Carry A Compass to Help You Along

Finally I saw that white Toyota heading for the highway.  Had I been able I would have done a cartwheel.  I had a lot of plans, and it was time to get to them.  The first mission was at hand.  I went back up to my dorm room  . . . and took a nap.  Scoff if you must, but napping is a big part of college, and major adjustment to the life of every freshman.  The first week or two you actually feel a great swell of guilt.  You have all these classes, and the workload is double anything you’ve ever known.  High school wasn’t half this hard, and you didn’t nap then.  How dare you actually squander a precious moment and all those dollars by lying down in the middle of the day and going back to sleep? 
Guess what - by week two, it’s easy.  You didn’t nap in high school because there wasn’t time.  That’s why you were supposed to go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep.  This was college!  Bedtimes were always negligible, as you learn very early on.  So the daily nap was essential.  And I got into that schedule almost immediately.

While lying there in our respective bunks there was a knock from the other side of our bathroom door.  The rooms in the men’s dorm were set up as suites.  Every two rooms shared a bathroom.  So the two guys on the other side of your bathroom were affectionately known as your “suite mates.”  A term I should add that Artemis refused to say.  He would simply mumble “the guys on the other side of our bathroom.” I got up and opened it and there stood this lanky, perpetually sleepy-eyed dude with dark hair and goatee. 

“Hey how’s it going?” he asked.  “My name’s Seth, I’m gonna be living over here.  Thought I should come over and introduce myself.”

We exchanged pleasantries, which at 18 was essentially “what’s up?” and “nothing, what’s up with you?”  Although Seth was a few years older. He'd worked as a mechanic for a couple years before deciding to give college a shot. Seth’s roommate Joe came over, who was a quiet soccer player from southern Illinois.  The kid literally never talked.  And always wore dark blue Adidas warm-up suits and a white Umbro tee shirt.  Soccer was clearly his life.  Seth and Joe had nothing in common, and no previous relationship.  They were very different guys, but actually got along just fine. The pairing just worked.  Even Seth, who was definitely the Penn to Joe’s Teller was still relatively quiet.  Always affable, but kept his cards close to the vest.  He did have an affinity for cigars and was often willing to share.  We’d take long walks off campus (smoking on campus was grounds for disciplinary action) to the Holiday Inn on the corner of the highway, and sit on a concrete wall puffing away in silence.  I would actually end up dating Seth’s sister Tabitha for about 16 hours. Dating is a relative term. She invited me to come back to her parents' place and watch movies one Saturday night with another fledgling couple. There may have been a little kissing and heavy petting. It wasn't anything salacious and it never went anywhere. Still, not sure if he ever knew that.

Seth was funny because, at least at the time, he didn’t subscribe to the whole “Baptist thing” the school was founded on.  His sister Tab and I were the same age and I guess when she decided to come to Judson (she was following the straight and narrow already) their parents persuaded Seth to go along.  As I'd mentioned, he hadn’t really tackled the college thing yet.  This was of course ironic given that he was extremely intelligent.  He struck me as cynical and unimpressed by the world and intellectuals.  And if intellectuals make your skin crawl, stay away from any Christian college campus.  (With the exception of Bob Jones.  I doubt you’ll find any intellectuals down there.)

I was trying to do the “religious thing” at the time, though I always wrestled with my own spirit, so it felt good to know I had a pragmatist living right on the other side of my toilet.  Plus, Seth had a funny little tick of his own that we found endlessly entertaining.  Every time you made any kind of point, regardless of its social relevance, he responded with “How about it?” 

No expression.  No vocal inflection to indicate how he actually felt.  Just a flat out question as a statement. 

“Seth, the United States and China will be at war soon.”

“How about it?” 

“Seth did you try that chicken in the cafeteria?  It was terrible.”

“How about it?”      

“Seth, I slept at your house this weekend and totally messed around with your sister.” I did.

“Hey, how about it?”

When I arrived at Euphegenia I very much had one foot in the world of faith and one in, well, the real world. The humanist world. The world of fleshly pursuits.  I knew that in a place like this, just as it was at my high school, the more outspoken and charismatic you were about Christianity and your faith, the more accepted you were by the majority.  A great deal of it had to do with simply walking around with a big dumb smile and bright bleary eyes like a Labrador.  In the world of the Evangelicals, bad days are not allowed.  In some sects, if you’re depressed it is a sign of weak faith.  It’s a very emotion based worldview.  And that was the part I always struggled with.  I’m Irish and Native American, two peoples prone to inexplicable sadness and power drinking; a few of my favorite things.  But I was determined, hard as it may be, to make a fresh start of things here at this new place.  I was going to be a happy little Christian and make lots of new friends because of it. 

It was a great plan, in principle.  Unfortunately, I have this issue when it comes to making friends.  I don’t like people.  That’s not actually true.  I do like people. I love having people around - some people. I’m just not a good schmoozer.  I can be painfully introverted. I don’t like walking up to people I don’t know and introducing myself. Part of it is a basic fear of rejection, and I'm sure some underlying childhood abandonment issues. Yet , honestly, I also equate a lot of it to my name. 
I hate my name, and really hate saying it. Even now at 40 I'm not a fan of it, but that's more because I'm sick of saying "no, not Mark, . . . as in Starr. Okay, as in Simpson." So imagine being 9 years old with a name that rhymes with fart, and you’ll understand.  I will use it as reference now when, but it is true the Simpsons hitting the air just as I was starting high school didn’t help, although I was big enough then that it kept most would-be funny guys from saying anything.

I’m going to let the parents of potential Christian college students in on something they won’t put in the brochures.  A huge percentage of the students are looking for something beyond a degree.  The girls are looking for what’s called their MRS degree.  The guys are looking for a girl that will touch their dick if they promise they won’t insert.  That first week of orientation, after moving in, figuring out your schedule, buying books, and learning the campus layout, is spent looking for the primary directive, a significant other.  In other words someone to hold hands with, make out with in the lobby, sit next to in Chapel and at dinner, and dry hump whenever a darkened corner becomes available. 

The majority of the kids at these colleges were raised with the same basic tenant about premarital sex; they’re not allowed to do it.  However the majority of that majority, despite what they’ll say publicly also believe another common myth . . . “premarital sex” is defined by one thing, a penis inside a vagina.  Everything else is at the very worst inappropriate, but can be easily prayed away after the fact.  In the dark corners and parked cars of Christian college campuses, there are hand jobs and blowjobs a plenty, there is fingering and rubbing galore.  And say this is just one man’s opinion all you want, moms and dads.  Denial, as the cliché goes ain’t just a river. 

My third day on campus, I grew a set and called a girl who was in one of my first orientation meetings.  Her name was Vickie.  She was cute, and had a great smile and laughed at every wise crack I’d made.  She needed a little help in the hair and makeup department, and dressed a little conservative, but with the right bad influence all this could be rectified.  I had a little plan.  Since I didn’t know if we had anything even remotely in common, I wasn’t going to offer to grab a meal or go to a movie or anything.  I didn’t want to even appear to be asking he rout on a date.  This was simply to be a pre-interview.  So I called her room and told her I was planning to head out that afternoon just to “explore the campus and figure out where my classes were and how far from the dorm, etc.”  I said before, this was a small school with a small campus.  It wasn’t like there was a real chance of being lost for days in the wilderness if you didn’t map out your routes ahead of time.  But she took the bait and actually said it was a good idea.  So we met up in the parking lot between our dorms with our respective class schedules. 

We covered the entire campus in less than an hour.  She told me about growing up in Iowa, and her church.  She told me her desires to be a teacher and youth leader, and more about her church.  I told her about my high school plays and how I was a Theatre major and wanted to be an actor.  She told me a little more about her church.  Halfway through our little Sunday stroll, I was ready to walk the other way.  She was sweet, really.  A great girl.  But not for me.  She was probably in that percentage that wouldn’t even allow heavy petting.  And there was nothing of substance there that would make me okay with not getting any.  So that was the first and last one-on-one time I’d spend with Vickie.               

In the Euphegenia yearbook for the ’93- ’94 school year, there is a picture of me that will always be on of my favorite pictures of myself.  A lot of people, especially men say they hate having their picture taken.  I don’t know if they’re telling the truth or not, but I am often one of those.  But in fact I don’t really mind at all.  What I hate is having a picture of my profile taken, or when I happen to be looking down causing my chins to squish like a toad.  I have a boxy meathead.  From my profile, it looks square.  If you catch me head on, and give me a second to suck my cheeks in slightly, then snap a shot, I don’t mind as much.  Yes, I admit it, I’m self-conscious. Guess what, so is everybody else walking this rock.  This particular picture of me is my favorite because the photographer caught me gazing off the side of a boat on the Chicago river at night, drink in hand, lost in thought.  Apparently he called to me first because I’m looking at the camera, body turned slightly, gut sucked in.  I just like it, and I remember telling the photographer that when he showed it to me later.  Days later kids.  In the old days we had this stuff called film.  Anyway, I was happy to see it in the yearbook many months later. 

As I look at it now though, I’m reminded how much fun I wasn’t having.  The first week of school, the student activities committee put together a number of events as mixers for Freshmen and new students.  That particular night they booked a boat cruise on the Chicago River which winds through some of the most amazing architecture in one of the most amazing cities in America.  This is actually the same tour that was in the news a few years back when one of Dave Matthews’ tour bus drivers decided to unload the bus shitter into the river.  This is illegal enough, but add to that he happened to unleash a tank of filth onto a tour boat down below, and you’ve got a full on disaster of environmental, Biblical, and just plain disgusting proportions. 

I love boats so for that alone I was excited to go on the trip.  And the thought of making some new friends that I’d be going to school with for the next 9 months didn’t hurt either.  We boarded on lower Wacker and most everyone mingled up on the top deck, trying to meet new people.  This picture of me that I like so much was taken on the lower deck, in a small alcove where within an hour or so I had retreated by myself.  I had talked to a few people upstairs, but within a few minutes of each conversation, I knew I had nothing in common with the people I was meeting.  And a number of them made it clear they were less interested in me than I was in them.

There weren’t any girls on the little Love Boat I felt even remotely attracted to.  I mean, Vickie was there with some of her friends, so I quickly said hello then avoided that gaggle like the plague the rest of the night.  Instead I chose to wander the boat and take in the city at night with a few non-alcoholic beverages.  Remember how I mentioned that smoking was a punishable offence if committed on campus?  Well drinking was grounds for full-on excommunication, and it didn’t matter where.  If a student was even witnessed imbibing fermented beverages anywhere on planet Earth (and probably any other planet in our solar system) they were out on their ass. Can you believe we agreed to this? I will say if you think that's bad, Euphegnia was actually a progressive Christian college. I had a friend who attended a school that made them sign a contract swearing they wouldn't go to movie theaters! 
Anyway, in this particular pic, I’m wearing a loose Henley with the collar open and my hair is relatively long and shaggy.  I look, in my mind like a gentleman pirate of the Caribbean, but sadly there’s no rum in that plastic cup.  Sigh.  Ron Bacardi would have been welcome company that evening, but sadly his presence was verboten. And the captain of that ship was not named Morgan!

Stacy was on board, or aboard (I'm not very nautical) but he wasn’t much company either.  He was spending a lot of time hovering over a little collective of freshman girls.  In fact, on the same page of the yearbook as my favorite pic is a shot of a trio of incoming young females, two of which look quite studious and the third is just fucking cute. There pressed in among them, trying to be amusing stands Stacy.  I remember him being latched on to this group most of the night.  To no avail it would turn out, but he tried, in his own “Eric Stratton, Rush Chairman, damn glad to meet you” fashion.  Although I have to admit there was one particular girl on that cruise I was very interested in, and he’d introduced us.  Although she looked at me, sadly, like a snow blower on the shelf of a Sears scratch and dent sale. 

Kathy was a senior at Judson, and in fact was only there one more semester.  She was graduating in December.  She was beautiful.  Not like an actress or a model, necessarily, but real world beauty.  Soft brunette hair, and these large shining eyes that could convince you to commit a crime.  She was the woman you wanted to have children with.  The kind who was beautiful at 20 and would be beautiful at 50 and 60 and beyond.  I recently came across her on Facebook, and I was right.  I don’t remember if she was actually a Theatre major, in fact I’m pretty sure she wasn’t.  But she had some connection.  After graduation she packed her shit and headed west for the land called Hollywood.  She actually found some behind the scenes work.  She’s even listed in the credits of a hugely successful Michael Bay/Nick Cage flick. 

I wouldn’t say I was attracted to her.  I wouldn’t have known what to do with her.  She was a woman.  I, still very much a boy, dealing in the world of girls.  I was just in awe of her.  To me, she was one of the seven wonders. But even if she had taken any notice of me, she was off-limits. Stace had told me about her.  He had actually had a couple dates with her, and, at least according to him she had actually come on to him.  According to him she didn’t want to get too serious since she was leaving so he resisted her advances. He wanted love. She wasn't interested. Such chaste Baptist bullshit – I am relatively certain a gay man would have had trouble resisting her! 
Still, his rejection prematurely ended their dating career.  In retrospect, I don’t know what to believe.  What I do know is that, when I was 18, I was an idiot.  One day I was hanging around Volkmann Hall where Kathy was living that semester and bumped into her.  She needed help moving some stuff out of her car.  I was already lonely and just happy to see a friendly face so I happily helped.  As we walked and talked, for some stupid fucking reason, I thought I saw an opportunity to help a friend.  Stacy’s name came up, and I said to her, as if scripted in a movie, “he really likes you, you know?” 

In my mind I pictured that after I said that, she'd realize what a great guy Stacy was and they'd reconnect for a second shot at love.  Happily ever after, right?  Boy was I wrong!  Holy shit.  No good deed goes unpunished.  She just sort of laughed it off at the time.  But the next day I got the call from Stacy.  Actually, not even the call.  He asked me to go to the mall or something with him and confronted me right in the car.  That was one thing about Stacy, he didn’t mind handling some uncomfortable situations face-to-face.  He would set up some other reason to get together, but there was an agenda. It hasn't changed, by the way. He didn’t yell or scream.  That wasn’t his way.  But he did dress me down for saying anything and made it clear there and then, his love life, despite how close our bond, was none of my business.

I tried to explain my whole love story angle.  I told him I was just trying to help.  I’d heard on more than one occasion how much he liked her and was attracted to her and wished she reciprocate his true feelings. I thought I sensed a chink in her armor and went for it.  In my mind she'd confess her love for him before boarding that plane to Los Angeles. None of it mattered.  In his mind I’d made him look foolish.  That’s something else about Stacy.  He was always willing to look silly to make people laugh.  Specifically to make girls laugh.  But no one else was ever allowed to make him look bad, even if it was only his perception.  I suppose it’s safe to say he had a highly developed defense mechanism.  Perhaps a little over-developed.  But still, I get it. 
She didn’t feel the same way about him, even though she suspected his affections.  Whatever it was, I understand my trying to help caused awkwardness between them.  As far as I know, they didn’t have any more dates after that. 

However Stacy did fly out to visit Kathy about a year later in Los Angeles and stayed at her place.  She was working as an accountant for some division of Disney.  Go figure, he already had a connection to the mouse and had no use for it. She got Stacy into a screening.  Showed him around Hollywood.  According to him, they even shared a late night moment where he was certain he could have kissed her.  But he also told a story of being alone at her house one night while Kathy was on a date.  Huh?  Apparently there was a knock on the screen door and it was Robby Benson dropping off a script or something.  Given the timeline, I’m guessing it was either for the Beauty and the Beast direct to video sequel, Belle’s Enchanted Christmas, or an episode of Sabrina the Teenage Witch!  While he’d sneer and turn up his nose in disgust if you ever suggested working on such infantile projects to Stacy , I guarantee he was chartreuse with envy!  I would be!  Then again, I watch the Disney Channel whether the kids are home nor not! 

I believe Stacy went out there a couple more times and hung out with her, tried to meet some of her industry friends, etc.  Last time her name came up, he told me he had lost touch with her.  Curiously he had lost touch with her shortly after she'd married, become a mommy, and no longer had those Hollywood connections.  What I didn’t realize back then that I do now is Stacy was very shrewd. Every relationship was calculated.  He was a good friend and a sincere friend in many ways, but he also collected people, like tools in a toolbox.  It was why he was such a schmoozer and got so good at being outgoing in every situation.  When you thought he was just getting to know you, he was really sizing you up; determining what you were worth.  He was trying to determine what you might be able to provide for him, either immediately or down the road.  In retrospect, I wonder what was in his dossier on me. That hasn't changed either.