Part 1.3

We arrive at Jeff's later than most. A pile of shoes block the door and we force our way in, adding our own footwear to the mountainous obstacle.

It appears I do know Jeff, or at least met him in passing. I had, as has become expected, forgotten his name immediately after we shook hands.

A large group of people have congregated in his room, sitting two asses to a chair, crowding atop his mattress, standing awkwardly in corners. She and I sit up against the wall near his door.

I take my position as silent observer, speaking only when spoken to. This is a role I do not mind playing, one I used to reprise frequently at social events I was dragged to by my high-school-days lady friend.

"You don't have to stay here with me if you want to socialize, you know," I say to her. "I'm a big boy."

"Believe me," she says with a smile. "If I wanted to be out there I would be. I will be. But sitting here with you right now is just fine with me."

"Okay."

Across the room, a lanky, long haired boy eagerly stuffs weed into a bowl and begins passing it around. When it gets around to us she dutifully declines but waves it my way.

I take it and, well... when in Rome.

Soon, a young man by the name of Brett, the other lead in tonight's canceled performance, makes his way to the center of the room with a clip board. He is probably under the influence of something or another, taking frequent pauses in his speech to stretch his eyelids and cock his head to the left. Jeff stands with him, and another long haired, this time bearded, fellow sits in a folding chair nearby.

"If we could just take a moment," Brett is saying, "to talk seriously to you all about something we've all been thinking about."

"Yes," says Jeff.

"Because we are all very serious about what we are here to discuss."

"Yes."

Pause. Eyebrows raise, head ticks to the left, and we continue.

"There are five of us, myself, Jeff, Billy," he motions to the beard in the folding chair, "and two others thinking about moving into a house--"

"A commune," adds Billy.

"Yes, sure, a commune of sorts, this summer. Through next year. We are looking for people--"

"Artists," adds Billy.

"Yes, sure. Yes. Artists of all different walks and fields--"

"Painters, sculptors, photographers, actors, writers--" adds Billy.

"Yes--"

"We are looking," says Jeff. "To start a revolution that will bring students and young artists to the forefront of the Minneapolis art community. We are looking for people interested in and serious about this goal who would maybe like to come live in or work with this house to mold a studio space, rehearsal place, and gallery space to get this ball rolling."

"Yes," says Brett.

"Right," says Billy.

"Cool!" someone chimes from the crowded mattress.

Spatters of applause.

People begin to talk excitedly about the prospect. Jeff and Brett explain a little more, but I tune out.

She looks at me. "I could never do that."

"Me neither."

"Yeah, fuck it."

"Yeah."

She smiles. "It's kinda cool though."

"Yeah, I just could never operate that way."

"Me neither."

"Kinda cool though."

"Yeah."

She rests her head on my shoulder. "Welcome to my world."

I laugh. What's funny is as I look around the room I can easily attribute names to all these faces I see that match up with friends I have back in Chicago.

It's interesting to see all these people in the same room. Back home I run into everyone in smaller pockets at various gatherings. It's strange comparing the artsy community here to the one back home.

It's also strange that I refer to Chicago as home now. But that's fine with me. Just strange that the change has become so definite in the last year.

But a real niche has arisen from the traditional college experience at the U of M so much more concrete than what has come out of art school. There's a greater urgency here. A need to define oneself as an artist. Whereas, at Columbia, it's something always apparent and easily taken for granted.

I don't know which I prefer.

Brett approaches the two of us and crouches next to her. "I feel like we should do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Create something."

"Okay."

"Okay..." He looks around. "Any ideas?"

"Nope."

"Okay..." He stands up and spreads his arms. "Hey, uuuh... people? We should like... do something."

"Yeah!" someone shouts.

A large mass of people arise and rush out to the living room.

She looks at me and smiles. "Welcome."

Time passes, she's talking to a rotund queen about why he hated her play and he's blushing and laughing and trying to convince her he didn't hate it.

I get up and wander out to the living room, curious about the laughter that has begun to drift down the hall.

I'm feeling pretty okay still and as I squeeze through the crowd another bowl is thrust my way.

Cheers.

Part 1.2

We sit inside a classy hipster café called the Wilde Roast. I drink a small coffee; she eats a large salad and talks about the background music. I don’t say much.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re being really quiet.”

“Sorry.”

We sit in silence for a few moments.

“I’m excited for the play tonight,” I say.

“I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I’ll like it.”

”I hope so.”

I catch her eyeing the desserts and smile. “Still hungry?”

“Oh God,” she drops her fork on her empty plate. “That shit looks so good.”

I stand up and offer to buy her something.

“No no no no no,” she stands. “I’ll get it myself.”

“No, come on, I said I would buy you dinner and you didn’t let me.”

“When did you say that?”

“A while ago.”

“Stop it.”

“I did! When I bought the bus tickets. Whatever, doesn’t matter, let me get this.”

She sits down. “Stupid.”

I buy her a large, fruity dessert in a big coffee cup after she begrudgingly points it out. She makes me try a bite. It’s pretty awful. She grimaces after tasting it, but finishes it quickly.

“That was gross,” she says outside.

“So gross.”

“I ate the whole thing.”

“You sure did.”

We hop on a bus that takes us onto campus and we walk toward the theatre building. It’s dark outside, and quiet. A few people are walking about, but mostly it’s quiet. She sees some people she knows and yells at them waving. They yell back and we keep moving.

Visiting friends that go to real college always makes me a little sad. Nostalgic for the classic college experience I’ll never really have.

It’s cold and wet outside. My choice of footwear for this visit was less than exemplary, and crocs squeak and squish around as we walk. I’ve rolled my pant legs up to my knees to prevent them for getting anymore soaked.

A walking sight-gag, we tromp through campus. Me, a giant in my size-too-small suit jacket and homemade man-pries, and her, less than half my size in her six-sizes-too-big acrylic fur hat and huge, hipster Ray band spectacles.

We arrive at the theatre building, a giant concrete building three stories tall housing at least 8 different theatres. Around every corner she’s introducing me to people whose names I’ve forgotten before they’re even mentioned.

We plow our way through pockets of peers until we arrive at the Ready Room, a brightly lit room with walls made of mirrors and row upon row of hot yellow lights. I am introduced to Maddy Riley, her newfound identical twin soul mate. The two hop around and giggle at some newfound revelation about another thing that makes them hopelessly the same.

I shake hands with a few more people and she pats me on the head and moves to the changing room to get into costume. I step outside to get some fresh air and sneak a cigarette.

When I return someone I may or may not have met earlier tells me she is looking for me. I peak my head into the Ready Room and she is sitting at a mirror putting on her makeup.

“Someone’s not here yet,” she says. Call was a half hour ago.

“Uh oh,” I say.

“Yeah, what the fuck.” She drops her make up and looks at me.

“I swear to God,” says Addie, a large, loud, tech girl with bad teeth and big hair. “If she walks through that door within the next two minutes I will be genuinely glad to see her for once.”

“That’s mean,” she says.

“I’m serious,” says Addie. “I will, for once, be happy to see her.”

“That’s still a mean thing to say.”

I sit down next to her. “Everything’ll be cool. The show doesn’t start for another half hour. I’ll go get my seat and see you after the show.”

“Okay.”

We hug.

“Good luck. But not good luck. But good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I go upstairs to the theatre and get my ticket. The seats are tiny and I have to bunch my knees up to my chin. I pass the time by reading the program over and over. I want to check the time, but my phone is still lost and I don’t feel like asking a neighbor.

Soon, a man walks out onto the stage holding a clip board which he reads from.

“Ladies and gentleman, we apologize for the delay. Due to an unfortunate accident, a cast member has not shown up for the performance and we are unable to go forward with tonight’s show. If you would like to wait five minutes we will have the box office open and ready to offer any ticket exchanges or refunds on your way out. We apologize again for the inconvenience.”

Oh no.

I go back to the Ready Room. She’s not there, but Joe, an older student with a big beard and silly hat tells me she’ll be down shortly. I ask if they’ve heard anything from the missing cast member, and he tells me they still have no idea where she is.

I sit down and wait.

She comes through the door, her hair braided into cute pig-tails and make-up smeared around her eyes. She is crying and walks slowly toward me with her head down.

“I’m sorry…”

“Why?”

“You came all this way to see the show…”

“It’s okay.” I pull her into me for a hug and she sniffles.

“This is stupid.”

I don’t say anything.

“I’m really sorry…”

“Not your fault.”

She pulls away from the hug and wipes her eyes.

“Okay, I’m over it.” She smiles. “Let me go change.”

She does. When she returns she sits down next to me.

“Now what?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I think we’re just waiting to see if we hear anything.”

We walk upstairs and sit on a big puffy bench.

“I hope she’s not dead,” she says.

“Me too.”

The next hour is spent wandering around the theatre building, pockets of kids standing around speculating about what happened. She tells the story over and over about how I came all the way from Chicago to see this show, and people express a polite amount of sympathy then continue on with their conversations.

Soon the stage manager gets a call. The actress is fine, she collapsed in her room and just woke up. She’s on her way to the hospital now.

Quickly, the mood changes. Relief spreads through the room. People begin talking about a meeting/party at Jeff’s house.

I don’t know who Jeff is, but it looks like we’re going to his party.

“But I don’t’ want you to get bored,” she says.

“I’m not gonna get bored.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m doing whatever you’re doing, kiddo.”

“Okay. Let’s go have some fun, I guess.”

“Okay.”

Part 1.1

Rock Band has destroyed me. A game I have readily avoided due to the sheer cost of owning it alone.

I love it now, I think. It has done what all twelve Mario Party games have only dreamt of doing and developed a game that doesn’t bore the fuck out of people after the first half hour.

We have been playing for what could easily be an hour, waiting for her to arrive.

She’s been is classes all morning. I, in the interest of saving quite a bit of money, took the overnight bus to Minneapolis and arrived at 6:30 am. A long time Rochester-era friend of mine found and rescued me from the bowels of the unfamiliar city. To protect his identity I search for a humorous nickname but am too tired. His name is Danny Eckberg. Google it.

After breakfast and a bit of a stroll we arrive at his place and rest. Upon awaking, my introduction to Rock Band begins.

Also, I lost my phone. So that sucks.

Danny’s phone, serving as my surrogate means of communication, rings. He tosses it to me, I answer.

She’s lost. I look to Danny for directions, but he throws only a compass rose my way, and being unfamiliar with the immediate location I struggle to use it in a constructive way. Eventually I just run outside to see if I can spot her roaming the streets.

Sure enough, here she comes. Walking at a painfully slow pace, donning her new acrylic fur hat, she comes.

I am excited to see her, of course. Over the past year and a half she and I have become increasingly fast friends, and life in Chicago has grown mind-meltingly stressful. To get away is, in a word, a treat.

It is also important to mention here, though there may be no need already, I harbor a great deal of affection for her. This is a more recent development than some of my close friends are willing to believe, but I insist that these feelings have only begun to manifest themselves in the last few months of our friendship.

That said, however, it may also be important to note that I haven’t had a crush on anybody, let alone a legitimate relationship, since the disastrous high school break-up of ’06. I am, suffice it to say, out of practice.

But if there is one thing the Windy City has taught me, it’s ‘look like an ass as infrequently as possible.’ So my dorky, pimply, angsty teenage self that has been resurrected along with these feelings stays quietly inside me for the most part and I remain cordial and socially acceptable.

She trots towards me once she sees me, waving and smiling. We embrace momentarily and say our hellos. She is tired, of course. I know few people these days that report they are lively and attentive after a morning full of classes.

I am in town to see a play. Night Train to Bolina. She is one of the leads and has been obnoxiously busy with it for weeks upon weeks.

It is noon now, seven more hours until she is due at the theatre, so we return inside and convince the next few hours to be devoted entirely to Rock Band. Alas.

Danny does Oasis proud with a heart-wrenching rendition of Wonderwall, I warble away with Fleetwood Mac, and there isn’t a dry eye in the house after she takes the mic and brutally rapes Rage Against The Machine with their own tune.

Perhaps the Mario Party franchise would be more successful if it gave you the opportunity to scream into a fake microphone for points.

Before we leave, Danny insists upon making us lunch, selling us on the fact that the one item on the menu is not only a mysterious tasty treat, but also the only thing he can prepare without use of the microwave.

The dish, the secret recipe I unfortunately could not get the rights to divulge here, is a surprising and silly treat ironed and pressed to perfection on a big red knock-off of the George Foreman grill.

Created and coined as “Quesa-Quesa” by a twelve-year-old version of Danny’s father, the crispy specialty is a delicacy, I’m sure, in some far away made up Eastern-European country.

We eat, we chat, we exchange high-fives with our host, and leave.

We walk slowly to her apartment. It has warmed up outside, the ice that attempted on several occasions to take my life earlier in the day has turned to rivers and oceans.

As we walk through someone’s front yard to avoid one of these mass expanses of accumulated H^2O (yeah, I remember something from chemistry. Suck it.) one of her boots sinks into a puddle of mud and she groans.

“Now we have to go home and wash my boots,” she sighs.

I smile. A moment passes.

“I am, of course, using the royal ‘we’ in that instance.”

“I assumed so.”

“You don’t have to help me wash my boot.”

“Good.”

We walk a bit further.

“I’m glad we’re friends,” she says.

“Me too.”

“I don’t know what to do after the show tonight.”

“Whatever you want.”

“But I don’t want you to get bored.”

“I won’t be.”

“Okay,” she says as we approach the door to her apartment building. “We’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”

I smile. “Perfec’.”

She smiles back. “Perfec’.”