night.  The first floor entrance opened into a lounge with a pool table; no one was there.  In fact, the whole building appeared to be empty. To the left of the room with the pool table, a door opened up into a study room and small sandwich and yogurt shop called Betsy’s.  I had no idea who Betsy was, but her shop was closed this time of night. Behind the pool table, another door led to the mail room, and to the only place where I knew I would definitely find a conscious human being in this building.

The Resident Help Window was open all night, every night.  One or two of the twenty-five resident advisors for this area would take turns staffing the window at night, so that residents would have a place to go for questions and concerns after hours, when the RAs in their own buildings would (theoretically) be sleeping.  I walked through the door, looking down at the ground, into the space that contained the mailboxes and the Help Window. I had already checked my mail today, so in my mind, I was expecting to just peek up at the window and then leave after a few seconds, and if I got asked if I needed help, I would just mutter something about not being able to sleep.  But instead, I heard a friendly “Hi, Greg!” coming from the Help Window.

I looked up.  The RA on duty tonight was Megan McCauley from Building K.  I met Megan a couple weeks ago, when I sat with some of the RAs at dinner and Megan gave me some tips for biking in the rain.  Since then, I had seen her and said hi to her a couple of times around the dining hall. A textbook was open on the desk in front of her.

“Hey,” I said.  “How are you?”

“I’m good.  It’s a pretty slow night so far, so I’m studying for physics.  This class is a lot of work.”

“Which physics?”

“9B.  Are you going to have to take that?  What’s your major?”

“I haven’t decided yet.  Math and physics and chemistry were my favorite classes in high school, and they all need the Physics 9 series, so I’ll be taking it next year.”

“Sounds like you’ve at least narrowed down your potential majors to things that have a lot of the same freshman classes.”

“Yeah.  What’s your major?”

“Chemical engineering.”

“That sounds hard, but interesting.”

“Exactly!  A lot of Chem-E majors don’t finish in four years without taking really heavy class loads.  I’ve kind of accepted that I might need five years.”

“I feel like I need to hurry up and decide.  Most of the people I know in my building know their majors already.”

“There’s nothing wrong with not having a major right away, but the sooner you decide, the sooner you can plan ahead, and you’ll be more likely to graduate on time.”

“That’s true.”

“Are you considering engineering at all?”

I paused.  “I don’t know,” I said eventually.  But in those few seconds of thinking, I realized something: I grew up very sheltered, in a mostly blue-collar part of the state.  The true reason I hadn’t considered engineering as a major was because I really had no idea what an engineer was. But I didn’t say any of this to Megan.  It was a little sad and embarrassing.

“It wouldn’t hurt to look into it.  But engineering has different grad requirements, remember.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving?  Where are you from?”

“Plumdale.  Near Gabilan and Santa Lucia.  But I won’t be going home probably until Christmas.  For Thanksgiving, my parents will be picking me up on the way to my grandpa’s house in Bidwell.”

“I love Santa Lucia!  Growing up, we’d go there every summer to go to the beach.  It’s so pretty there!”

“Yeah, it is.  Where are you from?”

“Not far away.  Oak Heights, just outside of Cap City.  I can get home in half an hour if there’s no traffic.”

“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah.  Nothing too big. Just my family.  And my great-aunt.”

“That’s nice.  We used to have it at my great-grandma’s house.  This is our first Thanksgiving without her. She was my last great-grandparent.”

“I’m sorry,” Megan said.  “Were you close?”

“Kinda.  We went to visit her twice a year, and we stayed at her house for a few days.  She lived up in the hills outside of town. There were great views from her house.  We’d go up there for Fourth of July, and from her front yard we’d be able to see two fireworks shows off in the distance.”

“That sounds nice!”

“It was.”  I yawned.

“Getting tired?” Megan asked.

“Maybe I should go try to sleep.”

“I think that’s a good idea.  I hope you’re able to sleep this time.”

“Me too,” I said.  “And, hey, it was good talking to you.”

“It was good talking to you too!”

“Thanks.”

“Any time, Greg.  You go get some sleep.”  She smiled.

“Good night,” I said, awkwardly smiling back.

“Good night!”

I walked back to Building C, swiped my ID card at the door, climbed the stairs, went to the bathroom, returned to room 221, and went back to bed, a little after midnight.  As I drifted off to sleep, I kept thinking about what had happened tonight. Megan seemed really, really nice, at least from our few interactions so far. She was cute too, with her dark blonde hair slightly above shoulder length and pretty blue eyes.  I usually like longer hair on girls, but that length worked on her. It seems like I think a lot of girls are cute, but in Megan’s case, talking to her didn’t really feel weird, like it did with some other girls. Was it bad that she was older? Could there be something there more than just friends?  Could she ever see me that way, or was I just a silly freshman to her? I didn’t even know how much older she was, although I guessed it was probably just one year, since the Physics 9 series is usually taken in the spring of freshman year and first two quarters of sophomore year. Was I mature enough to date a sophomore?  Of course, I was getting way ahead of myself, but these thoughts comforted me as I finally drifted off to sleep.

The resident advisors’ jobs were to help dorm residents with anything we might need, as well as to make sure that people were being quiet after eleven o’clock, and the Resident Help Window was open all night for any concerns we may need help with.  Now that I think about it, I don’t remember if I ever actually used the Resident Help Window for its intended purpose. But sometimes, a friendly face and a listening ear were all the help I really needed.