Tangible feelings of rushing the second semester culminated on a Spring afternoon when I realized I would be moving back in with my parents for the summer. In a race to finals, to have friends, to find a groove, the year had almost passed me by. It was one thing to rush followed by another.
There were, of course, the vomit soaked days of pledging a fraternity and the ashtray lungs from all the smoke breaks during screenwriting classes. There were so many ghostly walks home across campus wondering who to call on my cell. Would it be weirder to call someone I don’t know that well or to call someone from home that I rarely speak to. Hard to know who’d want to talk to me less.
The year felt like a crumpled up spider web. If I could manage to spread it out again, there would be intricate memories. There’d be more to remember. Chasing older girls and learning that there was really never a bad time to have a drink. Falling off the high school high horse was almost liberating.
But on this Spring afternoon, there was a strange sense of place. I had remade myself in the image of the exact person who would have scared me in high school. A bear of a man-child experimenting with facial hair and cutting alarm wires to sneak onto helicopter pads high atop university buildings. The delicious transition from voice of reason to wild, wind-aided screaming from rooftops.
The weather on 28th Street is perfect. My skin is peeling from an afternoon sleeping outdoors and the only things that I feel like wearing are boat shoes and shorts and a slightly metrosexual button up shirt I bought on Regent Street in London over Spring Break. I feel like Jude Law in Talented Mr. Ripley before he takes a boat oar to the face and just as full of shit.
I walk to a nearby sorority where some friends are sitting out smoking and drinking beers on the concrete fence watching the parade of good looking people. Someone comments that I am starting to dress very preppy. I tell him that after some 7 years of pretending to be a skater, I think it’s time I pretend to be classy.
Somehow, don’t think I’m fooling anyone.