It’s very still out right now. For a town that swells to some ridiculous factor of its base population everyday, it’s uncommonly still. I’m sitting in between Scott Hall and, well Scott Hall. I have a much deserved reputation for being nostalgic, and it seems to be something I just can’t help.
I’m sitting here in 2009, but a big part of me is somewhen between now and 2002. It may sound a bit melodramatic, but really, I’m not totally here. I’m everywhere I’ve been in the past seven years.
I’m in a room that feels more welcoming than my own, making Ramen in the microwave and laughing with two young men who appear so different from me, no one could have guessed we would be sitting here together. As we banter, the snow silently falls outside. We’re going to play football in that very snow a few days from now, but not until I get five stitches in my hand from being careless opening a package. Even after the tetanus shot leaves my arm throbbing, I’ll take a few hits in it as I lob the ball down the field. I have no idea that I won’t be doing this a year from now.
I’m walking down a winding road around a lake. It’s late and dark. The guys walking with me I’ve known years longer than the football players, but I still long to be back there. Three months from now I’ll be sitting in a bus station in Newark, wondering where to go, but for now I’m walking through the cool air that marks the beginning of autumn. We don’t do much, but we have great stories afterwards.
I’m at a party. It’s one of many I’ll go to or host in the next three years. I have more fun than I have in a very long time, and I drink with an old friend and a new one. The old one tells me he’s glad he came, while the new one tells me he has the easiest phone number to remember, and forgets what it is as he tries to tell me through a bottle of Southern Comfort. I have no idea that the best friend I ever had will die six months from now as I drink at yet another party. I haven’t seen him in four years.
I’m talking to a girl with black hair. She laughs and tells me I’m charming and dangerous. She has no idea that it’s all a front, and I have no idea that in two weeks I’ll break her heart. She won’t understand the last time I had mine broken, but it won’t matter. I can feel her hot, sweet breath on my face and while I know this feeling isn’t love, it’s a closeness I haven’t felt in a long time. I’ll carry the guilt and wonder of what could have been with me for the next few years.
I’m driving now, finally in my own car. In the little time I’ve had it I’ve taken it to where Stonewall stood and the capital of my childhood home. I’ve driven to what I consider home from afar, but repeated trips make me realize no matter how hard I try, I’m simply a visitor there. I wonder where my real home is now, as the town on the banks waits for me. I drive through the night, alone as usual, wondering where I’ll be when the sun comes up.
I’m in my sixth home in four years. I live with two strangers, and while one I’ll never see again, the other will become a trusted friend. I’ve been coming home to a room filled with things, but devoid of presence for several months now. I wonder why the loneliness hurts, since it’s what I’ve wanted. In a month I’ll be debating whether to meet up with a friend, and almost miss a meeting that will change my life. Years later I’ll be glad that I didn’t let my insecurities rule me for once.
I’m in and Italian restaurant with a brown eyed girl who captivates me. Our fire has burned hot, and I sadly wonder for a moment how long it will last, hoping it won’t end. She laughs and teases me about my beard. I break off a piece of bread and touch her hand, hoping that this will be different from the last few years. I’m still haunted that I never said goodbye to my best friend.
I sit in an apartment that leaks heat on a cold December night. I would usually have complained, but I sit between a false conifer with a feline under it and the brown eyed girl. I’ve learned that our flame doesn’t burn fast, instead it burns strong. She hands me a mug of homemade cider that warms my belly as we wait for friends who live a pond away to arrive.
I’m sitting on a bench between two buildings with the same name. Or one continuous building, if you’re walking through the top. I think about my past and wonder if it would be too much to liken my journey to the building. From one perspective, a different man in each era, but from another, the same man in different times. I think about the people that have touched my journey and mourn my mistakes. I get up and go to class, counting the minutes until I leave to see the brown eyed girl. I have no idea what the next months will bring.
Five months from now, the decade that has changed me will be over, giving itself over to the new one. I haven’t a clue what stories will come out of it, what I’ll lose or what I’ll gain. I suppose that’s the point; the not knowing. I’ve learned not to live in my past, but I’ve also learned not to shun it. I’m not yet perfect, but my journey is far from over. Tomorrow I will wake up and everything will be…well, tomorrow.
