Late November, 1998.  My eccentric roommate just became more eccentric. (#200)

Thank you so much, readers, for sticking with me through 200 episodes of this story.  At some point in 2019, during year 1 of this story, I estimated that I would need about 250 episodes to tell the whole story, and it is finally starting to look possible that I might get to the end someday.  I’m glad to have you to share it with.  And if you know anyone who might like a nostalgic coming-of-age story set in the 1990s, please share this with them.


From: Michelle923@aolnet.com
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Tue, 17 Nov 1998 12:40 -0500
Subject: Re: hi

Hi! How are you? How’s teaching going? Your X-Files parties sound really fun! I’ve only seen that show a few times, but it looked pretty good from what I saw.

I’m excited because Thanksgiving is coming up next week!  We always host it at our house.  My grandparents will be coming, and some of my aunts and uncles and cousins.  We have a lot of family in the area.  I love Thanksgiving dinner… What do you have planned for Thanksgiving?  Will you be going home?  Does your family live nearby, or did you go far away for school?

I have class this afternoon.  What about you?  Are you teaching today?  I hope you have a great day! Talk to you soon! :-)

–Michelle


I met Michelle a few weeks ago on an Internet Relay Chat channel.  A few years ago, when I first had access to chat sites on the Internet, my mother was always fond of reminding me that these girls I was talking to could be creepy old men for all I knew.  Back in the 1990s, chat sites, and the private messages that came from them, were entirely text based.  The technology for video chatting had not been developed yet, and digital photography was in its infancy, beyond the average user’s capability or budget.  If I wanted to send someone a picture, I had to take a traditional film photo of myself and put it on a flatbed scanner to convert it to a digital image file.  I did not own a flatbed scanner, and while there were a few in computer labs around school with flatbed scanners, I also did not like most pictures of myself in the first place.  I had not sent Michelle a picture yet, nor had she sent me one, but she seemed really sweet.

Michelle was a community college student, a few years younger than me.  She lived in Michigan with her family.  A large Thanksgiving with aunts and uncles and cousins sounded nice to me, but the Thanksgiving I had to look forward to this year would be much smaller.  I clicked Reply and started typing.


To: Michelle923@aolnet.com
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi

Your Thanksgiving sounds like fun!  I will be going home to my parents’ house.  They live in a little town called Plumdale, in the central part of the state near the coast, near Gabilan and Santa Lucia if you know where those are.  It’s about a two and a half hour drive if traffic is good.  When I was growing up, we had a big family Thanksgiving that sounds more like yours.  My dad grew up in Bidwell, a ways north of here, and we’d drive between four and five hours to have Thanksgiving at my great-grandma’s house every year, with a lot of his relatives there too.  My great-grandma died in 1994, and some of those relatives have moved farther away, and now my brother is


The phone rang, interrupting my typing.  Back in those days, most people used dial-up Internet, connecting through the telephone line, but I had my email set up in a way that I could read and write messages offline, not tying up the phone line, only connecting for a minute when I needed to send and check messages.  I picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” 

“Hi,” a young-sounding female voice said on the other end.  “Is Jed there?”

“He’s not home.  Can I take a message?”

“Can you tell him that Jamie called?”

“Sure,” I said, writing “Jed – Jamie called” on a piece of scratch paper.  “Does he have your number?”

“I think so, but let me give it to you just in case.”

Back in the days of landlines, someone who moved had to get a new phone number in the new area code, so it was possible to tell where someone lived from their phone number.  I could tell from Jamie’s area code that she was probably someone Jed knew from back home, not a Jeromeville local.  “Sure.  I’ll give him that message.”

“Thank you!  Bye!”

“Bye,” I said, hanging up the phone.  I continued my email to Michelle.


in high school on the basketball team, and his season starts the week of Thanksgiving so we can’t travel anymore.  So I’ll be back at home with just my immediate family and my grandparents on Mom’s side.  I miss going to see Dad’s relatives in Bidwell.  My great-grandma lived in the hills just outside of town with lots of places to hike and explore.  It was beautiful.

The X-Files parties are always fun!  It’s funny how that group has kind of developed a bunch of inside jokes.  Like there was this time when I


I was interrupted from writing my email again; this time, I heard the doorbell frantically ringing.  I jumped out of my seat a little, then cautiously walked down the hallway to the front door.  I opened the door a crack and saw Jed, with his bicycle propped against the wall.  “Can you go grab a couple of towels from the bathroom?” he said, somewhat frantically.

Confused, I looked at him again and noticed that his right hand was dripping blood.  Without asking, I ran to the bathroom and brought Jed two towels.  He wrapped his hand in one of them and held it in place.  “I’m going to need a ride to the Student Health Center.  I’m really sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you.  Are you the only one home?”

“Yeah, I’m the only one home,” I said.  “I’m not doing anything urgent.  Let’s go.  Should I put your bike inside?”

“Yes, please.”

I noticed that the right handlebar of Jed’s bike was also covered in blood, so I carefully held it by the other handlebar and wheeled it into the laundry room, the closest part of the house, just to get it out of the way.  I locked the house and walked with Jed to the car, hoping that the two towels would soak up enough blood that he would not bleed inside my car.  Jed carefully pulled himself into the passenger seat, also being careful not to get blood on anything.  “Can you buckle my seat belt?” he asked.  “It’s kind of hard to hold on to anything with my right hand.”

“Sure,” I said.  I buckled his seat belt, then got around to the driver’s seat and attached my own.  As we pulled away from the curb, weaving through the neighborhood toward Andrews Road, I finally asked, “So what happened?  Are you gonna be okay?”

“It was a freak accident,” he explained as I turned right on Andrews.  Gesturing toward the intersection behind us, he continued, “I was slowing down to turn here, on my way home from class, and the whole brake lever broke off.  It fell to the ground, bounced off the spinning tire, and ricocheted right back at my hand.  The sharp metal edge where it broke sliced my finger, and it hit me so hard I think my finger might be broken too.”

“Holy crap!” I exclaimed.  “That sounds painful!”

“It is,” Jed said.

I continued driving, unsure of what else to say.  The Student Health Center was at the north end of campus, on Colt Avenue just south of West Fifth Street.  I knew of this building’s existence, but I had never actually been inside; fortunately for me, I had never been sick or injured seriously enough in my four years and two months as a University of Jeromeville student to need a doctor.

I turned into the parking lot, looking to see where I could get a visitor permit since I did not currently have a permit to park on campus.  I noticed a sign saying that the section of the lot closest to the Student Health Center was reserved for patient parking, and that if I needed to be there for more than an hour, I could get a parking permit when I checked in.  I parked there and walked with Jed to the lobby.  Jed could walk just fine under his own power; only his right hand had been injured.

The Student Health Center was a low one-story building, resembling any other doctor’s office or urgent care center that one might find off campus.  I walked into the lobby, holding the door for Jed.  A receptionist sat at a desk, with upholstered chairs lining the remaining walls of the lobby.  Jed explained to the receptionist what had happened.

“You need to fill this out,” she said, handing him a clipboard with a form on it.  “Is that your writing hand that you hurt?”

“Yeah,” Jed replied, almost chuckling at his misfortune.  Gesturing to me, Jed asked, “Can he fill it out for me?”

“Sure,” the receptionist answered.

I took the clipboard from Jed and sat in a chair.  He sat next to me.  I took the pen and started writing.  “‘Name,’” I said, reading from the form.  “Wallace, comma, Jedediah Andrew.  Right?  Andrew is your middle name?”

“Yeah.”

“‘Student ID number?’” I asked.  Jed told me the number, and I wrote it in the blank.  “‘Address,’ I know that one.”  Jed chuckled as I wrote 902 Acacia Drive, Jeromeville, which of course was also my address.

“‘Emergency contact.’  Your parents?  David and Sherri Wallace?”

“Yes.  S-H-E-R-R-I,” Jed spelled, presumably to make sure I did not write Sheri or Sherry or Sherrie.  Jed then told me their address and phone number in Sand Hill, at the opposite end of the state, which I copied onto the form.  The next section asked for a detailed description of the injury.  I asked Jed exactly what he wanted me to write, and I wrote the description that he dictated to me.

After we finished filling out the form, the receptionist told us to wait.  I had no idea how long of a wait it would be.  It occurred to me a few minutes later that I had left a half-finished email to Michelle open on my computer.  I thought about telling Jed this, but I preferred to keep my conversations with girls from the Internet private, so I did not say anything.  I then started to worry that one of the other housemates might find it.  Although Brody and Sean each had their own rooms, I would not at all put it past Brody to go into my room, borrow something without asking, see the message to Michelle, and intrusively tease me about her later.  Or, worse yet, to reply to Michelle in my name, telling her all about my herpes, my missing teeth, and my recent realization that I was gay and fooling around with my 60-year-old male professor.  None of that was true, but Brody would find all of it hilarious.

I remembered something else that happened earlier before Jed got home.  “In all the chaos, I forgot to tell you.  Someone named Jamie called for you.”

“Jamie?  Did she have a high, soft voice?”

“Yeah.  And she gave me a number to call back, with a Sand Hill area code.”

Jed nodded knowingly, grinning.  “Trouble.”

“I actually wondered if that was who it was, when I saw the area code,” I said.  Jed got involved with swing dancing last year at the University Bar & Grill in Jeromeville, when swing dancing suddenly became a huge fad.  He went home to Sand Hill over the summer and found a place to go dancing there.  He had told me once about one of his friends from dancing back home, a seductive-looking blonde with the nickname Trouble.  “That was nice of her to call you,” I said.  “I haven’t heard from any of my friends back home in a long time.”

“Nooooo!” Jed shouted, louder than was expected in a doctor’s office waiting room.  I looked at him, as did two other patients in the waiting room.

“What?” I asked.

“This broken finger means I can’t go dancing!”

“Oh, no!” I said.  “That’s disappointing.  Hopefully you get better soon.”  My own experience swing dancing was indefinitely on hold.  The last time I went was a few weeks ago, and I had no definite plans to go back any time soon.  Most of my friends were not going there anymore, I was getting rejected often when asking girls to dance, and new episodes of The X-Files had started, on the same night of the week.  I was enjoying the X-Files watch parties at the De Anza house more than I was swing dancing at the moment.  But Jed still loved swing dancing, and now he would have to stop for a while until his finger healed.  I felt bad for him.

About twenty minutes later, a nurse walked out and called, “Jedediah?”  Jed stood up.

I asked, “Do you know how long this will take?  Do I have to wait here?  I don’t really know how this works.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied.  Turning to the receptionist, he asked, “Can my ride go home, and I can call him from here when I’m ready to be picked up?”

“Sure,” the receptionist said.  “We’ll do that.”  Turning to me, she continued, “Go do what you need to.  We can take care of it from here.”

“Sounds good.”

“Thank you so much for the ride,” Jed said to me.

“You’re welcome.  I hope it’s not that bad, and that it heals soon.”


Jed’s finger was that bad.  He needed stitches to stop the bleeding, and his broken finger was in a metal splint for four months.  I got the call to pick him up just as I was about to get ready for bed that night, after I finished writing my email to Michelle and grading the quizzes from my student teaching class.

Jed continued going to class, getting notes from classmates and finding ways to hold his pencil to make his writing legible for his instructors.  He took the bus to campus, since he could not ride a bike with the cast and his bike was still broken.  He still went home for Thanksgiving, but he had to buy expensive last minute plane tickets instead of making the seven-hour drive by himself.  He found someone else to give him a ride to and from the airport in Capital City.  I wondered how airport security handled the splint on his finger.  When he came home on the Sunday night after Thanksgiving, he was wearing his usual driver cap, polo shirt, and business-casual slacks with athletic shoes, but he had something new around him, a long, wide, dark blue velvet-like fabric piece down his back.

“Hey,” I said as he walked into our shared room.  “What’s with the cape?”

“It’s a cloak,” he said, extending his arms and unfurling the cloak to its full size.  It was attached around his neck at the top.  I nodded.  “My cousin got it for the Renaissance faire a few years ago.  We were standing around outside after Thanksgiving dinner, I got cold, and I was having trouble putting my finger through the long sleeve of a jacket.  My cousin gave me his cloak to try.  It’s so much more comfortable with my broken finger, and it keeps me really warm.”

“Makes sense.  Glad you found something that works.”

Jed took off the cloak and tossed it on his desk chair as I got everything together for student teaching in the morning.  My eccentric roommate just became more eccentric, I thought.  I tried to picture Jed walking around campus wearing the cloak, and oddly enough, it seemed like exactly the kind of thing I would expect him to do.  Jed was going to do his thing that made sense for him regardless of what the rest of society would say about it.  And that was actually an admirable quality.  I wanted to live that way, being myself without caring what people thought about me, being unique and mysterious unlike all the other boring people out there.  It was difficult sometimes, though, especially given my history in childhood of being bullied for every imaginable reason.

Jed’s cloak became a well-known part of his personality.  I once met someone who did not know him personally, but knew who I was talking about when I said that my roommate was the guy with the cloak who works at the Coffee House on campus.  A year later, I was no longer a student but still attending Jeromeville Christian Fellowship sometimes, and on the Friday before Halloween that year, I had heard someone at JCF say that there was a Halloween party at the De Anza house afterward.  I got a brilliant idea and rushed home.  Brody was the only one home, so I asked him, “Where’s Jed?  There’s a Halloween party at the De Anza house, and I’m going to dress as Jed.  I want to ask if I can borrow his cloak.”

“Just take it, if he’s not wearing it,” Brody said.  “But if you really want to ask, he went to rent a movie from Blockbuster.”

I got in the car, drove the quarter mile to Blockbuster Video, and walked quickly up and down the aisles looking at the other customers.  Jed had a girlfriend at the time, and I found the two of them in about thirty seconds.

“Jed!” I called out.

Both of them turned around, and Jed said, “Hey!  How’s it going?”

I blurted out quickly, “Brody told me you were here.  There’s a Halloween party at the De Anza house, and I’m going as you.  Can I borrow the cloak?”

Jed looked at me for a few seconds, puzzled by what I said.  After his brain finished processing, the two of them both started laughing loudly.  “Go for it,” he said. “That’ll be hilarious.”

I went back home and put on the same kind of business casual slacks I wore for student teaching, a dark solid color shirt, the driver cap that I used to wear swing dancing, and white athletic shoes.  I then fastened the cloak around my neck.  Jed had not gotten home from the video store yet, but Brody saw my costume before I left and insisted on taking a picture.  He could barely keep a straight face.  Most of the people at the party knew Jed well enough that they recognized me.  Tim Walton said it would have been funnier if Jed had been there too, and 3 Silver said that I should have bandaged my finger to complete the costume.  He was totally right; I wished I had thought of that.

A few years later, I was living in Riverview, but took a day trip to Jeromeville on the day of the Spring Picnic.  At one point, I was walking across the Memorial Union, and I saw a slightly shorter than average young man with bushy blond hair and a dark cloak about ten feet in front of me.  I was excited, because I had not seen Jed in a while at the time; he was married by then, and I hung out with him and his wife for part of the day. 

I have never had a trademark article of clothing that people always associate with me, like Jed had with the cloak.  As I mentioned before, I had my own driver cap, similar to Jed’s, that I had gotten for swing dancing, to look the part.  As the weather cooled down in that fall of 1998, I started to wear it to class and in public, but this was a style I borrowed from Jed, not my own.  These days, I wear a baseball cap most of the time, but I go back and forth between several different ones, and there is nothing unusual about wearing a baseball cap.  Of course, this represents a major change for me, since I never wore a baseball cap in my days of being a student at UJ.  At the time Jed acquired his cloak, I had not worn a baseball cap for nine years.  But how that changed is another story for another time.


Is there an uncommon article of clothing that you are known for among your friends and acquaintances? Or do you know someone like this who usually wears an uncommon article of clothing? Tell me about it in the comments.

Thank you again for sticking with me for 200 episodes! If you are new to this story, why not start from episode 1 so you can see how this story unfolded? Click here!

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July 23, 1998. Cosine. (#186)

Previously on Don’t Let The Days Go By, Greg had been emailing a girl who randomly found him on the Internet, and he had learned some things about her that made him uncomfortable…


I pedaled my bike across campus after leaving my house and looping around west Jeromeville.  A while back, I came up with a ride for when I was feeling particularly ambitious, around the entire perimeter of Jeromeville.  The ride was about fifteen miles, and my goal was to get home in under an hour.  I had done this same ride about five times in the last year, and my fastest time was 59 minutes, 11 seconds.  I tried to concentrate on the thrill of pedaling fast and the challenge of racing the clock, but all I could think of was a girl two time zones away whom I had only known for a month and a half, and never met in person.

Casey Gauthier was a community college student from Texas.  She randomly found my website and sent me an email, and we seemed to hit it off right away.  Her grandparents lived in East Bayside, an easy day trip from Jeromeville, and we had mentioned meeting in person the next time she visited them. But I quickly realized that she was not exactly the good Christian girl that I thought she was.  Furthermore, it had been over a week since I had heard from her.  It happened quite often than I would have great conversations with girls from the Internet who would then disappear completely.  I was angry for both reasons, even though if she were to write back, she still would not be the kind of person I once thought she was.  I wanted the girl I had in mind when I first met Casey back, even though she did not technically exist.  At this point, I kind of wished I had never met her.  If I had a time machine, I could just go back and delete her first email before I had a chance to open it, and none of this would have happened.

As I crossed Highway 100, on Cornell Boulevard near In-N-Out Burger, dripping sweat as the morning sun rose higher, it suddenly occurred to me that I could deal with the Casey situation the same way I had with other girl problems: by writing about it.  I could play with this time machine idea and write a story with elements of science fiction.  I loved movies and TV shows involving time travel and changing history.  What happened with Casey and me, though, did not feel like a dramatic enough reason for someone to want to change history.  For the rest of my ride, as I crossed back over Highway 100 and headed west on Coventry Boulevard before detouring into the Greenbelts of north Jeromeville, I tried to come up with ways to embellish the story, in order to make the character’s desire to change history more plausible.

I pulled up in front of my house and looked at my watch, pressing the button to stop the stopwatch from counting.  58 minutes, 56 seconds.  A new record.  More importantly, I had an outline in my head of what happened between these two characters, as well as how the character acquired a time machine in the first place, and how the story would end.  I also had a title, a word that would figure into the plot but also carried a hidden meaning because it sounded like “Casey.”  After I got out of the shower and dressed, I sat at my computer and wrote for the next few hours.


“Cosine”

The young man landed in the middle of a field about a mile from the city limits.  He wondered what time it was.  He had given himself adequate time to complete his mission, but still, he did not want to be late.  He knew that he had to do what he had to do and then return home quickly.  If anything did not go according to plan, he and Dr. Bowman could both get into serious trouble.

He walked down the road to a bus stop.  He waited for ten minutes, but no bus came.  He looked at his watch.  It said 3:04 PM, Tuesday, May 25, 1999, but he knew that was wrong.  A large-sounding vehicle turned the corner.  He looked; it was the bus.

The bus driver asked the man for his fare.  In this, a college town, students could ride the bus free.  The man started to reach into his pocket and pulled out his student ID card, but then caught himself.  He gave the driver the fare instead, in quarters, each of them well worn so that the lines in George Washington’s hair barely showed.  The man took a seat in the back of the bus next to a college-age girl with a nose ring.  It reminded him of Cameron’s nose ring, a nose ring he was risking his life to forget.  The man waited for the bus to approach the university campus.

The man knew that he wanted to speak with as few people as possible in this place, but he just had to know.  He looked at the watch the girl with the nose ring wore.  It was 12:06 PM.  This made him feel better.  It didn’t give him a whole lot of time, but it was enough.  Michael was currently taking a calculus midterm, until 1:00.  The bus would arrive at 12:20, giving him plenty of time to go to the computer lab and read Michael’s e-mail before Michael could get out of the midterm and do the same.  The exam was very difficult, and there was no chance Michael would finish early.

The man looked around the bus.  The person sitting next to him, on the other side from the girl with the nose ring, wore a Bay City Captains sweatshirt.  Nice shirt, he thought.  He thought of how Cameron loved the Captains.  In fact, that was one of the first things that Michael, the person whose life he was about to change, and Cameron discovered they had in common.  And one of the only things they had in common.

The man looked on the seat next to him and found a discarded copy of the school newspaper.  Friday, November 14, 1997.  Top story: the chancellor issued a press release regarding his views on affirmative action and diversity.  Weather: partly cloudy and breezy.  Highs in the mid-60s.  Showers tonight.  So far, so good, the man thought.  It looked like his first major concern worked out.

A tall blond guy walked onto the bus.  The man recognized him as someone he knew named Steve.  The man instinctively waved at Steve.  But Steve looked back at him with a puzzled look of non-recognition.  Steve took a seat in the back of the bus.  Of course, the man realized.  He and Steve had met in a class they had together at this university, in the spring of 1998.  Steve would not recognize him yet here, in the fall of 1997.  Although the man had seen all of the Back to the Future movies around eight times, he still wasn’t used to actual time travel.

The man got off the bus at the school.  He made sure to avoid seeing Steve to prevent further confusion.  The fewer people he interacted with during his mission, the better it would go.  The man looked around at the university, just as he had remembered it a year and a half before.  The new social studies building was still under construction, but everything else looked pretty much the same.  It made him think.  He might still be going to school at that university, in 1999, if not for his nervous breakdown.  But all that might change shortly if things go as planned.

As he understood it, sometime earlier that week in November 1997, a thousand miles away, someone named Cameron Gross had been surfing the Web when she came across Michael’s home page.  She noticed that they both liked the Captains.  Also, Michael lived just a few miles away from a city where Cameron used to live, where she still had relatives.  Michael had written back asking this mysterious person to tell more about herself.  This time traveler’s plan, as he understood it, began with an eight minute walk to the computer lab across campus.  He knew from experience that this computer lab was rarely full, so the man could get on and off quickly before Michael got there.  He knew Michael’s password, so he would not appear suspicious at all.  Cameron should have replied to Michael’s message that morning; all the man had to do was delete that message.  Then, later that afternoon, Michael would go to that lab to work on a project.  He would take a break to check his e-mail, he would find no message from Cameron, and he would quickly forget that she ever existed.

The man walked past a brick building full of classrooms.  He knew that building well.  In fact, he knew Michael was in room 115 taking the calculus midterm.  He decided, in a move that could risk the mission’s success, to check and make sure that Michael was there, to make sure this in fact was happening.  In fact, it felt like none of this was happening.  Nothing had felt right since his life began falling apart, beginning during spring break 1998, leading to his nervous breakdown, causing him to drop out of school, and culminating in this X-File that he was standing in the middle of now.  In fact, he remembered having seen something like this before on “The X-Files” on TV.  An old man caused a mysterious death while trying to change history.  The man liked that episode, because five minutes into it he guessed who the old man was and what he was trying to do.  This made him happy because he never knew what was going on in “The X-Files.”

The man slowly cracked open the door to room 115.  He knew exactly where Michael would be, in the corner away from the window.  Michael was there, all right, frantically trying to erase something as if his entire future depended on it.  The man knew that Michael had written “cosine” where he should have written “tangent,” and this had thrown his entire answer off.  The man knew this because, a year and a half ago, it had been him sitting in that corner trying to erase the cosine.

The man, Michael, gently closed the door to room 115 so as not to bother any of the students.  He walked down the hall and out of the room.  He remembered leaving that exam, feeling okay about it, like he had done well but not spectacularly.  He also remembered that that was the day he had gone to the computer lab and found the message from Cameron.  He remembered being surprised yet happy that Cameron was a girl.  When she first wrote him, he had figured that Cameron was a guy, since she talked about football and also since one of his good childhood friends was a guy named Cameron.  Apparently, since he knew a male Cameron, he tended to assume that people named Cameron were male.  He remembered that this was the day it happened because he told Cameron how he did on the exam.  He remembered Cameron’s reply, that she was no good at math.  Sometimes it scared Michael just how much he remembered.

Just outside of the building, Michael saw his friend Jennifer.  “Hi, Michael,” she said.  “Didn’t you have a midterm now?”

Michael didn’t know what to say.  “At one o’clock,” he lied.  He hoped that Jennifer wouldn’t notice that he was wearing different clothes.

“Oh,” she said.  “I thought it was now.  Oh well.  See you later.”

Michael glanced at Jennifer’s watch as she left.  It was 12:30.  He needed to hurry.  If something happened to the time machine, Dr. Bowman wouldn’t be very happy with him.  He thought about how amazing it was that he was walking around one day, minding his own business, when Dr. Bowman, a physicist from a major defense contractor approached him and asked if he wanted to take part in a top secret experiment.  It was risky; not only was time travel technology in its infancy, but afterwards he would have to undergo something they liked to call “amnesia therapy” so that the secret time travel research remained a secret. God certainly makes people meet for interesting reasons.

Michael found that, as he walked across campus, he kept remembering the events leading him to this point.  Michael’s friendship with Cameron had grown fairly well for the first few months; he even got over the initial shock at seeing her nose ring when she first sent him a picture.  Things first started to come apart during spring break of 1998, when Cameron came out to visit her relatives and met Michael in person.  The two of them spent a very interesting day together.  It began when Cameron arrived at Michael’s apartment.  They took a walk around the neighborhood and the university, and then had lunch.  It was then that Michael first began to see that behind the happy, outgoing, fun-loving girl he saw in her e-mails lay a girl who liked to drink, party, and rush into relationships.  In his sheltered conservative Christian upbringing, Michael tended to stay away from people with problems like that, and a lot of times it bothered him to find that people he considered friends would make such dumb decisions.

Yet as the day went on, despite all this, he found Cameron more and more intriguing.  He found that he really enjoyed spending time with her, and that despite their differences they seemed to get along well.  He sort of put it out of his mind that she liked to get drunk at parties.  That night, they had gone downtown to see a movie and they ended up making out at his apartment.  He figured that he was digging himself into a deep hole, since he probably would not see Cameron for months after that night.  But he went ahead and did it anyway, mainly because this was the first time in his life that he had ever had the opportunity to get close to a woman.  He felt that Cameron would have been ready and willing to go even further as well if he had let her.

Cameron left Michael’s apartment a little after midnight.  It seemed to them that there just might be something between them more than just a friendship, and that they would talk about it after Cameron got home.  Michael, however, felt really uneasy about the situation, and he did not sleep at all that night.  He suspected that Cameron would experience a lot of pain in the future because she rushed into relationships, and he, the one person who could have broken that cycle, instead just fed it further.  He remembered looking down at the red and white “What Would Jesus Do” bracelet he wore on his left arm and thinking about how he had just defeated its whole purpose.

About a week later, Michael called Cameron on the phone.  They talked for a long time, reaching the conclusion that this was probably not the best time for a relationship for them, but that they wanted to stay friends.  Things went okay again for about another month.  Cameron had e-mailed Michael, in early May of 1998, about some serious problems in her life.  She was sleeping with her older brother’s best friend, and she suspected that her brother knew but she couldn’t talk about it.  Michael tried his best to understand, to be a friend to Cameron, but he really wanted to drop her right there, telling her that she got herself into this mess and that she should get herself out.  He always thought this kind of thing only happened on Melrose Place and the Jerry Springer show, and it made him mad that people could be so stupid and careless.  He had no idea how to react when these things happened to people he called friends.

The next week, Cameron experienced a painful breakup when she found out that her lover was seeing someone else.  Michael was glad to hear that she had gotten out of her misguided relationship, but disappointed again to hear, two days later, that she had met a new “boyfriend” while drunk at a party.  That was the breaking point.  Michael found himself unsure of what to do.  Nothing he could advise was reaching this girl.  He found himself so irrationally upset over what Cameron had done that he could no longer concentrate in school or relate to his old friends.  He had a nervous breakdown with just a few weeks remaining in the term.  He withdrew from school, taking incompletes in his classes, and began a long process of therapy and medication.  He had hoped to enter school again in the fall of 1999.

But that was before he found the scientist and the time machine.  Now he had an easy solution to all his problems.  He would simply prevent himself from ever meeting Cameron and then return to 1999, where he would be living a perfectly normal life.

Michael looked up and narrowly avoided running into a tree.  As he turned to dodge it, he saw Jim, a friend from his freshman dorm.  Jim waved, and Michael waved back.  Here in 1997, Michael and Jim were still friends, although in about a month Jim would find a sleazy girlfriend and completely ditch all of his old friends.  Michael still felt hurt and betrayed whenever he thought of Jim.  On Valentine’s Day of 1997, Jim had given an anti-love party, and Michael had himself a great time there.  Michael had been looking forward to Jim’s next anti-Valentine’s party all year, but when February 14, 1998 came, Jim spent it at an expensive restaurant with his girlfriend while Michael spent it surfing the Web at home, looking at the electronic greeting card Cameron had sent him.  She was the only person who wished him a happy Valentine’s Day that year.  That made an otherwise miserable Valentine’s Day not so bad.

But none of that mattered now.  The computer lab loomed about twenty yards away, and then Cameron would be just a memory.  No—she wouldn’t even be a memory.  He would have no memory of Cameron at all, except perhaps as some guy who liked the Captains and never answered his e-mail a year and a half ago.  He thought of the other Michael, the one who was still working on his midterm.  He remembered taking that midterm.  The other Michael would soon realize that his initial answer of problem 3, where he had written “cosine,” was correct after all, causing him to fix the problem quickly before time ran out.  Time would run out soon, and then it would take Michael a few minutes to get over to the lab.  That gave Michael, the time-traveling Michael, enough time to delete one message from the other Michael’s e-mail.

As he opened the door to the building, he smiled widely, anticipating his coming success.  He saw someone he recognized across the hall, his friend Jeff, but Jeff did not see him.  Jeff had really helped him through some tough times.  During Michael’s freshman year, he had many difficulties adjusting to college life.  Jeff, who was on Michael’s dorm floor that year, really helped Michael gain perspective and get closer to God that year.  It was during a talk with Jeff that Michael really felt like his Christian faith meant something personally.  Michael really needed a friend with a strong relationship with God at that time in his life, and God had provided one in Jeff.

Michael pressed the up button on the elevator; the computer lab was on the fourth floor.  Sometimes he wondered where he would be—or wouldn’t be—if he and Jeff had never had those talks during freshman year.  He felt bad sometimes.  A few times, when he got really upset, he felt that he should be doing something else rather than burdening Jeff with his problems.  But he was so thankful that Jeff had not abandoned him, so thankful that he often wondered if God would ever give him a turn to be the Christian friend in another troubled peer’s life.  If Jeff hadn’t been there to help him through the hard times, to invest in their friendship, he might have given up on school altogether… or worse.  What if Jeff hadn’t been there?  What if Jeff had decided Michael wasn’t worth his time?

What if Jeff, deciding that he couldn’t handle Michael as a friend, hopped into a time machine to change history so that he and Michael never met?

The real purpose of Michael’s mission suddenly became clear to him.  The bell rang, signaling that the elevator had arrived, but Michael turned around and left the building instead.  He walked out, careful to avoid the route that the other Michael would walk after getting out of the midterm, toward the bus stop.


I went to Bible study the night after I wrote “Cosine,” and I reread the story after I got home.  It felt like it still needed work.  I took a fiction writing class a few months ago, and today I had been concentrating on just getting my ideas typed, not using the new writing skills I had learned.  In that class, when we had to share our writing with the class, I also learned that most people did not relate to my conservative Chrsitian views on relationships and sexuality.  If I shared this story with someone who had not heard frequent sermons on Christian purity and dating as preparation for marriage only,as I had, this reader would not understand Michael’s regret at making out with Cameron, or why he was upset at her promiscuity when he had agreed not to date her.  I needed to tell that part of the story differently.

But I was tired when I got back from Bible study.  And tomorrow I had to pack for a weekend trip to Bay City with Taylor, Noah, and Cambria.  So I saved everything, turned off my computer, and went to bed.

I never came back to this story.  My weekend sufficiently distracted me from thinking about Casey that I never really felt inspired to perfect my tale of Cameron and time-traveling Michael.  I never did hear from Casey again in real life, and I was okay with that.

The draft of “Cosine” sat in my hard drive, and got transferred to my next new computer, and my next one, and my next one, and this one that I use now, over a period of twenty-six years.  Normal people would probably clean out their hard drives and not bother to transfer files they did not need, but I always wanted to save as much as I could.  I always found it interesting to look through things from my past, and think about who I was, who I have become, and what I have learned.  Old files have value, and so do old memories, even unpleasant ones.


Readers: Have you ever, or do you currently, wish you could travel back in time to change history? Would there be any drawbacks to changing the past in your case? Tell me your thoughts in the comments.

I actually did write “Cosine” in 1998. It is mostly intact as it was the last time I worked on it, although I cut a few things out to make this episode not be too long, and I also made a few minor modifications to make some of the details consistent with what has happened in the DLTDGB storyline. In 1998, it was more common to write “e-mail” with a hyphen, as opposed to the modern “email,” so I left this spelling as it was at the time. I am also planning to write a behind-the-scenes post about this episode… update, I finished that, so click here for that.

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 8 – July 14, 1998.  Emailing Casey. (#185)

From: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Mon, 08 Jun 1998 22:22 -0500
Subject: hi!

Hi, Greg!  I just wanted to say I found your website.  It’s so cool!  I laughed at the part with your favorite jokes!  I hadn’t heard most of them before!  Then I saw the link to that Dog Crap thing… that’s you too?  You make those stories and pictures?  That’s so creative!

Anyway, I just wanted to say hi!  Write me back if you can!

~Casey


To: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi!

Hello… so how did you find my page exactly?  Honestly, I forgot that the home page and the jokes were still up… I made that two years ago when I was first teaching myself the basics of HTML.  I found a website that had an HTML tutorial, and regular jeromeville.edu accounts can’t host Web sites but math department ones can.  But I’m glad you found Dog Crap and Vince.  That’s my big creative project right now.  I better get back to work… are you in school, and if so, are you on summer break?  Your address looks like a school email.

gjd


From: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Wed, 10 Jun 1998 21:38 -0500
Subject: Re: hi!

Thanks for writing back!  I found your page because I love watching the Bay City Captains and I was looking for other Captains fans!  I live in Texas now, but I grew up in East Bayside.  We moved here when I was 12.  I should probably tell you a little about myself!  First, I’m a girl.  Casey is more common as a guy’s name, but my parents liked the name for either a boy or a girl, and they had me!  I’m 19, I just finished my first year at Texas North Community College, studying psych.  I’m going to transfer somewhere next year, hopefully, but I haven’t decided for sure where I want to go.  I work part time at a coffee shop.  Where do you go to school?  What classes are you taking?  Any plans for the weekend?  I’ll talk to you soon!  Bye for now!

~Casey


To: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi!

Wow… that’s impressive, staying a Captains fan in the middle of Texas surrounded by Toros fans.  It would drive me crazy.  I can’t stand the Toros.  A few years ago, when the Captains and Toros played each other for the championship, that was when I first started talking to people online, and one of the first people I met was from Texas.  During the game that year, I was nice and didn’t try to be a jerk about it.  After the Captains came from behind and won, I checked my email, and I had one from her bragging about the Toros being ahead at halftime.  I replied, “So how’d that work out for you?”

Good to know you’re a girl… when I got your email, my first thought was who’s this Casey guy?  Anyway, where in Texas are you?  I’m about to graduate from the University of Jeromeville (do you know where that is?  Next to Capital City, about an hour and a half northeast of East Bayside), and I’m doing the teacher training program here next year.  I want to teach high school math.  My degree is in math, and that was always my favorite subject.  I’m 21, almost 22.  Dog Crap and Vince is my creative hobby; you’ve seen that.  I probably spend too much time talking to random people I meet online, but some of them have become real friends.  Looks like I just made another one. :)  I also like bike rides and board games.  My friend Pete recently taught me this new game called Settlers of Catan; have you played that?  My friends and I have been playing that a lot this summer.  I’m also involved with a Christian student group, and I’m a youth group leader at my church.  Do you go to church?  Do you play any sports or just like to watch football?

You saw my picture on my Web site, but what do you look like?  I’m just curious.  I’m not doing anything this weekend, just studying because finals are coming up next week.  What are you up to?

gjd


From: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Mon, 15 Jun 1998 20:44 -0500
Subject: Re: hi!

Hi!  Guess what… I just got my nose pierced!  Nothing too flashy, just a little stud.  I think it looks so cute!  Do you have any piercings or anything like that?  Let’s see… what do I look like… I’m 5’5”, 130lbs, with dark reddish-brown hair and blue eyes.  I don’t have a scanner, but I think there’s one in the school library I can use so I can scan my picture and send it to you.  I play soccer, I have for as long as I can remember.  I’m a midfielder… I love it!  I’m not playing on an organized team right now.  I tried out for our school team but I didn’t make it.  I didn’t think I was going to.  I was on a recreational team with some friends earlier this year, but we’re not playing right now.  Do you play any sports?  That’s hilarious what you told your friend in Texas!  I would have been rubbing it in so much after she got cocky like that and then the Toros ended up losing!  I had a bet with my friend Jessica on that game, and I won $10!  I’m in Denton, just north of Dallas and Fort Worth.  I like it here, but I also like when we go visit my grandparents in East Bayside every couple years.  It’s nice there.  That’s so cool that you’re a youth group leader!  That always looked fun!  We go to a Baptist church.  I’m not really involved with any groups there.  What’s your church like?  Also, how is this finals week for you?  Why do you get out so much later than we do?  Is it summer school or something?  I’ll talk to you soon!

~Casey


To: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi!

Your nose ring sounds cute :)

I don’t have any piercings.  I’ve never really wanted any.  A lot of people around here do, though.  Jeromeville is a countercultural college town.

I don’t play any sports.  I played tee-ball when I was 6, and all I remember is that I thought it was boring because we didn’t keep score, and the coach made me cry but I don’t remember why.  In high school, a lot of my friends told me I should play football, so I worked out with the football team the summer after freshman year.  I was more of a student than an athlete, so I also read books about football and learned a lot about strategies, positions, rules, the history of football, things like that.  I only lasted one day of practice, but the experience of taking the time to learn about football has given me a greater appreciation for watching the game.  In addition to watching the Captains on TV, I also go to football games at UJ sometimes.  Basketball too.  My brother got all the sports talent in our family.  He has played baseball and basketball all his life.

I go to an Evangelical Covenant church.  I grew up Catholic, but I had a lot of friends freshman year who encouraged me to take my faith more seriously.  I eventually started going to their church, because it seemed more like what I was looking for.

Do you still live with your family?  How many siblings do you have?  I just have the one brother.  He’s younger, he’s 16 and going to be a junior in high school.  My family lives in Plumdale, near Santa Lucia and Gabilan.  That’s about a two and a half hour drive from here.  I usually only go home on school breaks.  Do you have a boyfriend?  Just wondering.

Sorry it took a while for me to write back.  I was busy, but I’m done with finals now.  To answer your question, UJ is on the three-quarter schedule, so we have three terms during the year instead of two.  Winter break comes after the first term, 1/3 of the way through the year, so to make that work we start at the end of September and get out in the middle of June.  You get out earlier than we do, but you probably also go back earlier.  I need to get going.  I’m going with some friends to see the new X-Files movie today.  We watch the show together every week during the season, but the show is off for the summer now.  Do you watch X-Files?  What else do you have planned for the weekend?  I have graduation tomorrow!  Talk to you soon!

gjd


From: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Sat, 20 Jun 1998 11:06 -0500
Subject: Re: hi!

Your coach made you cry?  And you were just 6 years old?  That sounds like a terrible coach to me!  Yeah, I still live with my mom and dad.  That makes sense with your schedule; thanks for explaining!  And you’re right, we go back in August.  I have an older brother named Chris.  He’s 22 and still lives at home.  I can’t wait to move out, but it’s probably not going to happen unless I move away for school next year.  Maybe I’ll apply to Jeromeville now that I know someone there :-) and you’re pretty close to my grandparents too.  I don’t have a boyfriend… there’s a guy I’m kind of seeing, but it’s not really serious.  What about you?  Do you have someone special?  And if your family isn’t in Jeromeville, do you have roommates?  Congratulations on your graduation!  Is your family coming?  How was the movie?  I don’t know if I’m going to see it.  I don’t really watch the show.  But I’m glad you like it!  It sounds like fun, watching it with a bunch of friends!

~Casey


To: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi!

That would be so much fun if we both ended up in Jeromeville!  Definitely keep me posted!  Will you be visiting your grandparents in East Bayside any time soon?

Graduation was nice… thank you!  Someone warned me that it would be boring, and it kind of was, but it was good getting to be there with my family.  Afterward, there was a catered lunch thing just for the math department, where they presented me with my award.  It’s still a little weird to think that I’m a college graduate now!  The movie was good too.  It connected to the story of the show, but if you haven’t seen the show, you can still kind of follow what’s going on.  You should see it!

I’ll keep you posted too, because I don’t know for sure if I’ll still be in Jeromeville by then.  It depends on where I can get a job after I finish teacher training next year.  Ideally, though, I would like to stay in Jeromeville and work here or somewhere close enough to commute.  I already know people here, and I love my church.  I don’t know if I actually want to teach at Jeromeville High, though.  I’ve heard that a lot of parents at Jeromeville schools can be kind of overbearing.  That makes sense, with so many people around here in academia.  I know I would be intimidated if I had to call one of my old professors and say that his/her kid is failing math.

I have roommates.  Four of us rent a 3-bedroom house; it’s actually half of a duplex.  Last year I shared the big bedroom and attached bathroom with my friend Sean.  The other two roommates moved out, though, so Sean is moving into his own room.  Jed will be moving into Sean’s spot, and Brody will be moving into the other room.  All three guys I know from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship; Sean also went to the church I used to go to, and Jed and Brody go to the church I go to now.  I don’t love sharing a bedroom, but the rent is cheap.

I don’t have a girlfriend.  It seems like pretty much all of the girls I’ve liked don’t feel the same way about me.  Are you into this guy you’re kind of seeing?  What exactly do you mean when you say it isn’t serious… do you want it to be?  He’s lucky, you seem really nice :)

gjd


From: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Mon, 22 Jun 1998 21:18 -0500
Subject: Re: hi!

Award?  What did you get an award for?  Congratulations!  I’m proud of you!  We might be going to Grandma and Grandpa’s for Christmas.  It would be fun if we could work it out to meet up sometime!  Your house sounds like fun!  I bet you guys have big parties there and stuff.  I never thought about that, what you said about being a teacher in Jeromeville and teaching your professors’ kids… that would be kind of awkward.  The guy I’m seeing, Jason, it’s kind of complicated.  He hasn’t asked me to be exclusive or anything.  But we go out sometimes, and he has his own place so I go over there a lot.  And we recently started sleeping together too, and I stayed the night at his place for the first time last weekend and it was so good!  But I haven’t told very many people because Jason is my brother’s best friend.  My brother has always been protective of me when it comes to my past boyfriends, and he would freak out if he knew his best friend was sleeping with me.  I’m not sure what to do… you’re smart, do you have any advice for me?

~Casey


To: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi!

Wow… that’s quite a story.  I’m not sure how you would tell your brother and your parents about something like that.  I’ve never been through anything like that.  And how were you able to stay the night if you live with your parents and your brother?  Did you sneak out?  Just think this through and don’t do anything you’ll regret.

The award was for having the highest grades in math classes among this year’s math graduates.  I had straight As in all my math classes.  Thank you!

I just got back last night from the Mystery Trip with the kids from church.  Their parents dropped them off Monday morning and picked them up late Tuesday night, and we didn’t tell anyone where we were going.  It was a lot of fun!  First we went to Mt. Lorenzo, to the beach and some of the rides, then we stayed the night in sleeping bags in a church fellowship hall where we know one of the pastors.  On the second day, we did some touristy shopping in Bay City, and went to see the W’s and Five Iron Frenzy.  Do you know them?  I’m tired, I need a nap, I’ll talk to you soon. :)

gjd


From: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Wed, 24 Jun 1998 22:11 -0500
Subject: Re: hi!

I stay the night with my best friend Jessica sometimes.  We’ve had sleepovers since we were in fifth grade.  So whenever I want to sleep over with a guy, I just tell my parents I’m staying with Jessica, and whenever she wants to sleep over with a guy, she tells her mom she’s with me.  It’s the perfect system!  We’ve been doing this since high school, and we actually do stay with each other often enough that our parents never check. ;-) I really like Jason, I want to keep seeing him, maybe even be his girlfriend, but I know my brother wouldn’t like it.  It’s not really his decision to make, though.  I’m a big girl, and I can make my own decisions!  You’re smart, getting all A’s in your math classes!  I’m impressed!  Your Mystery Trip sounds fun!  I remember going to Mt. Lorenzo Beach once as a kid.  It’s been a long time, but it sounds like fun!  I remember this really cool old carousel; did you ride that?  Hope you got some good rest!

~Casey


To: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi!

I know that carousel, but I didn’t ride it this time.  I got a quick nap yesterday afternoon.  I’m not doing anything today until Bible study tonight, so I might go for a bike ride.  It’s kind of hot, though, so I should do that soon before it gets any hotter.  I’m going to a wedding on Saturday.  Scott and Amelia, I’ve been friends with them for a few years, they’re a year older than me but we all graduated the same year because they took five years to finish.  And I won’t see them much after the wedding, because they’re moving to New York later this summer.  Amelia is starting medical school there in the fall.  This is the first time I’ve been to a wedding as an adult.  I don’t really know what to expect.  What are you doing this weekend?

gjd


From: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Thu, 02 Jul 1998 19:44 -0500
Subject: Re: hi!

Sorry it took so long to write back!  I’ve had a really rough week.  Jason met someone else and wants to be exclusive with her.  I’m heartbroken.  It’s not really cheating because we were never official, but I really thought we had a connection.  I’ve skipped class a few times and one day I stayed in bed all day.  I’m really a mess, I hope I don’t sound too pathetic right now… I just thought about you the other day and didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten about you!  How was the wedding?  Jessica is going to drag me to a party tomorrow, I hope it’s fun, I need to get out… what are you doing this weekend?

~Casey


To: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi!

Wow, that’s tough… I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Jason.  Kind of messed up on his part, if you ask me.

The wedding was good!  Very nice.  It was at our church with the college pastor speaking.  They had a reception afterward with a lot of dancing.  Scott and Amelia do swing dancing, that’s gotten really popular here lately.  Is it popular where you are too?  Some friends who were also at the wedding talked me into going swing dancing with them the night after the wedding, and I actually enjoyed it.  I didn’t think dancing would ever be a hobby for me, but I’ll probably keep going back, especially if I have friends there.  Have fun at the party!  I’ll talk to you soon!

gjd


From: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
To: “Gregory Dennison” <gjdennison@jeromeville.edu>
Date: Sun, 12 Jul 1998 21:03  -0500 
Subject: Re: hi!

I’m the worst friend ever, I’ve gotten so bad at writing back!  Sorry!  Well, things have happened since I talked to you… The party last weekend, there was this guy there I didn’t know, and we both had a little too much to drink, and we hooked up in an empty bedroom, I don’t remember exactly what happened that night but we hung out a lot this week and I slept over at his place last night… he’s amazing!  I really feel good about this guy!  What about you?  Do you have a girlfriend yet?  What did you do this weekend?

~Casey


To: “Casey Gauthier” <c.gauthier02@txncc.edu>
From: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Subject: Re: hi!

That happened really fast… no one for me yet.  I went swing dancing again on Sunday.  It’s been fun.  I kind of met someone there, a friend of a friend who recognized me, we danced a few times and talked some, but I don’t know if I’m interested in her like that.  Nothing really going on the rest of the week.  Just the usual stuff, youth group and Bible study.  What about you?


(To be continued…)


Readers: Tell me about a friend that you met through a random encounter on the Internet. Are you still friends with this person?

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.


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 9-10, 1997.  New year, new classes. (#114)

I walked down the center aisle of the bus, looking for a place to sit.  It was rainy outside, so the bus would fill up quickly, although one nice thing about living a mile and a half beyond the edge of campus was that my bus stop was one of the first ones on the route in the morning.

At the next stop after mine, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a girl wearing an Urbana ’96 T-shirt boarding the bus.  I wondered who this was, which campus Christian group she belonged to, which church she went to, and if we ever crossed paths at the convention in Urbana during the break.  I looked up, about to ask her about her shirt and point out that I was at Urbana too, when her eyes lit up and she smiled.  “Hey!” she said.  “How are you?”

Apparently we had crossed paths before.  Where?  What was her name?  “I’m good,” I replied.  “How are you?”

“Good!  I really like my schedule this quarter.  What about you?  What classes are you taking?”

“Advanced calculus, Euclidean geometry, Nutrition 10, and RST 141.”

“Two math classes?  That’s your major, right?”

“Yeah.  What are you taking?”

“English, history, psych, and bio.  It’s a lot of work already.  How is the Religious Studies class so far?  Which one is 141?”

I realized at this point that I was going to have to see this through and act like I knew who this girl was.  She was Asian, with dark wavy hair down to her shoulders and chubby cheeks.  I felt terrible for not remembering who she was.   “John,” I said.  “The Gospel and Epistles of John.”

“Nice!  Is that with Dr. Hurt?”

“Yeah,” I replied.  “I had him for RST 40 last quarter.”

“I took that last year,” the girl said.  “It was a really good class.  But I haven’t been able to take anything else he’s taught.  I always have other classes I need to take at the same time.”

“I know what that’s like,” I said.  “I had to choose between Hurt’s class and chorus this quarter.”

“I didn’t know you were in chorus!  How often do you guys sing?”

“We have a performance at the end of each quarter.  We spend the whole quarter rehearsing, pretty much.”

“That sounds fun!”

“Last quarter was the first time I did it.  I’m hoping I can still make it to the performance this quarter, to support the people I sang with last quarter.”

“That’ll be nice,” the girl said.

Since I was fully committed to pretending to know this girl at this point, I continued the conversation.  “How was the rest of your break?” I asked.

“Good,” she replied.  “Pretty boring.  I was just with my family, in Willow Grove.  What about you?”

Same.”

“Where are you from again?”

“Plumdale.”

“Where’s that?”

“Near Gabilan and Santa Lucia.”

“Oh, okay.  Not too far from Willow Grove.”

“Right. About an hour.”  At this point, the bus was pulling off to the side of the road at the bus terminal on campus across the street from the Memorial Union, so as I stood, I said, “Hey, it was good running into you.”

“You too!  I’ll see you tomorrow at JCF?”

“Yeah,” I replied.  That definitely helped; now I knew she was someone from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship.  But why did I not recognize her?  And now that I had spent an entire bus ride pretending to know her, it would be more awkward to admit that I did not recognize her.  Hopefully I would figure this out soon.

Today was Thursday, which was my lightest day of class, as was usually the case.  All I had on Thursdays this quarter was the discussion for Religious Studies.  I worked 10 hours per week for the Learning Skills Center on campus, so for the rest of the quarter I would probably have tutoring groups to run on Thursdays.  For this particular Thursday, though, I just stayed on campus for a few hours, buying a few things I needed at the campus store and doing math homework in a quiet corner of the library.

Early in the afternoon, when it came time to go home, I left the library and walked toward the bus stop.  The rain had stopped by then, but since the ground was still wet, I stayed on the sidewalks, instead of cutting diagonally across the grass of the Quad like I would have otherwise.  I looked up at one point and saw Haley Channing approaching.  The sidewalk was narrow enough, and the ground wet enough, that there was no way to avoid coming face to face with her.  This was the first time I had seen Haley since our serious conversation at the beginning of finals week.

I looked up again to see Haley now about ten feet away, making eye contact with me.  I halfheartedly smiled and waved.

“Hey, Greg,” Haley said.  “What’s up?  How was Urbana?”

“It was good,” I said.  “I learned a lot, although I’m still trying to process exactly what it means for my life.”

“Yeah.  Discerning God’s will can be like that.”

“How have you been?” I asked in the most neutral possible way, knowing that this must have been a hard Christmas for the Channings.

“Okay,” Haley replied.  “It was good to be together, but, well, you know.”

I had never experienced that kind of loss so close to the holidays, but I imagined it was not easy.  “Yeah,” I said, nodding.

“Are you heading to class?”

“I’m done for the day.  Heading to the bus.”

“Nice.  I still have a class and a discussion this afternoon.  I’ll be here until 5.”

“Wow,” I replied.  “Good luck.  I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.  Have a good afternoon.”

“I will.”

That did not go too badly, I thought as I continued walking toward the bus stop.  Haley and I still seemed to be on good terms, and I managed not to say anything awkward about her mother’s passing.  Although Haley had done nothing wrong by not reciprocating my feelings for her, the situation still made me feel like a failure.  This couple sitting across from me on the bus held hands and kissed for the entire ride; seeing them certainly did not help my mood.  I would probably never get that opportunity.


None of my roommates appeared to be home when I got home.  I went to my room and turned on the computer, clicking the icon for the program that made the dial-up modem click and whir so that I could check my email.  I had three messages: one from Mom; one from the TA for Religious Studies, who was starting an email list for our class; and the one I was hoping for, from a new Internet friend named Amy. I skipped the other two messages and went straight to Amy’s.


From: “Amy D.” <ajd1973@aolnet.com>
To: gjdennison@jeromeville.edu
Date: Thu, 09 Jan 1997 15:48 -0500
Subject: Re: hi!

Hi!  I hope you’re having a wonderful day!  Yes I would love to read some of your poetry!  It’s so cool that you like to do that.  I’m not a very good writer.

To answer your question, yes I am married… my husband and I got married two years ago.  We don’t have kids yet.  We wanted to wait a few years.  What about you?  I’m sure a nice guy like you probably has a girlfriend, right?  She’s a lucky woman!

How have your classes been so far this semester?  You guys start early!  I could never handle taking two math classes… you must be a genius!  I hope you have a great day!

Amy (your big sis)


I first met Amy through an email I got while I was in Plumdale the week before Christmas.  I had made a personal Web page last year, and I updated it occasionally with the things that were going on in my life.  Apparently Amy randomly found my page and liked the Bible verses I had quoted.  After the first few emails we exchanged, she started jokingly calling me her little brother, because she was a few years older than me, she never had a brother, and I reminded her of what she had pictured a hypothetical brother to be like.  That was sweet.

Of course she would be married.  I could never realistically expect a nice girl to just fall in my lap out of nowhere and actually be interested in me back.  Girls just never liked me like that.  It probably would not have worked out anyway, because she was almost three thousand miles away, in Massachusetts.

I opened the folder on the computer where I had saved my creative writing.  Last summer, I was on a bike ride on the other side of Jeromeville, and I rode past the house at 2234 Baron Court, where Haley Channing and her roommates had lived last year.  On the ride home, I kept thinking about the first time I went to that house, when some friends from JCF found me having a bad day and decided to include me, and how one of these new friends, Haley, had such a sweet smile and pretty blue eyes.  I wrote a poem about that night and called it “2234.”  A few months later, when I was struggling with my feelings for Haley, I wrote another poem; I called it “2235,” intending for it to be a sequel to 2234.

while i was in that house that awesome night
a bomb was planted deep within my soul
when bad turned good and everything seemed right
the evil bomber came and took control

today when i am with my friends
i hear a scary ticking sound
it’s growing louder every day

do i run away and hide?
do i leave without a trace?
do i stand here at ground zero
while it blows up in my face?
do i carefully inspect the bomb
so i may then defuse?
do i set the darn thing off right now?
i’ve not a thing to lose

i know the answer will come
but how much pain must i endure
and how many friends must i lose
before it arrives?

During finals week in December, after I told Haley I liked her and she was not interested back, and after Eddie Baker found out I liked Haley, I spent several study breaks writing another poem called “2236,” since that was the next number after 2235.

On this day,
a great weight has been lifted
from my shoulders.

I wanted to run away and hide from you,
to keep from dealing with this.
But God had other plans for me.
So I turned and said hello.

When I found out
that my friend knew all along,
I knew that it was over.
So I let go.

Now there is no more bomb
waiting to go off.
The Lord is doing His will,
leaving me free
to strengthen those special friendships I made
during that cold winter night.

When I wrote 2236, I was feeling at peace regarding Haley.  I was no longer feeling so peaceful, and the poem now felt somewhat inauthentic.  However, the poem captured a specific feeling at a specific time, which was not necessarily what I would feel forever.  I copied and pasted those poems, along with the original 2234, into my reply to Amy.  I also answered no to her question about having a girlfriend and explained what had happened with Haley, to give her some context for the poems.



All four of my lectures this quarter met on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, as had usually been the case with my schedule.  It was sunny on Friday, so I rode my bike to campus.  I parked near Wellington Hall and walked inside to Advanced Calculus.  I had left the house a little later than usual, and when I arrived, almost but not quite late, the room was about three-quarters full.  I saw an empty seat behind Katy Hadley, a cute redhead math major who had been in several of my classes over the years.  I walked toward that seat, wondering if today would be the day I would finally get to talk to Katy.  I really only knew her name because I had seen her write it on papers before.

As I sat in the chair, the momentum of my heavy backpack carried me awkwardly out of control, and my left foot swung forward, hitting the leg of Katy’s chair and Katy’s ankle.  “Ow!” Katy said, turning around looking annoyed.

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly.

Anton, the professor whom I had had once before, began talking about bounded variation in his thick but comprehensible Belgian accent.  I hoped that a mathematics lecture would distract me from the embarrassment of having blown it with Katy, but it did not.  About ten minutes into class, I quietly tore a page out of the back of my notebook and wrote on it, I’m sorry I kicked the seat.  I discreetly passed the note to Katy.

About a minute later, as I was writing down theorems about functions of bounded variation, Katy turned halfway toward me and placed the paper I gave her back on my desk.  That’s okay, she had written, with a smiley face.  This was progress, I supposed.




Later that day, after I was done with classes, I ran into Taylor Santiago and Pete Green, friends from the freshman dorm two years ago who I now went to church with.  They were walking in the same direction I was, so I walked with them, and we shared stories about our first week of classes.

“I ran into Schuyler Jenkins this morning,” Pete said.

“Schuyler Jenkins!” Taylor replied.  “I haven’t seen her since freshman year!”  Schuyler was a girl who had lived across the hall a few doors down from Taylor freshman year, upstairs from me.  She was short, barely over five feet, and she could be both short-tempered and whiny at various times.  She did not speak to me for several weeks that year, after I played a prank which hurt her much more than I thought it would.

I unlocked my bike and began riding.  “Where are you guys headed?” I asked.

“Bus,” Pete replied, pointing to the northeast.

“I’ll follow you,” I said, riding my bike very slowly alongside Taylor and Pete toward the bus terminal.

“Greg?” Taylor asked.  “Has anyone else told you that your bike might be a little too small for you?”

“Actually, yes.  A few other people told me that.  I just got something cheap when I first came to Jeromeville; I didn’t get it properly sized or anything”

“It seems like you might be comfortable on a bigger bike.”

“This one is starting to fall apart,” I said.  “I’ll keep that in mind someday when I get a new bike.”  I know now that I did not keep that bicycle regularly maintained.  The chain needed to be cleaned and lubricated, and a few spokes in the back were broken, making the back wheel wobble.  “Not only is this bike too small, but it makes weird squeaking noises, and it wobbles in the back,” I explained.

“Sounds like Schuyler Jenkins!” Pete said.

“Haha!” I laughed, loudly.

“Wow!” Taylor said.  “Greg, you should name your bike Schuyler.”

“That’s hilarious!” I replied  I had never made the connection before between my bike and Schuyler.  But from that day on, I called my bike Schuyler, and I loved telling that funny story so much that I named my next bike Schuyler II.

I took Schuyler out for a ride in the Greenbelts after I got back from class.  The weather was colder than I would have wanted it, but after having rained for a couple days, it felt nice to see the sun again.  I showered when I got home, then went to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship that night.  I saw the girl I had spoken with on the bus the day before, wearing a name tag that said “Anna.”  When I got home, I found my phone and email list for JCF; there was one Anna on the list, a sophomore named Anna Lam.  That was most likely her, but her name did not register in my memory at all.

Haley was at JCF that night, but we did not get to talk beyond saying hello.  I was okay with that.  Haley and I were on good terms, but sometimes I was still going to feel weird about our past.  That was normal.  So what if Haley did not like me as more than a friend.  So what if I had an awkward conversation on the bus with Anna Lam, and my new Internet friend Amy D. was married and not interested in me, and I accidentally kicked Katy Hadley in class.  I still had friends who cared about me, and the right people would stay in my life.  Hopefully something would work out for me eventually.


Author’s note: Do any of you name your vehicles, and if so, what’s an interesting story behind the name of your vehicle?

Also, yes I did really just painstakingly edit every episode to include the episode number in the title. Maybe if someone who just happens upon this blog sees that it is episode number 114, this person will actually be motivated to go back and read episodes 1 through 113… yeah, that’s probably wishful thinking.


October 23-25, 1996. A pen pal on another continent. (#106)

The way people communicate has changed radically over the course of my life.  When I was young, telephone calls outside of one’s own city cost a lot of money, so when friends moved away, I often never heard from them again.  Writing letters in the mail was an option as well, for people committed enough to do so.  In high school, my friend Catherine went to Austria for a year to be an exchange student, and we wrote letters the whole time she was gone.  When the young people of today have friends who move away, they stay in touch through texting and social media.  Some of them have thousands of followers on social media all over the world, some of whom they have never met before.  Many of them do not want to be bothered with traditional voice-based telephone calls, and many of them do not know how to address an envelope or use a stamp.

I attended the University of Jeromeville during an awkward transition period when both of these worlds existed simultaneously.  Some of my friends used email, some of them communicated by writing letters, and some I never heard from again once I moved.  I spent a lot of time on text-based Internet Relay Chat, usually looking for girls to talk to, because I was not good at meeting girls in real life.  I stayed in touch with some of them by email, but I also sometimes got handwritten letters from them.  Sometimes we wanted to exchange photos, and in an era when flatbed scanners were relatively uncommon and digital cameras were not yet mainstream, it was easier to send a photo in the mail.  Other times, someone I know would lose access to email temporarily, and stay in touch by writing letters.  That was the case for many of my university friends when they went for the summer.  That was also the case with Laura Little, although her story was a bit more interesting.

I met Laura on IRC in the spring of my sophomore year at UJ.  She was seventeen years old, and she lived in upstate New York, on the other side of the United States from me.  In one of our first conversations, she told me that she was going to be leaving in July for a year, to be an exchange student in Switzerland, where she would not have Internet access.  I had been getting letters from Laura regularly since she left; she had a difficult transition to life in Switzerland, and her German was not good, so she wanted to get letters to read in English.

Laura and I had never met, obviously.  I did not know what she looked or sounded like.  Right before she left for Switzerland, a romantic interest named Adam whom she also met on the Internet had come to visit her for a few days.  Whenever she mentioned Adam, her answers were a bit inconsistent and evasive; first she said they had a good time but decided to just be friends, but then in the next letter she said something about having to get her mind off of what happened with Adam, and then she said something about regretting what she did with him, that she felt stupid and that she should have known better.  Clearly I had not gotten the entire story, so the last time I wrote to her, I asked exactly what happened.

I got home in the late afternoon after a long Wednesday of classes to find a letter from Laura on the kitchen counter next to the phone; one of the other roommates had apparently gotten the mail earlier.  Shawn was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.  When he saw me pick up Laura’s letter, he asked, “Hey, who are all these girls who write letters to you?  You’re getting letters from all over the world!  You’re a ladies’ man!”

“Not exactly,” I said.  “Laura is someone I met on the Internet; she’s from New York but studying in Switzerland this year.”  I conveniently left out the part where she was only seventeen. Even though that was only a three-year age difference between Laura and me, Shawn was turning twenty-three next month, so to him, she would seem significantly younger.

“And you got a letter from Hungary last week.”

That’s Kelly Graham.  You know Kelly.  She was roommates with Haley Channing and Kristina Kasparian last year, on Baron Court.  She’s studying abroad in Hungary this year.”

Shawn thought for a minute.  “Kelly!  Oh yeah.  And don’t you have a girlfriend back home?”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah.  That girl from Gabilan who has written to you like four times already.  That’s where you’re from, right?  Plumdale is right near Gabilan?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Cecilia, or something like that.”

Cecilia?  From Gabilan?  I laughed loudly as I figured out who Shawn was talking about.  “That’s my grandma!” I said.

“Your grandma!” Shawn laughed.  “This whole time, I thought you had a girlfriend back home.”

“I wish I had a girlfriend back home who wrote me as often as Grandma did.”

“She sure likes to write.”

“She does.  And my cousin Rick, the second-oldest grandchild, went away to North Coast State this year, so he’s gonna get just as many letters from Grandma now too.”

“That’s nice of her, though.”

“Yeah, it is.”  I walked upstairs to read Laura’s letter.  Laura had very small handwriting; she sometimes wrote in cursive and sometimes printed, sometimes both in the same letter, and she often did not bother to separate her letters into paragraphs.  This letter was handwritten on tan stationery, with a typed paper inside the envelope as well.  The typed paper appeared to be a math assignment of some sort.


Greg,

Guten tag!  Meine Deutsch ist besser.  (My German is better.)  I understand more than I did before at least. I’m doing well.  The weather here is getting colder.  I just spent 200 francs on sweaters and a long sleeve shirt.  My mom would kill me if she found out how much money I spent.  I’m supposed to be taking this test, but it’s a take home test so I’ll make a copy and send it to you.  I’m so lost and I have told the teacher that I don’t understand any of this.  He just told me to do my best but I just sat for half an hour debating if I did the problems correct but I left half of them blank because I don’t know what to do.  Maybe you can help me.  I’ll write what it means in English if I know it.  I would really appreciate it if you could help explain these.  I know it is really sad how lost I am.  I told my mom about you and said that I was going to ask you for help with math, and she says thank you.  I do too.  So anyway, last weekend I went away on a trip with the other exchange students in my program and I got to talk in English all weekend.  It was so good.  We went to the mountains and in the morning we took a cable car to the top of a mountain and it snowed.  I love it.  And we had a big party that night.  It was cold, but we had a snowball fight and took a lot of pictures.  We have Herbstferien here, it’s a fall school holiday, I CAN’T WAIT!  I’m going to go skiing, I’ve never been before.  I hope you don’t think different of me after I tell you what happened with Adam because I know it was a mistake and I should have just been friends with him but I’m so stupid.  Sometimes when I’m put in a pressure situation I don’t think straight.  Only you and one of my friends back home know about this because I don’t want anyone to know.  I was so stupid to let it happen but it’s too late to fix it now and I just want to forget about that.


I had a feeling I knew what was coming next.  It was pretty obvious where she was going with this.  I continued reading.


Well I kinda slept with him.  Only once though but we also did some other stuff.  I don’t want to say anything more, I’m so stupid to let it happen.  But on a lighter note I got my ear pierced at the top.  It didn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would but I couldn’t sleep on that side for a few days.  One of my friends from school here and I got it done together.  I like it.  I’m not feeling homesick as often.  I know how to prevent it now and I don’t think it will happen again.  I know my writing is messy but I haven’t slept much.  I hope you don’t think of me different because of all that.  Oh yeah, you’ll be happy to know my butt doesn’t hurt as much when I ride my bike to school.  I’m happy now but I can’t ride long distances like you do sometimes.  How are you?  Have you met anyone yet?  It made me sad when you said you felt like giving up on girls.  Just talk to someone.  Ask her to coffee or ice cream or lunch or something.  And tell me all about her.  Any girl would be lucky to spend time with you.  I hope to hear from you soon.

❤ Laura


I was not entirely sure how to react to what she said about Adam, although I had a feeling that was what she was going to say from the moment she told me in her last letter that she regretted what she did.  Part of me was disappointed that this happened; Laura was not the kind of nice Christian girl I was hoping to meet.  She had never claimed to be Christian, though, so that was just wishful thinking on my part.

But I also did not blame her or Adam one bit.  If I had been Adam, I probably would have been having fantasies about going to bed with Laura the whole time I was visiting her, even though I knew it was wrong.  I must admit, I had had those fantasies about her before, although I could not bring myself to tell her that, of course.  This sounds paradoxical, but such are the trials of a lonely, girl-crazy Christian young adult like me.

I only had one class the next day, and one of my students for my tutoring job did not show up, so I had plenty of time to get homework done during the day.  After dinner that night, I went upstairs to my room and began writing my next letter to Laura.  


October 24, 1996

Dear Laura,

Thank you for your honesty.  Don’t worry about me thinking differently of you.  Everyone does things they wish they hadn’t afterward.  And please don’t call yourself stupid.  You aren’t.  You said you regret what you did, so learn from this.  You told me that you know you don’t think straight in pressure situations, so when you know you’re going to be in a pressure situation, set boundaries in advance.  If there’s a guy who likes you, for example, don’t be alone with him if you don’t want to feel pressured.

I wish I got a fall break.  That sounds like it’ll be fun.  I’ve never been skiing either.  I don’t know if I want to try it.  I’m not usually good at things like that where I have to keep my balance by going fast, and I would probably just get frustrated.  But tell me how it goes.  Your ear piercing sounds cute.

I started going to a new church a couple weeks ago.  I really like it.  A lot of my friends from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship go to that church.  But I don’t want to start going there just because I have friends there.  That shouldn’t be what church is about.  So I decided for the rest of October to go to both churches every Sunday and pray about it.  So far I like the new church.  People there seem more serious about following God and reading the Bible.

Things are going well at the apartment.  I’m adjusting well to having roommates.  Four of us share a three bedroom apartment; Shawn and I share the big bedroom.  It hasn’t been a problem so far.  We both get up early for class, so I don’t have to worry about waking him up or him waking me up.  Brian is really nice too.  The fourth guy, Josh, he works weird hours, and I don’t see him very often.

I don’t have a girlfriend.  I’m not good at meeting girls.  I feel like I have a lot of acquaintances these days, but I’m kind of on the outside of a lot of my friends’ social groups.  There’s this one girl I know from JCF who I would love to get to know better and spend more time with.  She’s really sweet and she has beautiful blue eyes.  I just don’t know what to do, though.  I don’t get to talk to her very often, and lately she’s been acting a little different.  I’m not sure why.  Last week at JCF she was talking a lot with this other guy, but I couldn’t tell if they were together or anything.  I met her in January when I was having a really hard day, and this guy invited me to hang out with some of his friends, and we hung out at her house.  A couple months ago, around the time all the year leases run out, I rode my bike past their house and everything was dark, and that inspired me to write a poem.  I’ll send it to you. It’s a Shakespearean sonnet; I’ve always liked that format for poems.


I continued writing, telling her all about trigonometric ratios on the next page, which apparently her mom wanted to thank me for.  I wondered exactly how much Laura’s mom knew about me.  I told my mom very little about all the girls I had met on the Internet, although she knew about one, Molly from Pennsylvania, because Molly wrote me letters the summer after freshman year when I went home for the summer.

Next I opened a file on my computer called “2234.”  This was the title of the poem I had mentioned in my letter to Laura, about a time when I rode my bike past the house where Haley and her roommates lived, but Haley was home for the summer and everyone else had moved out by then.  I titled the poem 2234 after the address of the house, 2234 Baron Court.  I printed the poem and put it on my desk with the rest of Laura’s letter, which I would mail in the morning.


“2234”
by Gregory J. Dennison, 1996

Inside your walls, that January night,
My life began again, in joy and love;
My brand new friends had shown to me the light;
Set free from gloom, I praise my Lord above!
Today your door is locked, your curtains drawn,
Along your quiet street you make no sound,
Your residents, and all their friends, are gone,
No sign left of the friendship I once found.
But though the cast has left, the show is done,
The drama rests forever in my heart;
This friendship still is shining like the sun,
We’re miles away, but not so far apart;
   Though now, O house, you’re empty, cold, and dark,
   My night in you forever left its mark.


I took a long time to fall asleep Thursday night.  I kept thinking about Laura, having sex with Adam and partying with all of the other exchange students, probably getting drunk in the process.  I wondered if she made any other decisions she regretted on her weekend with the other exchange students.  I knew consciously that that line of thinking was horribly judgmental, and that I was being a bad friend by entertaining those thoughts, but I could not help it.  I woke up tired Friday morning, still dwelling on these dark thoughts.

I was not feeling angry with Laura, though.  My brooding was directed more toward myself, at my failures with girls, and at a society where fake people with loose morals always got the girl or guy they were after, and guys like me were ridiculed and made outcasts.  I did not know how meeting girls and dating worked.  Laura tried to encourage me, but her suggestions just were not easy for me.  I did not know how to talk about things that girls would be interested in, and sometimes I felt like I was on the outside, or at best on the outer fringes, of cliques that seemed to spend a lot of time together.

During a break between classes, I went to the Post Office to mail Laura’s letter.  There was a small Post Office in the Memorial Union building, around the corner from the campus store.  Four people were in front of me in line, and with two friends in Europe that I was writing to that year, I had spent enough time in this line to know that I would be here for at least fifteen minutes.  Usually only one employee worked at the desk, and whenever he had to get something behind the desk, or place a package where the outgoing packages went, he seemed to move so slowly that I wondered if he was exaggerating his slow movements on purpose.  Did he have special training to learn how to work so slowly and inefficiently?  If I had been working behind that desk, I would be moving a lot faster, just because it was in my nature to get things done.  It probably would have saved time to buy stamps in the denomination of what it cost to send a letter to Europe, but sometimes I wrote long enough letters that it cost more, and I would have had to stand in line anyway to get the right postage.

I finally mailed my letter and walked toward the other end of the Memorial Union looking for a place to sit.  I was thinking about Laura’s encouragement to talk to girls and not be afraid, and as if on cue, I saw Haley walking toward me.  Before I could overthink myself out of it, I said, “Hey, Haley.”

Haley stopped and looked up at me with her bright blue eyes, smiling.  “Hi,” she said.  “What’s up?”

“Not much,” I said.  “Glad it’s Friday.”

“I know!  I had a big midterm yesterday.  It was a long week.”

“Yeah,” I replied.  “Hey, what are you doing this weekend?”  The words just came out; I was not sure where I was going with this line of conversation, but it felt right to ask.

“Not much.  But I’m going to play games at the Albert Street house tonight.  Did you hear about that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“After JCF tonight. Just hanging out and play games.  I’m sure you’re invited.”

“Eddie and Raphael’s house?  That Albert Street house?”

“Yeah.  I have to get going, but will you be at JCF tonight?”

“I will.  I’ll see you there?”

“Yeah!  See you there!”

I did go to the game night after JCF that night, and it was a lot of fun.  About ten of us were there, and we played Uno and Taboo until well after midnight.  Nothing special happened between me and Haley, although we did get to talk a bit more.  That felt like progress.  Maybe next time I would ask her to do something specific, just me and her.

After the game night ended, I headed home on the nearly empty streets of Jeromeville under the dark night sky, driving over the overpass with trees on it and flipping around the stations on the car radio.  As I heard Alanis Morissette singing about how “you live, you learn, you love, you learn” in her pain-inducing voice that sounded like the sound some sort of bird would make as it was being stabbed, I instinctively reached over to change the station.  But just before I pressed the button, I stopped.  Maybe Alanis was right.  I was living my life and learning from my missteps and mistakes.  And so was Laura, on another continent.  I was not doing myself any favors when I got down on myself because of my social and romantic failures, and neither was Laura when she called herself stupid because of what happened with Adam.  Laura was my long-distance friend, and friends were there to encourage each other, and help each other learn and grow.


Dear readers: What are some experiences you’ve had with learning not to be so judgmental? Or learning from your mistakes?

Also, I know this is a day late. I might be taking an unplanned week off from writing here and there, because I’m behind on real life right now. Next time I skip a week, you can always read an episode from the archives.

July 18-20, 1996. A new creative project and a new cheeseburger. (#92)

In 1996, the Internet was coming into the mainstream.  Average citizens were communicating by email, discussing topics on a Usenet forum, chatting on Internet Relay Chat, and using the Netscape browser to surf the World Wide Web, a platform for informational documents that could be linked to each other.  Advertisements were beginning to include the websites of the companies involved, where anyone in the world with an Internet connection could look up information about the product in question.

The truly computer savvy individual in 1996 had a personal website.  The academics, scientists, and government officials for whom the Internet was created used personal websites to share about their careers, their research, and contact information, which was useful for their colleagues and students to have.  A few people I had met on the Internet had personal websites, and mostly they consisted of a picture or two and a little bit about the author, with links to other relevant websites.  Some of my friends had personal websites too.  Eddie Baker had a link to his personal website on his email signature.  Eddie’s website had a picture of himself, another picture with his seven roommates, some of his favorite Bible verses, and a link to the University of Jeromeville page.

I wanted so badly to make a personal website, although I had no practical need for one. Unfortunately, this feature was not possible with a UJ student account.  This guy named Carl who I met on IRC had access to some kind of personal server, where he gave me an account for free so I could fiddle with making a website.  I taught myself basic HTML, the code used for making websites.  I found a computer lab on campus with a scanner and scanned a copy of my senior picture from Plumdale High, so I could put that picture on my website.  I don’t know why I did, though; I always hated that picture.  I wrote a little bit about myself, with links to the pages for the University of Jeromeville and a Bay City Captains football fan page I found.  Back in those days, jokes and chain letters circulated by email, the forerunners of the memes and viral posts of the 21st century, and I copied and pasted some of my favorites on my page.

Eddie’s page was hosted by a UJ Computer Science Department account; he was an International Relations major, but had taken a couple of computer classes.  When I took Introduction to Programming in the spring, I got a Computer Science account, so I did not need Carl to host my site anymore.  At some point after I finished my current Introduction to Software class, I would have to move my site again, since I would not be taking a Computer Science class in the fall.  Eddie’s site would probably get deleted eventually as well.  I needed to find out if I could get a Mathematics department account and host a personal website on that.

One Thursday night, after I got home from Bible study, I was bored.  I was caught up with homework for my class, and I had finished reading everything I was reading for fun.  I sat down in front of the computer and dialed into the university’s computer network.  I got on my usual IRC chat channel and looked for someone to talk to.  A girl named Laura, whom I had been talking to for a few months, was on, so I messaged her.  Laura was 17 years old and lived in upstate New York.

gjd76: hi :)
lauragirl17: hi greg! how are you?
gjd76: really bored. i’m caught up with all my work.  how are you?  i haven’t talked to you in a while.  how were things with adam?
lauragirl17: i know, i wasn’t on as much when adam was here.  we had a good visit.  it was a little weird at the end though
gjd76: why?
lauragirl17: just some stuff happened and i think we’re just going to be friends
gjd76: aww.  i hope everything is ok.  i wish i could meet girls i knew on the internet
lauragirl17: have you ever met someone from the internet in real life?
gjd76: just once. it was another girl from jeromeville, turned out she lived right down the street.  we just hung out and talked for a while, i could tell she wasn’t really my type
lauragirl17: aww. she’s missing out :) maybe i’ll be able to come to jeromeville someday
gjd76: that’d be fun :) well, you could come right now, i gave you my address
lauragirl17: yeah you did! i leave on tuesday, i’m so nervous but so excited too, i’ll write to you as soon as i get settled.  it’s kind of weird to think that i’ll be in switzerland this time next week
gjd76: i’m excited for you :) this will be a great experience… one of my best friends in high school, she was an exchange student in austria, and she loved it
lauragirl17: i know, it’s just going to be a big adjustment
gjd76: of course
lauragirl17: well it’s really late here, i should get to bed… but it was good talking to you
gjd76: you too! good night, sleep well :)

I hoped Laura would actually write to me from Switzerland.  One of my friends from school, Kelly, was going to be studying in Hungary next year, so between Kelly and Laura, I could possibly be writing and receiving letters from Europe often next year.

Someone else from the chat posted a link to his personal website; I opened it in another window in between messages from Laura.  In addition to pictures of himself and links to his university, he also had a story about this party he had attended last month, with pictures from the story and paragraphs telling what happened.  I wished I owned my own scanner, so that I could share pictures on the Internet too.

That guy from IRC with the story about his party gave me an idea for something to add to my website.  A few years ago, Nintendo released a game called Mario Paint.  It was not a game at all, it was more like rudimentary but functional drawing and animation software.  It came with a mouse, which was easier to use for drawing than the standard Super Nintendo control pad.  Three years ago, I used Mario Paint, two VCRs, and a microphone to make a short film about two strange teenage boys with a weird neighbor.  The film was influenced by the buddy comedies of the time period, like Wayne’s World and Beavis and Butthead.  I called my creation “Dog Crap and Vince.”  I made a few other Dog Crap and Vince short films over the next couple years, and the most recent one I made after I bought this computer, so the screenplay was still saved on this hard drive.

I opened my screenplay and read it.  Dog Crap’s cousin came to visit, and while throwing a football around in the yard, Vince threw it too hard, and it got run over by a truck.  The boys found a football at a garage sale to replace the one they lost, but it was so old and hard and brittle that it cracked open when it landed on the ground.  That was inspired by an inside joke; once, a strange neighbor back home gave my brother and me an old football that had belonged to her son when he was young, and it hit the ground and cracked open just like that.

I opened Microsoft Paint, the drawing software that came with Windows 3.1, and drew the opening scene, where Dog Crap opens the door and lets his cousin in.  I then drew the next scene, where the two of them watch television with Vince.  Both Dog Crap and Vince always had strange multicolored hair, and I never explained their odd appearance in any of the short films.  I also never explained why Dog Crap’s name is Dog Crap, and in their fictional universe, no one questions this.

I continued illustrating scenes from this Dog Crap and Vince story until around one in the morning.  The following day, after I finished a morning bike ride, I continued working on Dog Crap and Vince, illustrating the rest of the scenes from the story.

Next, I began typing the HTML code.  I typed the lines of dialogue and description for the story, in prose instead of the screenplay format I had written for the Mario Paint film.  It did not feel like an actual story, since the illustrations left most of the descriptions unnecessary; the remaining text was very heavy on dialogue.  But this was a new format for me, and I did not really have a template or precedent on which to base my work.  This story really was designed for animation, but in the absence of that kind of technology, this would have to do.

When I finished writing and debugging the HTML, I uploaded it, and all of my drawings, to the website.  I also updated the home page, trying to think of what to call my creation… was it a story, or a comic, or a script, or what?  I ended up calling it a story.  “Read my story: ‘Dog Crap and Vince, episode 1: ‘Football,’” I typed.  I made that line a hyperlink, so that someone could click on it to go to the story.  I read through my entire Dog Crap and Vince story again.  I was proud of my work.  Now I just needed someone to share it with.


Many of my friends who lived in this part of Jeromeville left for the summer, but some of them were still around.  Ramon and Jason were still in their apartment on Hampton Drive, and Caroline still lived upstairs from them.  Liz, Ramon’s girlfriend and Caroline’s roommate, had gone home for the summer.  By Saturday afternoon, the day after I finished Dog Crap and Vince, I was in a mood to socialize, so I walked over to Hampton Drive, about a quarter mile away.  Caroline saw me first; she was standing on the balcony, attaching some kind of wire mesh to the balustrade and railing.  “Hey, Greg!” she said.

“What are you working on?”

“I’m going to let Henry come out here.  I’m putting this up so he doesn’t accidentally fall.”

“That’ll be fun.  The cats we had growing up were always outdoor cats.  It’s weird to me to think that Henry never goes outside.”

“When we got Henry, we knew he had to be an indoor cat,” Caroline explained.  “The apartment wouldn’t allow it otherwise.”

“Makes sense.”

I heard the door on the downstairs apartment open.  “Hey, Greg,” Ramon said.  “I thought I heard your voice.”

“I just wanted to come say hi.”

“Stick around.  Liz is on her way up; she should be here soon.  She’ll want to see you.”

“Oh.  Cool.”

I went inside to watch TV with Ramon and Jason.  Ten minutes later, Caroline came down to tell us that the cat-proofing of the balcony was finished.  All of us went to the living room of the upstairs apartment and watched as Caroline opened the door to the balcony, picked up Henry and put him outside.  Henry looked around skittishly, then cautiously walked around, sniffing things.  Caroline tossed him his toy, a plastic ball with a small bell inside; Henry sniffed the ball and swatted it away, then chased his little furry black and white spotted body after it.

“It’s like he doesn’t quite know what to think of the outside,” Caroline said.

Just then, we heard Liz’s voice saying “Hey, guys!”  She walked into the apartment and put her bag down.  When she saw me, she looked surprised for a second, then smiled.  “Greg!  It’s good to see you!”

“How are you?”

“I’m good.”  Liz turned to see what everyone was looking at on the balcony.  “Henry’s outside!” she said.

“Yeah,” Caroline replied.  “I just wanted to try it.”

“It looks like he likes it.”

Liz moved her bag into the bedroom.  After she came back out to the living room, Ramon said, “Jason and I have been wanting to try that new Arch Deluxe burger at McDonald’s.  Greg?  You can come with us if you want.”

“Sure,” I said.  “I haven’t eaten yet.  And I haven’t tried that either.”

“It’s supposed to have more of an adult taste,” Jason explained.

“What does that mean?  How do hamburgers have adult tastes?” Liz asked.

“I don’t know,” Jason said.  “It’s being marketed as more sophisticated.”

Across the street from their apartment complex was the back of a shopping center facing Coventry Boulevard.  After making sure Henry was securely inside again, the five of us walked there.  The McDonald’s was in the middle of the strip mall part of the shopping center and had no drive-thru.  We each took turns ordering; I got an Arch Deluxe, eagerly anticipating what this adult cheeseburger would taste like.

“What have you been up to, Greg?” Liz asked as we waited for our order numbers to be called.  “You’re taking a class, right?”

“Yeah.  Computer Science 40, Intro to Software.  It’s going well.”

“Good!”

“Today I made something new for my website.  Just for fun, not part of the class.”

“Oh yeah?  What is it?”

I told them about Dog Crap and Vince, how I had created the characters with Mario Paint a few years ago, and about the illustrated story I had written.  “I’ll show you guys when we get back to the apartment, if you want.”

“Sure,” Ramon said.

Jason’s meal had arrived by then; he bit into the Arch Deluxe.  “This is pretty good,” he said.  “It’s different, I’m not sure exactly what is adult about it, but it’s good.”

“What does Dog Crap and Vince mean?” Caroline asked.  “What does dog crap have to do with the story?  Does Vince always step in dog crap?”

“Dog Crap is his friend’s name.  So the title refers to the two main characters, Dog Crap and Vince.”

“Why is his name Dog Crap?”

“I’ve never explained that.  It just is.”

“Okay,” Caroline said, as if not sure what to make of this.

The cashier called my number, and I went up to the counter to get my food.  I sat down and opened the cardboard Arch Deluxe container.  The burger had a different kind of bun, looking more like a sandwich roll, but round.  I opened it and removed the tomato slice.  “You don’t like tomatoes?” Liz asked.

“No.”

“May I have it?”

“Sure.”

I passed my tomato to Liz and took a bite of what remained of the burger.  I liked it.  Definitely different from most other McDonald’s products; it tasted like it was made from higher quality ingredients.  “This is good,” I said.  Growing up, I was a connoisseur of Chicken McNuggets; I did not usually eat hamburgers at McDonald’s, but I was willing to reconsider this position because of the Arch Deluxe.

We sat together at McDonald’s catching up for a while.  Liz told us all about her summer with her family, and those of us who were taking classes shared how our studies were going so far.  At one point, during a lull in the conversation, Ramon said, “Has anyone ever noticed that this song is the same four chords over and over again?”

“Huh?” Caroline asked.

“This song,” Ramon repeated.  Blues Traveler’s “Run-Around” was playing in the background of the restaurant.  “It’s the same four chords over again.”

I listened carefully to the guitar and bass playing behind the energetic harmonica solo.  “You’re right,” I said, pretending to sound like I knew what I was talking about.  I had three years of piano lessons in my past, and I had been singing in the choir at church for almost a year, but Ramon was a much more accomplished musician than I was.  “I always thought it was catchy, though.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s catchy,” Jason agreed.

 We walked back to the apartment after we finished eating.  “Greg?” Ramon asked.  “Did you still want to show us that Dog Crap thing?”

“Sure.”

Ramon turned on his computer as Jason found something to watch on TV.  He opened Netscape and asked, “What’s the address?”  I typed the address for my website, then clicked on the link for Dog Crap and Vince.  Ramon began reading silently as Liz and Caroline and I watched the screen.  I felt slightly awkward. Was I supposed to read it out loud to them?  How would Ramon know when everyone was done reading?  At the end of the first page, Ramon asked if everyone was done reading before he continued to the next page.  That would work.  The others laughed a few times, such as when Dog Crap and Vince saw the Unabomber at the garage sale.

“That’s pretty funny,” Ramon said when he finished.

“You did a good job with the website,” Liz added.  “Are you going to do more Dog Crap stories?”

“Eventually, yes.”

“I’ll keep watching for those.”

“Thanks!”

The four of us hung out watching television and just talking for another couple of hours.  I walked home after that and got out a sheet of paper.  Future Dog Crap and Vince Ideas, I wrote at the top, then I added, Dog Crap is playing guitar, but he only knows four chords, and Vince says he can still play that Blues Traveler song.  I used a variation of that line in another episode later that year, and I made it a habit to write down anything funny that I thought of or saw that could be used in future episodes.

Today was a good day.  I would be eating many more Arch Deluxes in the future; this would become my new go-to order at McDonald’s.  However, sadly, the product was considered a massive failure.  The Arch Deluxe never caught on as a popular item once the initial hype faded, and a few years later, it disappeared from McDonald’s menus.

Dog Crap and Vince, however, did not disappear from my life.  I continued making new episodes of the series for eleven years, with more animated short films after that.  I also did numerous other side projects involving Dog Crap and Vince.  Many of my friends have been involved in a Dog Crap and Vince project at some point.  These two characters spawned a fictional universe that became a major part of my life for a long time.  The world of Dog Crap and Vince even seemed to take on a life of its own at times.  The cast of main characters grew from two to at least six, with many other recurring characters in their world, and at times, their stories seemed to take on lives of their own.  I never would have believed, on that day three years ago when I drew those two silly-looking boys on Mario Paint, that this would become such a major part of my life.


Author’s note: Dog Crap and Vince is not real.  It is based on an actual project called “Cow Chip & Lance.”  I’ve known the guys behind those characters for many years, and I’ve done some work behind the scenes for them.  They were thinking about reposting their web series from the 90s, and I’m writing about the 90s, so we decided to join forces on that project.  Go check them out.


June 25-27, 1996. The first week of summer session. (#89)

The architecture and landscaping around the University of Jeromeville are not the old brick buildings and towering, stately trees commonly associated with universities.  The towering trees are there, in the older parts of campus, but the buildings are a mix of architectural styles.  The traditional brick Wellington Hall, the wooden shingles of Old North and South Halls, the Spanish stucco and tile of Harper Hall, and the bizarre angled concrete of the Death Star Building are all visible just from the Quad.  Some criticize the campus for its lack of architectural unity, but I always found that this gave it character.

One of the sections of campus with the least glamorous architecture was far to the southwest of the Quad, just past the engineering buildings, east of the South Residential Area.  Two prefabricated buildings, resembling the portable classrooms on most elementary and secondary school campi in this state but larger, stood surrounded by several feet of bare dirt on each side, and more interesting buildings in view nearby.  One of these buildings was divided in half, with a sign calling it “Temporary Classrooms 1 & 2,” and the other had only one door, labeled “Temporary Classroom 3.”

I parked my bike and walked into Temporary Classroom 3.  A chalkboard ran along the side of the building to the left, and about eighty chairs with the little writing desks that fold out faced the chalkboard.  The room was about half full so far, and most of the empty seats filled up by the time the instructor arrived at noon.  I assumed that this man was the instructor, at least, because he carried a binder and stack of papers to the front of the room.  He was slender, with wavy light brown hair, wearing a dress shirt and slacks, and he appeared fairly young, probably in his early thirties.  A darker-haired man of about that age, dressed more casually, had been sitting in the front of the room the whole time.  The instructor handed the other man a stack of papers, which they began passing out to the class.

“Welcome to Computer Science 40, Introduction to Software,” the instructor said.  “My name is Tom Kroger.  This,” he said, gesturing to the darker-haired man passing out papers, “is Joe White.  He will be the TA for this class, and he will lead the discussion section on Wednesday mornings.”  The syllabus was among the papers Joe White passed out, and neither of their names had the title “Dr.” in front.  I assumed that Joe White, like most teaching assistants, was a graduate student studying computer science, and I wondered, because of his youth and lack of title, if Tom Kroger was a graduate student as well.  In my department, mathematics, graduate students sometimes taught first-year classes as the actual instructor, not just the teaching assistant; perhaps computer science did the same thing, particularly during the summer session.  (I would learn later that I was correct.)

Tom spent the first part of class explaining our assignments, the grading policy, office hours, computer lab hours, and other procedural items.  We would be using the programming language C, and the textbook for the class was called C How To Program, the only textbook I ever had with a pun for a title.  An optional supplementary book taught the basics of Unix operating systems; I bought this book too, since I had little familiarity with Unix.  For the rest of the 110-minute class, Tom lectured about high-level structured programming languages and the C standard library.  While some elements are common to most programming languages, C seemed fundamentally different than the Commodore 64 BASIC programming that I taught myself at age nine, or the Pascal language that I learned last quarter in my Introduction to Programming class.

Summer session classes teach ten weeks of material in six weeks, so the class met more often during the week than classes do during the regular school year.  The class met from 12:10 to 2:00 every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoon, with a discussion section Wednesday morning from 10:00 to 11:50, right before the lecture.  We would have weekly projects that would be discussed at that time.  This was the only class I was taking this summer, and I had no job, so I had plenty of time to study and get work done.

After class, I went to the Memorial Union and got a slice of pepperoni pizza.  I had not packed a lunch, I just figured that I would eat when I got home, but being back on campus for the first time in almost two weeks made me want to sit back and take in the atmosphere.  I took my lunch to a table in the courtyard by the fountain that was now kept perpetually dry.  I read the Daily Colt campus newspaper as I ate.  The name was a bit misleading, since during the summer, the newspaper only published twice a week, in a smaller tabloid format only about half as long as the regular edition. 

The campus was much quieter today than I was used to, since the majority of the student population was not in class for the summer.  Those fun times last year of running into friends around campus between classes, and all the interesting conversations that happened around those encounters, probably would not happen as often this summer.  The last time I sat at this table was when Haley Channing was sitting here, and I asked if I could join her.  For a girl-crazy, socially awkward guy like me, getting to have lunch with Haley was like winning the lottery.  Of course, I embarrassed myself in front of her a few minutes later; Claire Seaver from church choir walked by, and I tried to introduce Haley and Claire, not realizing that they already knew each other.  I would have no random encounters with Haley this summer, since she was home working a summer job, 400 miles away.

 The Daily Colt still included a crossword puzzle, which I did after I was done eating.  Even though the campus was emptier than usual, I was not completely alone.  I still had choir practice at church on Wednesdays, and I was in a Bible study that started this Thursday, so I would see some of my friends then.


The discussion Wednesday morning was also in Temp 3.  It was required, and the class was not split into multiple small discussion groups, so all of the students were there.  Joe White introduced our first project.  It seemed fairly straightforward, a project designed mostly just to acquaint students with the system and the basics of coding in C.

At two o’clock, after the lecture with Tom Kroger, I went to the computer lab in the basement of Kent Hall.  It was spread out across five rooms, and being an afternoon in summer when only a few computer science classes were offered, all of them were mostly empty.  When I had come here during Intro to Programming last quarter, there were usually many more people down here.  These computers ran X Window, a graphical interface for Unix-based computers that bore a superficial resemblance to the Microsoft Windows 3.1 that I was familiar with.  I opened a text editor in a new window, where I typed my code as a text file, which I would later compile into an executable.

I stayed in the lab for about an hour working on my project, and by that time I felt comfortable with how this system worked, as well as with C in general.  I still had a lot of work to do on the project, but I had a week to do it.  I was in no hurry; I just wanted to make sure I was familiar with the computer system before it was too late.


Since many UJ students leave to spend the summer at home or get summer jobs or internships elsewhere, the Newman Center only offers two Sunday Masses during the summer instead of three.  I would learn later that many other churches in Jeromeville also decrease the number of services during the summer, for the same reason.

When I got to choir practice on Wednesday night, some familiar faces were missing, and others had taken their places.  I knew that the Coronado sisters had both gone home to Desert Ridge for the summer, and a few others, including Phil Gallo and Melanie Giordano, were absent as well.  I recognized a few people from events that the church had held, and I assumed that these new people were singers from the early morning Mass, who were combined with us now.

“Greg!” Claire said when I walked in.  “You’re here!  Are you gonna be here all summer?”

“Mostly,” I replied.  “I wasn’t here last week because I went home to see my family.  But I’m back for the summer.  At least most of it.”

“How was that?”

“It went well.  My brother and I made a silly board game out of all of our inside jokes.”

“That sounds fun!”

“It was!”

I walked over to the music stand with my copy of this week’s music.  A girl I did not know stood next to me.  She was short, with short chin-length brown hair and brown eyes.  “Hi,” I said.  “I don’t think I know you.”

“I’m Ellen.”

“I’m Greg,” I replied.  “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

“Are you from the early service?” I asked, assuming that the answer would be yes.

“No,” Ellen said.  “My family goes to Mass here.  I’m going to school in San Diego, and I’m home for the summer.”

“Oh, I see,” I said.

“Do you know Kevin Stark?  He’s my dad.”

“I think I know who he is.  He’s a professor of pomology, or something like that?”

“Yes!  It’s funny, that’s what everyone seems to remember about him.”

“I remember him talking about his research once.”

“Yeah, Dad always tells people he studies fruits and nuts.  Then he adds, ‘The kind that grow on trees.’”

“That’s funny,” I said, laughing.

“Yeah, but it’s less great when you hear him say it all the time.  Dumb jokes get old.”

“True.  That makes sense.  So what’s your major?”

“Marine biology.  You?”

“Math.”

“Wow.  That was never my favorite class.”

“I get that reaction a lot,” I said.

At this point, I realized that the rest of the room had become quiet and was staring at us.  “I was just saying, it’s time to get started,” Claire explained.  We mostly did familiar songs that week, so we got through choir practice relatively quickly.  Ellen had a nice voice.  I was looking forward to singing on Sunday.  While I still held out hope that something would work out with Haley eventually, I could not help but wonder if Ellen had a boyfriend.  


Thursday felt like a Friday to me, since I knew that it was my last class for the week.  With only one class this summer, I was going to have a four-day weekend every week.  I liked this schedule.  After class was over, I rode my bike into downtown Jeromeville and went to Tower Records.  After browsing the entire store, I bought the new Dave Matthews Band CD, Crash.  I listened to it as soon as I got home.

That night, after dinner, I drove to Pine Grove Apartments, about a mile to the south.  Jeromeville Christian Fellowship did not have their large group meetings on Fridays during the summer, but there were two Bible studies meeting this summer, one here near campus and one on the other side of Jeromeville.  I found the apartment I was looking for and knocked on the door.  “Come in,” someone said from inside.

“Greg!” Lillian greeted as I opened the door.  Lillian was a year older than me, and she had co-led my Bible study during the school year.  Her co-leader this summer with a guy her year named Chris.  

“Hey, Greg,” Chris said.  “What’s up?”

“Not much.  Just taking a class and hanging out.”

“Which class?” Lillian asked.

“CS 40.  Intro to Software.”

“I’ve heard that’s really hard,” Chris said.  “My roommate is a CS major.  And you’re taking it in the summer, packed into six weeks?  Good luck.”

“I like it so far,” I said.

“Do you need computer science for the math major?” Lillian asked.

“CS 30 is required; I took that last quarter.  110 is optional, it counts in place of math units, and 40 is a prerequisite for 110, so I figured I would take 40 in the summer, when it’s easier to get into.  And programming is something I was always interested in.”

About five minutes after I arrived, we started with worship music as Chris played guitar and we all sang.  When it came time to begin the study, Lillian explained that we would be studying the First Epistle of John this summer.  I knew most of the people in this Bible study, after having spent most of the last school year going to JCF.  Tabitha Sasaki read the first half of the chapter out loud, and Jason Costello read the second half.  A verse that Tabitha read stuck out in my mind: “We proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father and has appeared to us.”

We spent the next forty minutes or so discussing what John meant in writing these verses.  I kept thinking about that verse about proclaiming eternal life, which I was not good at.  I preferred to mind my own business when it came to telling people about my faith, this came more naturally to me, but I often worried that this was not enough.  I had friends who were good at inviting their friends to JCF; some people, including myself, had come to faith by being invited to JCF.  I had friends who were proclaiming eternal life this summer in Morocco, India, and other nations where Chrsitianity was not a dominant part of the culture.

The parent organization of JCF, Intervarsity, put on a convention every three years in Urbana, Illinois, for young adults to learn about mission trips and service opportunities.  Many of my friends were going, and I was considering going as well, although the thought of spending a few hundred dollars to register for this, and a few hundred more to fly to Illinois, was overwhelming.  An early bird price offered a significant discount to anyone who signed up before the end of June, which was only a few days away.

After we finished studying the chapter from 1 John, Chris asked, “Are there any prayer requests?”  A few of the others shared concerns about sick relatives and overwhelming school workloads.

I spoke up after a few minutes.  “I still haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to Urbana,” I said, “and I want to decide before the price goes up.  That’s in a few days.”

“I think it’ll be a really good experience for you,” Lillian said, “but I know, it’s a lot of money if you’re not really committed.  We’ll pray for you.”

After everyone shared their prayer requests, we all went in a circle, praying for the person next to us.  “God,” Tabitha said, “I pray for Greg.  I pray that you will give him wisdom to know whether or not Urbana is right for him.  I pray that Greg will know your will, and that you will speak to him all the great things you plan on doing through him.  I pray that he will find a way to make the finances work out, if this is your will.”

“Lord, I pray for Jason,” I said after Tabitha was done.  “I pray for his busy schedule, that you will help him stay focused on classes.  I pray that he will manage his time well, and find a balance between spending time in the Word and spending time on studies.”

After we finished prayer requests, and the study ended, Tabitha asked, “What are you up to tonight?”

“Just going to work on my project for class,” I said.  “I’m going to see if I can figure out how to connect to the CS computer lab from my computer at home, so I don’t have to go into the lab.”

“Let me know as soon as you’ve decided on Urbana.  I still want to get a few people to go in together on a flight.  I told you about that, right?”

“Yeah.  I will let you know.”

“Perfect!”

After I got home, I turned on the computer, listened to the beeps and whirs of the dialup modem connecting, and connected to the computers in the basement of Kent Hall.  I opened a second window and connected to my usual IRC chat channel, so I could find people to send messages to while I was working.  I put on the new Dave Matthews Band CD for the second time that day.

By the end of the night, I had decided that I preferred this setup over physically going to the basement of Kent Hall.  Writing code from home gave me the opportunity to listen to music and have a chat room open at the same time.  For certain types of studying, like those involving large amounts of reading, I do not do well while listening to music, but I enjoyed listening to music during other types of studying, like math homework or computer science projects.

The obvious drawback of doing computer science work from home, of course, is that I could not use the telephone while I was connected to the Internet.  Anyone who tried calling me would get a busy signal.  Although I did not get many calls, I did not want to tie up the phone line; I always held out hope that maybe I would get a phone call from a cute girl, or that someone would invite me to something awesome.  But since I did not have to get up early most days, I could wait until after ten o’clock, when I was unlikely to get phone calls, and work on coding late into the night.  I managed to train myself to sleep in until around ten in the morning, since my class did not begin until noon, although I had to make sure to get to bed earlier on Tuesdays so I could get up in time for the Wednesday morning discussion.  Once my body got used to staying up late and waking up late, that schedule worked very well for me.  I did not set foot in the basement of Kent Hall again for the rest of the summer.

When I finally went to bed that first night, at 1:46 AM, I closed my eyes and prayed again that God would show me the right decision about going to Urbana.  By that time, though, I felt like I already knew the answer.  I had found Jesus, and I needed to know what the next step in my faith journey would be.  I also had many friends who were traveling overseas to spread the Gospel, and I did not know how to support them, or even the nature of their work in the first place, in some cases.  I mailed my registration form the following morning.  I now had six months to work out the details, but I already had a head start since Tabitha was putting a flight together.  It was a wonderful first week of class, and as I drifted off to sleep, I felt optimistic for the rest of the summer.

June 11-12, 1996. The new Walk of Shame. (#86)

These days, it is easy to create a new identity and pretend to be someone else online.  Just sign up for a new free email account with Google or Yahoo or any of those, and use that free email account to make a new Facebook or Instagram or whatever else is needed.  Or just use it to send emails with a new name.

In 1996, it was much more difficult to send an email without my real name on it.  Free advertiser-supported email services were still a few years away.  Someone wanting a new email address had three options: get a job with an employer that offered email, attend a university, or pay for it.  However, if the only purpose was to be anonymous and not have a specific name on the message, I knew of one other option, a service called “anon.penet.fi.”  This service was an anonymous remailer; a message emailed to anon.penet.fi would be forwarded to its intended recipient with all traces of the sender’s actual name and email address removed and replaced with arbitrary nonsensical numbers.  I had no idea how to pronounce “anon.penet.fi,” but I thought that the “.fi” ending meant that the service was based on Finland, and “Penet” was presumably the name of the service.  Last year, someone called “Publius” famously posted mysterious messages on the Pink Floyd Usenet forum about hidden messages in the band’s most recent album; Publius used anon.penet.fi to post those messages anonymously.

I used anon.penet.fi exactly once, and when I woke up on that Tuesday morning, I had no idea that I would require the services of an anonymous remailer.  The day started out perfectly normal, at least as normal as finals week could be.  My final for anthropology class, taught by the unfortunately named Dr. Dick Small, was in the afternoon, so I slept in until nine.  That counts as sleeping in for a stressed light sleeper like me, and did a lot of last minute studying after that.  About half an hour before the test was scheduled to start, I rode my bike to campus and parked next to the big lecture hall in Younger Hall, just east of the Quad in the old part of the campus.  I walked inside and found an empty seat toward the back of the room, pulled up the attached writing desk, and got out my blue book, Scantron, and a pen and pencil.  About a minute later, a girl whom I did not know, but had noticed in class before, sat next to me.  She wore short shorts and a low-cut tank top over her firm, round breasts.  I did not know her name.

“Are you ready?” I asked, the first words I ever spoke to her.

“I think so,” she replied.  “Good luck!”

“Thanks.  You too,” I said, the last words I ever spoke to her.

While I waited for the test to start, I turned my head so that I appeared to be staring off into space, but with my eyes still able to look at the attractive girl inconspicuously.  I saw her write her name on the Scantron; her first name was Jennifer, but I could not read her last name.  The test began a minute later, and despite the sexy distraction next to me, I managed to stay focused enough to do my best, and I felt fairly confident when I finished.  The test was straightforward with no real surprises on what was asked or what I had to write about.  I snuck a few glances at Jennifer’s long legs while looking down at the test paper.

I got home, not in the mood to do any more studying since I had no finals tomorrow.  I wasted a few hours writing emails, talking on an IRC chat, reading a book, and eating.  I lay down after I finished eating, and my mind wandered back to Jennifer from anthropology class sitting next to me during the final.  I did not know her, but I wanted to caress her legs and fondle her breasts and kiss her lips.  I began thinking about what that would be like, I found myself becoming aroused, one thing led to another, and ten minutes later I found myself making the Walk of Shame to the laundry room to wash my pants and underwear and sheets.

All I could think about was how I had failed as a Christian.  Jesus said that someone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery in his heart.  I had let Jesus down, and I had also let down all my friends at Jeromeville Christian Fellowship who had prayed with me, and shared the truth of the Gospel with me, and led me in Bible study.

Furthermore, all of this tied up another hour and a half of my evening.  I had not been planning to do laundry today, and I refused to leave clothes unattended in the laundry room after an incident a few months ago when a bunch of my clothes were stolen.  I brought my textbook for combinatorics and used the time to study, even though my final for combinatorics was not until Thursday morning.  I had a hard time concentrating; I kept thinking about how I had failed in my walk with Jesus.

When I got back to my apartment, as I made my bed with my freshly washed sheets, my eyes caught the bulletin board behind my computer.  Last month, I was having a rough day, and I was talking to my friend Sarah Winters between class. She just silently listened to me rant while she wrote two Bible verses on a piece of paper, handing the paper to me when she was done.  I had pinned Sarah’s note to my bulletin board, so it would be there to remind me of God’s Word when I needed it.  And I needed reminders of God’s Word now.

“I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”  Just as God had a plan for the exiles of the prophet Jeremiah’s time, he had a plan for my life too.  He led me here to Jeromeville in the first place, and by putting me in a situation where I lived alone in this studio apartment, he led me to seek out friends, which brought me to Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, where I learned what it really means to know Jesus.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.  In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your path straight.”  My life is not my own.  I was created to serve and glorify God.  I believed.  But if I did, why did I have such a hard time trusting and acknowledging him?  Why could I not just trust that he had something better in store for me than empty fantasies about Jennifer from anthro, whom I did not know and had no chance with?

Everyone around me seemed to have their lives together.  I wondered if any other guys I knew dealt with this.  Probably not.  I felt so ashamed to struggle with this still.  I wanted to talk to someone about this, but I knew that anyone I told would just scold me and remind me that what I did was wrong.  I knew I was wrong.  I needed help, and encouragement, and prayer, not more guilt.

I looked up again at Sarah’s handwritten Scriptures.  Maybe Sarah could help me, I thought.  She was a good friend, one of the nicest people I knew, and she really was living her life for Jesus.  I would learn years later that many Christians would find it inappropriate for an unmarried man to talk to a woman about his struggles with lust, but at this point I just wanted someone to help me in my struggles and pray for me.  I was not trying to hook up with Sarah.  And, honestly, I found girls less intimidating to talk to than guys.  I had spent too much of my life around guys who just wanted to be macho and intimidating.

No, I thought, this was not a good idea.  I did not want Sarah to know my deep, dark secret.  I did not know if I would ever be able to face her again.  If only there was some way I could communicate with her anonymously, being honest about what I was going through without her knowing it was me… and I remembered that there was such a way: anon.penet.fi.

I had learned how anon.penet.fi worked from the Pink Floyd Usenet group, when Publius was anonymously posting cryptic messages.  I had to send the email to a specific address in the penet.fi domain, and the first line of the message had to say “X-ANON-TO:” followed by the actual email of the intended recipient.  This would signal the computer on the other end that this was an actual message intended to be forwarded anonymously to someone else.  On Sarah’s end, the sender would appear as some long number followed by “@anon.penet.fi.”  The server at anon.penet.fi would remember my email and assign me a specific number, so that any message sent to anyone from my email address would get labeled with the same number.  This way, people using anon.penet.fi to communicate anonymously back and forth would at least know that the messages were always coming from the same person.  I took a deep breath and started typing.


X-ANON-TO:sewinters@jeromeville.edu
I am someone you know in real life, and I need someone to talk to, but I am too ashamed to use my real name.  You may call me Joe.


I did not think I looked like a Joe; that should take the suspicion off of me if Sarah tried to guess who sent the message.  As I started typing, I realized that Sarah might not be particularly knowledgeable of the dark intricacies of the Internet, so she may not know what anon.penet.fi was.  When she got this mysterious message with a bunch of numbers as the sender, she might not read it.  I changed the subject line to “please read, this is real, you know me,” and started typing over again.


X-ANON-TO:sewinters@jeromeville.edu
I am using this anonymous email service because I am too ashamed to use my real name.  I am someone you know in real life, and I need someone to talk to.  You may call me Joe.


I continued typing, explaining to her in a couple of paragraphs what happened, and how I felt ashamed, like I was a failure, and I had let Jesus and my friends down.  I concluded the message by explaining that she could reply to this message and I would receive it with all of the names removed.  I took a deep breath and clicked Send before I could second-guess myself.

By now it felt too late to do homework.  I got in bed with the book I had been reading, The Firm by John Grisham.  I read for over an hour and tried to go to sleep around midnight, but sleep did not come quickly.  I woke up in the morning with a headache after having slept for around four hours.


I had no finals the next day, Wednesday, and I did not go to campus.  I went grocery shopping, I read more of The Firm, and I went for a bike ride through the Coventry Greenbelts.  I made a cheeseburger for dinner, and when I was done, I put the greasy pan and my plate in the kitchen sink, which had been piling up with dirty dishes for a few days.  I also spent about four nonconsecutive hours studying for my final in combinatorics tomorrow, even though I was getting an A-plus in the class and I felt comfortable with the material.  During a study break that night, I checked my email and saw this in my inbox as the computer played the tone indicating that I had a new message.


15358854@anon.penet.fi   Re: please read, this is real, you know me


Sarah had written back.  I opened the message and began reading.


Joe,

You are not a failure, and you have not let me down.  You definitely have not let God down.  You said that your friends all have their lives together, but trust me, we really don’t.  We are all sinners saved by grace.  Jesus loves you, and he will never let you go.

I would suggest that you find something to get your mind off of those thoughts when they come up.  Read a Psalm or your favorite Bible verse.  Play worship music, if you play an instrument, or just sing if you don’t.  Go for a walk.  Clean your house.  Do whatever it takes.  But most importantly, don’t get down on yourself if you do mess up.  Remember that Jesus died for sinners like us, not for perfect people who already had their lives together.

Thank you so much for sharing this with me.  I will keep you in my prayers.  Take care and God bless.


I was not feeling particularly aroused today, but I felt like I needed some time with God nevertheless, after all that had happened.  I opened my Bible, having remembered something I had read recently about Jesus dying for us while we were still sinners.  I thought it was in Paul’s letter to the Romans; I found it a few minutes later, Romans 5:8: “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”  Interestingly enough, that verse was just a few sentences past the first verse that I had ever memorized, the one about hope that Janet McAllen from the JCF staff had written when she drew the diagram explaining to me how Christ’s death worked.  I spent some time just sitting there on the edge of my bed, praying.

I read Sarah’s email again.  “Play worship music, if you play an instrument, or just sing if you don’t.”  I did not play an instrument.  I knew songs we sang at Mass, and I was learning some of the worship music that the band at JCF played.  But I had a stereo with a CD player on my shelf, and I had recently purchased two albums by Christian rock bands: the self-titled debut album by Jars of Clay, and DC Talk’s Jesus Freak album.  I put on the Jesus Freak album and really listened to the words while I did dishes and cleaned the kitchen.  The dishes had been piling up for far too long.

I sat down to answer other emails while DC Talk continued playing on the stereo.  Track 10 on the CD was a song called “In the Light”; I had discovered this song two months earlier, when I took the road trip to Bay City and Moonlight Cove with Eddie and Haley and a bunch of other people.  Sarah was on that trip too.  I loved this song already, but the lyrics just hit differently tonight.

What’s going on inside of me?
I despise my own behavior
This only serves to confirm my suspicion
That I’m still a man in need of a Savior.

That was me.  That was exactly what I had been feeling.  Sarah had reminded me that we are all sinners saved by grace, and just because I was giving in to temptations of the flesh sometimes, my sins had been paid for with Jesus’ blood on the cross.

Lord, be my light, and be my salvation
‘Cause all I want is to be in the light.

Anon.penet.fi would shut down a few months later, after too many legal controversies caused by people using anonymous remailing for criminal purposes.  I never attempted to use the service again.  I did reveal to Sarah that I was Joe eventually, but not directly; we were in the same breakout group on a retreat, and this topic came up, so I told the story of sending the anonymous email.  She could tell that I was a little uncomfortable sharing, and all she said to me about it afterward was “Jesus loves you,” along with a pat on the back.

I would go on to learn that many Christian men and women struggle with this, but I never completely resolved this issue in my mind.  I have heard a lot over the years about this culture of sexual purity among Christians.  Some Christians take sexual purity very seriously, refusing to spend time alone with a member of the opposite sex other than one’s spouse, committing to not kissing until the wedding day, things like that.  Others reject purity entirely and brag about how they have had sex with many people they were not married to, but God loves them anyway.  I do not agree with either of those views, and mostly I have just numbed myself to some of the guilt and shame that I used to experience.  One thing is true, though; just like everyone else, I am a sinner saved by grace, and my salvation was bought with the blood of Christ.

Early May, 1996. A stressful week. (#82)

A few months before every Olympic Games, the Olympic torch is lit by the sun on Mount Olympus in Greece and brought across Greece and the country hosting the Games that year.  In 1996, the upcoming Summer Olympics would be held in Atlanta, on the opposite side of the United States from Jeromeville. The torch would travel across the United States by way of a relay.  Thousands of people would carry the torch for a short distance, then pass it to someone else, with crowds of onlookers watching as the torch made its way across their parts of the country.

On the day before the torch passed through Jeromeville, I sat alone at a table at the Memorial Union, eating a burrito and doing the crossword puzzle in the Daily Colt.  I had work to do, I had a combinatorics midterm coming up in a few days, but I was not in the mood to do work, given everything on my mind.  I had been looking for a house for next year, with no luck so far, and I was starting to worry about this.  (This was before I talked to Shawn about looking for an apartment instead.)

I walked into combinatorics class about five minutes before it was scheduled to start; this was the last class before the midterm.  I was a quarter ahead in math entering the University of Jeromeville, so I did not take freshman calculus in large lecture halls with people who were taking math on schedule.  Because of that, this combinatorics class, with about eighty people, was the largest math class I had taken at UJ so far.  I looked around the room and saw Andrea Briggs, who had been in a few classes with me before and lived in the dorm next to mine last year. She sat next to an open seat, so I walked up to it and asked, “May I sit here?”

“Sure,” Andrea replied.

“How are you?”

“I’m great!” she said.  “Jay came to visit this weekend, and he proposed!”  Andrea held up her left hand, with the third finger now bearing a diamond ring.

“Congratulations!” I said awkwardly.  Was that the right thing to say in response to this?  I was not sure.  As far as I knew, she was the first of my friends to get engaged.  This was a completely new experience to me.

“What about you?” she asked.  “How are you?”

“My week hasn’t been nearly as exciting.  I had a quiz in my other math class this morning.”

“Which class?  How’d you do?”

“167, with Dr. Ionescu.  I’m getting an A in that class, but I feel like I’m not learning anything.  Most of what we’re doing is just review from 22A.  And the entire grade is based on surprise quizzes every three or four classes, so there’s no reason to remember anything.”

“Yeah, that’s weird.  But at least you’re getting an A.”

“Yeah.”

Gabby, the combinatorics professor, began lecturing about generating functions for recurrence relations, so I stopped talking and began taking notes.  Dr. Gabrielle Thomas was my favorite math professor at UJ so far.  She was fairly young, I would guess in her thirties; she spoke English clearly; and she told us to call her Gabby, which seemed refreshingly informal to me.  That made her feel more like a human being, whom I could relate to, compared to many of my other professors.

I tried to focus on what Gabby was saying, because of the upcoming midterm.  I still had not mastered recurrence relations, but I thought I would probably do fine once I took the time to study and practice the material.  However, I had a hard time concentrating today.  I kept wanting to sneak glances at Andrea’s left hand, not because of any particular curiosity about what her ring looked like, but because she had one in the first place.  I was over Andrea as a possible love interest; I found out over a year ago that she had a boyfriend.  But it just felt weird, and discouraging, that I was at the age when my friends would be getting married.  Andrea would soon be committing herself to one man for life, probably starting a family with him after she finished school, and I had still never kissed a girl.

After class, as I headed back to the Memorial Union where my bicycle was parked, I saw Danielle Coronado and Claire Seaver from church sitting at a table talking.  Danielle was one of the first friends I made at UJ; she lived down the hall from me in my dorm last year.  “Hey,” I said as I approached them.

“Greg!” Danielle said, smiling and waving.

“Hey, Greg,” Claire said.  “Have you started your project yet?”

“Kind of.”

“Which math class do you two have together?” Danielle asked me.

“Anthro 2,” I explained.  “Not math.”  Danielle’s assumption was warranted, however, because Claire was a music major with a minor in mathematics.

“That’s right, anthro,” Danielle said.  “With that professor who did a class for the IHP last year.”

“Yes.  Dick Small.”  I still found that name hilarious, because of my extensive background in dirty jokes.  “I’m going to observe and write about the IRC channel FriendlyChat,” I continued.

“Is that that thing where you talk to strangers on the computer?”

“Yeah.  Internet Relay Chat.  I was in FriendlyChat earlier today, and there’s some kind of complicated leadership structure with who gets to be a channel operator, and all these rules that they get mad at you for not knowing.  And when I kept announcing that I was doing an anthro project, as the ethics of anthropology require, some of them got mad at me for spamming.  So I’m off to a frustrating start.”

“Well, hopefully you’ll figure out a way to get your project done.”

“I hope so.  I’m just stressed about a lot of things.”

“Sounds like it.”

“I want to go see the torch tomorrow, though,” I said.

“Oh yeah!  When is that supposed to be?”

“It’ll be passing along Fifth Street between 1 and 2.”

“I have class,” Danielle said, feeling slightly disappointed.  “But have fun!”

“I will!  I’m going to head home now, but I’ll see you guys soon.”

“Bye, Greg,” Claire said.

“Bye,” Danielle added, waving.

I waved at the girls as I walked to my bicycle and went home.  I was riding a little more slowly than usual.  I felt weighed down by my upcoming midterm, the anthro project, looking for a house, and my fear of being left behind now that people I knew were getting married.


I had most of the next day free.  After I finished my one class, I planned to stay on campus and get work done until around noon, eat lunch, then go find a place to watch the Olympic torch.  I walked into the Memorial Union after class and looked for a table.  I saw Sarah Winters, whom I knew both from the dorm last year and from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, sitting by herself at a table, reading, with a notebook and textbook open.  I walked to her table and asked, “May I sit here?”

“Yeah!” Sarah said.  “How are you?”

“I’m stressed,” I said.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve been trying to find a house for us next year, I’ve looked at a bunch of places, and I haven’t heard anything back yet.  And I have a big midterm for Math 145 tomorrow.  And I’m frustrated in general with Applied Linear Algebra, Math 167.  That class is a waste of time, and I’m not learning anything.”  Sarah began writing something as I continued speaking.  “And I just found out that someone I know, her boyfriend proposed.  I’ve never even had a girlfriend, and now I have friends who are getting married.”  As Sarah continued writing, I wondered if I was bothering her, if I should let her work on whatever she was doing.  “And I have this big project for Anthro 2 that I need to work on, and what I wanted to do hasn’t been working out so far.”  I stopped talking now, because Sarah was clearly busy with whatever she was working on.  I got out my combinatorics textbook and began looking over the section that would be covered on the test tomorrow.

“This is for you,” Sarah said, as she placed the paper she had been writing on top of my textbook. I read what she wrote:


“I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jeremiah 29:11

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.  In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your path straight.”
Proverbs 3:5-6


I looked up and saw Sarah looking at me with a peaceful, contented smile on her face.  “Thank you,” I said, attempting a smile in return.

“Everything’s gonna be just fine,” Sarah said.  “Really.”

“I know,” I said.  “But–”

“You’ll be okay.”

I took a deep breath.  “I’ll be okay.”

We sat there for the rest of the hour studying, occasionally making small talk.  “What are you doing the rest of the day?” Sarah asked at one point.

“I’m done with classes for the day.  But I’m gonna go see the torch.”

“Fun!  I can’t.  I’ll be in class during that time.”

I looked again at the note that Sarah wrote.  God had a plan for me.  My grades, my house for next year, my future wife, all of this was in God’s hands.  Trust God.  The second verse, from Proverbs, was a little bit familiar to me already, because there was a song we sang at Bible study sometimes based on that verse.  I had made a decision that I was living my life for Jesus, and now it was time to trust him to make this all work out somehow.  

Sarah left to go to class a bit later.  As I continued studying combinatorics, I really did begin to feel better about tomorrow’s midterm.  At noon, I got out the sandwich I had packed that morning, and when I finished that, I headed toward Fifth Street at the northern edge of campus.  Crowds waiting to see the torch were already beginning to line the street.  I found a spot next to an aged olive tree and leaned against the tree, waiting.  I had my backpack with me, so I continued studying combinatorics while I waited for the torch to arrive.

After I had been waiting for about forty minutes, I saw police cars approaching slowly, stopping drivers and pedestrians from entering or crossing Fifth Street.  This must be it.  Behind the police cars were a number of official vehicles with US and Olympic flags; a truck from Coca-Cola, the event’s sponsor; and finally someone wearing running shorts holding the Olympic torch.  I did not know if the torchbearer was someone famous or not.

I looked up at the torch in wonder.  That flame was ignited on the other side of the world and brought all the way here, continuously burning.  That felt kind of surreal.  This was a symbol of one of the biggest athletic events on Earth.  In two months, the world would be watching athletes from every inhabited continent competing for Olympic glory, and this same flame would burn over the shiny new stadium that Atlanta had just finished building for these Games.  People cheered at the moment that the torchbearer passed in front of them, and I joined in as he passed me.

A few minutes after the torch passed, when the entire entourage had moved beyond where I was standing, I turned around to go back to the Memorial Union, where my bicycle was parked.  “Excuse me?” a man asked me.  He had a fancy camera on a strap around his neck and a small Coca-Cola logo embroidered on his shirt on his chest to his left.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Can I get a picture of you holding this?”  The man handed me a full, unopened Coca-Cola plastic bottle.

I was confused.  “Why me?” I asked.

“No reason.  I’m just looking for people to photograph with Coke bottles, for our promotional materials.”

“Okay,” I said.  I smiled at the camera, holding the drink up, as he clicked the shutter a few times.

“Thank you!” the photographer said.  “You can keep the Coke.”

I walked back toward my bike as I drank my free Coca-Cola.  To this day, I never saw my picture in any Coca-Cola advertisements, so I do not know if they ever ended up doing anything with the picture.  But I got a free drink out of it.


When I got home that afternoon, I turned on the computer and connected to the campus Internet, listening to the whirs and clicks of the modem dialing the access number.  I opened a text terminal and connected to Internet Relay Chat, then entered the FriendlyChat channel using my usual screen name, “gjd76.”  About a minute after I joined, I copied and pasted the same message I copied and pasted every fifteen minutes while I was working on this: “I am working on a project for an anthropology class, making observations of the culture in this channel.  I will not use your actual names or actual screen names.”

“gjd76, u might not wanna tell us that, people might act different if they know ur studying them,” one person typed.

“true, but my professor says it’s unethical not to tell people they’re being studied,” I replied.

“Let me know if I can answer any questions for you,” one of the channel operators said.

“i will,” I typed back.  So far, this was going much better than yesterday; people were actually being helpful.

As I reached for my notebook in my backpack, I found the note that Sarah had written to me, with the Bible verses on it.  I read it again.  Plans to prosper you and not to harm youTrust in the Lord with all your heart.  Good advice.  I took two push pins and attached Sarah’s note to the bulletin board above my desk.  That way it could be a reminder for me while I was sitting here at the computer; I could look up and see those Scriptures.

I spent about an hour and a half in the FriendlyChat channel, and this time I was able to make much more meaningful observations and have more meaningful interactions with the people in the chat than I had yesterday.  If I had a few more days like this, I would have plenty of material to use to write my paper.  I also felt much better about my midterm for combinatorics, after having studied today.  I had still not heard from any of the houses I was looking for, but the more I thought about this, I decided I would talk to my roommates for next year and find out if they would be willing to look for an apartment instead.  They were fine with living in an apartment, and we did end up getting one, as I told before.  And while I was still discouraged with my own lack of romantic relationship in light of Andrea being engaged, the Lord had a plan for her that was not his plan for me, and I was not ready to begin thinking about marriage with anyone right now.  I was better off trusting in His timing.

I would learn later in life that the quote from Jeremiah is often derided as one of the Bible verses most frequently taken out of context.  Reading the chapters around it reveals that God declared those words to a specific group of people at a specific time, not to everyone reading them throughout all of history.  However, statements like that reveal the character of God, and although Jeremiah was not writing to me, the God who had a plan for his people thousands of years ago did also have a plan for me in 1996. The precise concept of “prosper” may not have involved material wealth in my case, but I just had to trust that God knew what was best for me.  Those two verses became ones that I have known from memory ever since.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, lean not on your own understanding,” I began singing under my breath.  I liked that song, the one I had heard at Bible study before.  I did not know any of this at the time, but the original vocalist of that song was the same age as me, and still a teenager when the song was recorded.  The guitarist, who actually wrote the song, was not much older.  The two of them and their band would go on to have a major pop hit a few years later, which would confuse me a little in a time when I tended to draw very strict lines between Christian and secular music.  But that is a story for another time.