Don't Go Back to Rockville

My application was submitted.  It was just a waiting game.  I immersed myself in my final play at Highland.  We were doing The Miracle Worker.  I was playing Helen Keller’s father, Captain Arthur Keller.  It was a little cliché, but the shows went great and it truly felt like our best production.  It was certainly my best performance.  He was kind of an angry guy anyway so I didn’t have to temper myself too much.  I was also struggling to get my grades up enough to graduate.  I almost had to drop out of that play as well due to real danger of ineligibility.  Plus I was working every night after school as a grocery bagger. 

There was so much going on I was completely caught off guard one night when the phone rang.  I was in my room on a rare night that I wasn’t bagging groceries and my parents called out that it was for me. 

“Hey Bart,” said a chipper voice, “Ben Timm from Euphegenia College here.”

Who?  Oh yeah.  “Hey there,” I said. 

“I had to call and say congratulations,” he said. 

“Right on.”  I thought for a moment.  “For what?” 

“You’re ACT score man,” he said.  And while I don’t have a transcript I’m willing to bet he did in fact say man.  That was his way. 

“Really?” I asked.  “What was it?” 

“You don’t know yet?” he laughed. 

“No, I haven’t heard anything,” I answered.  I’d almost forgotten I’d even taken the stupid thing.

“You got a 24,” he said excitedly!  “You nailed it!  Congratulations!  You’re in!” 

Nobody was more shocked by how well I’d done than me.  I don’t know the current National Average, but I’d beaten most of the country in 1993.  I’d even beaten the school’s required score.  I’d actually scored above average on a test.  It was unimaginable!  There were honor students in my graduating class who took the ACT three times to get a 24.  And they spent a pretty penny preparing too!  My prayers (or my artwork) worked!  On top of that, I’d been accepted to the school. 

Whatever monologue I did for Lane must have been decent because I’d been accepted to the program and was even receiving a Theater Arts scholarship.  It wasn’t much.  The arts had no budget at that school (there were those who’d say they had no place either!)  In one phone call I’d gone from n’er-do-well who stood a real chance of working at Pick & Save the rest of his life to a college bound freshman with the world at his fingertips.  You could have said things were looking up for this promising young man.  You could have said it, anyway.       

    Somehow word got out that I, the rebel slacker extraordinaire had not only slam dunked the ACT, but had been excepted to a Christian college and offered a scholarship on top of financial aid.  Even Mr. StankHo (now I’m just getting ridiculous) the “guidance” counselor was shocked.  He’d sat me down in his office a few weeks prior and told me I was best suited to be a bus driver.  This is insulting to bus drivers (it is a noble profession.)  This tubby, pompous ass who was probably making $28,000 a year if he was lucky and could even collect his paycheck (many weeks the teachers were told they had to wait for their pay) was using said profession as an insult.  It was really an eye opening experience.  Our Principal choked then made some snide, brow-rise of surprise when he had to announce my scholarship during the graduation ceremony.  What a dick!  Shouldn’t an educator be celebratory when a troubled student finally does well?  Take note:  if you’re looking for support and encouragement, don’t look to Christian administration. 

A few months prior to graduation, I was sitting at the lunch table one day with my usual group of misfit toys.  One guy I’d grown particularly friendly with was a fellow percussionist in the school band named Artemis Shields.  He was a skinny black kid who worked in a grocery store like me, but those were our only similarities.  Artemis and I had an identical class schedule, and within a short time just realized we each thought the other was funny.  We cracked each other up.  He was funny without even trying.  I would laugh at everything he did.  Sometimes when he wasn’t doing anything but staring at someone.  I could read his mind.  He found everyone and everything to be stupid or incomprehensible, and his expressions would cause me to hyperventilate with laughter. 

I know it was tough for the handful of black kids in our school to fit in.  Most of them went out of their way not to fit in, but rather to stand out.  These were burgeoning days for hip hop culture.  There was this strange energy in pop culture as M.C. Hammer exploded onto the scene as the smiling rapper in baggy pants, doing cartoons and Taco Bell ads.  And lest we forget, this was the age of New Kids on the Block and Vanilla Ice.  Yet, it was gave rise to “gangsta rap” with groups like N.W.A., Ghetto Boys, and Ice-T scaring white folks all over the country.  Ice-T  may be a silly television star now, but back then he took it to a new limit with his rap/metal group Body Count and their single “Cop Killer.”  Popular fashion closely watched and mimicked what was happening in music and movies.  Labels like Cross Colors, FUBU, and Karl Kani were in every mall display you passed. 

Artemis was the one black student I knew who didn’t adhere to these trends.  And that’s not to say that only black kids were adopting the baggy denims and orange and green accessories.  I think what bonded Artemis and I was we both found white kids acting black to be nauseating.  We’d often go to the mall and make fun of these kids.  Well, the ones who didn’t look like they actually could kick the shit out of us.  After all, some of these white kids were going out of their way to earn street cred with real gangstas!  And our little Christian Keebler tree was not exempt.  My buddy Jay mentioned earlier got himself involved in gang culture.  He somehow became the wheel man for a couple class mates who decided they’d dip their toes into the drug trade.  The next day I remember them coming back to school, and Jay had that look on his face of someone whose life had taken a strange turn.   For Jay, it was having a Tech-9 fired at his car as they sped away from a drug buy gone sour. 

The black kid who had been involved was a friend of Artemis.  The other white kid was another friend of mine.  Together we shook our respective heads at the lot of them.  They had asked us both if we’d wanted to be involved and we’d both said hell no.  I think that too was a bonding for us.  Strangely enough, while we were relatively inseparable by day, except when he went to basketball practice and I went to rehearsal, we never hung out socially.  He wasn’t allowed.  Artemis had a very strict, no bullshit mother and she expected him to be at one of only three places at any given time; school, home, or church.  Church for the Shields family was, and I quote, Jesus’ Soul Saving Traveling Mission.  I couldn’t make that name up.  For the record, I don’t believe they actually ever travelled anywhere, which does make it a somewhat enigmatic name.   

Artemis wasn’t even allowed to go on band tours with the school band.  His mother would not allow it.  Partially due to her strict, albeit unreasonable religious beliefs but I think also because she relied on him quite a bit.  Artemis was the oldest of 8 kids.  His father worked nights at the Post Office so he slept during the day.  Plus I knew some of his younger siblings.  They were a handful to put it mildly.  Artemis minded his mother.  She was a good woman though misguided who meant the best.  I once called to speak with him when he was at work and ended up trapped in a two hour phone conversation with Mother Shields.  I may have spoken five whole sentences.  I do recall her expressing concern for her children, especially a couple of the middle ones.  His younger brother and sister both had a penchant for wild behavior.  By Senior year Artemis definitely needed a break from his family.  We were sitting at the lunch table and out of the blue he started quizzing me about this college I was going to.  I can’t tell you exactly how it happened, but by the time we put on caps and gowns, Artemis had been accepted to Euphegenia and I had my roommate.  

We walked across the stage and picked up our diplomas (and we both snuck a quick glance to make sure the diploma was actually signed.)  That night, Stacy slept over and before the sun was up we piled into the car.  Dad, my stepmother, Stacy, and I were taking a road trip as my graduation present.  I should explain that when I was 15, I watched the television movie Elvis & Me.  Clearly I’ve never been good at receiving intended messages, as while that movie was meant to show Elvis as a bad person and shitty husband, all I saw was an amazing performer and icon.  While I’d never taken much interest in Elvis before, I became obsessed with the King.  That was why when asked what I wanted to do for graduation, I immediately said “Memphis!”  We drove all the way to Memphis and camped beside the Mississippi, which made it more of an adventure.  Somewhere I have picture of Stacy and I standing on the banks of the Mississippi the night we arrived.  I was taken with the history and the ghosts that surround that river. 

I spent the rest of the summer at home, working at Pick & Save and preparing for the major transition coming in August.  Well, preparing is a lie.  I’m famous for procrastination.  I’ve elevated putting things off to an art form.  Even now as a grown man with a family, I don’t pack until the night before we’re set to leave.  Thank God I have a wife!  Back then, I didn’t know what to take, what I needed, etc.  And I couldn’t give less of a shit.  All I knew was I was getting out of Dodge.  I’ve always sort of adhered to a philosophy that everything I need to live would fit in a backpack.  When the time finally came to leave, I packed like a Tasmanian Devil.

I threw every article of clothing I owned in a suitcase.  I collected a handful of personal items in a small Rubbermaid container, which was a couple CD’s and tapes, a stereo, every loose pen and pencil found lying around, and a framed photo of Humphrey Bogart.  My parents informed me this wasn’t a hotel and that I actually had to take bedding, toothpaste, soap, etc.  Fortunately they had been collecting a few basics and put them together in another Rubbermaid for me.  Their “care package” included laundry soap, toiletries, coffee, a coffeemaker (can’t believe I almost forgot one of those), Cocoa Puffs, plastic dishes, and a few boxes of granola bars and other snacks.  My folks also told me that, even though part of my financial aid was a work study program meaning I’d be working on campus, they didn’t want me to worry about money.  They said they’d send me $100 a month for walking around money.  That may not seem like much, but to any college kid having $100 bucks is Trump money! 

I was ecstatic and extremely grateful for their promise.  Finally “Move In” Friday came and we packed up the parents’ Toyota Corolla for the two & a half hour drive.  They were only dropping me off, as far as I knew.  Freshmen were discouraged from bringing cars to school due to limited parking.  And if they did bring one, underclassmen were required to park in a lot so far away it was practically in Wisconsin.  Hell, it was practically Long Island.  From Wentling Hall, the men’s dorm you could walk to where ever you needed to go faster than you could get to your damn car!  It didn’t matter that I wasn’t going to have wheels because Artemis was bringing his car.  It was a maroon shitbox of indeterminate make and model.  The most identifiable characteristic I can remember about the thing is that it was rectangular.  And the holes in the floor offered additional ventilation as well as a high-definition view of the asphalt below.  What mattered is, it ran.  More or less.

I remember quite vividly pulling up to the dorm on a beautiful, sunny day.  It was hot as hell and the rooms didn’t have air conditioning.  Unless you had allergies, in which case you were allowed to have a window unit.  But I had also brought a box fan.  Artemis was already somewhere on campus when I got to our room.  I passed his mother in the hallway and quickly pawned her off on my folks.  I figured that would keep them occupied till Thanksgiving.  I remember walking into our room for the first time.  It was an off-white shoebox, bunk beds to the left and two desks side by side in a little alcove to the far right.  That would be changing soon.  Artemis wasn’t in the room, but as I was preoccupied throwing my clothes into my three wide drawers in the double dresser, I heard a slap on the wall behind me. 

“Hey yah,” Artemis called out, standing in the doorway!

“What’s up man?” I said, spinning around.  He had a grin from ear to ear.  I knew he was feeling an elation he’d never known.  His family had already piled into their van and was headed for the highway.  I never even met Mr. Shields.  I finished putting shit away and began to scour my orientation schedule to figure out what needed to be done first.  Artemis climbed into the top bunk.  First order of business was a nap.  He was officially a free man.   

I was not so fortunate.  My folks were staying all weekend.  There were parent orientations and mixers, as well as information sessions for parents and students to attend together.  I was appreciated all they’d done, and for driving me down, helping me unpack, etc. but I wanted them to get the fuck out!  I wanted to get out start tasting this new life.  They weren’t necessarily up my ass, in fact they were pretty good about letting me do my own thing, meet people, be off on my own, etc.  But my sense of misguided duty made me feel guilty if I wasn’t keeping them company. 

Finally Sunday morning came (yes, they stayed the whole weekend) and we said our goodbyes.  I wish I could tell you I had tears in my eyes, but I was way too excited.  They got in the car and I waved goodbye, telling them I’d see them in a little over a month.  I’d promised Mr. C I’d be back for the fall play.  Figured that would be a good occasion for my first trip back home, after I finally got the swing of things at school.  I came to notice that a lot of freshman started going home as early as the second week of school.  Some even went home every weekend because they lived close enough.  It seemed like a pattern that most of those people disappeared second semester.  You can’t get over homesickness if you don’t stay gone long enough to miss home in the first place.