summer of postcards, lost and found (1/?):
The end of this last academic year came to a rolling stop, the kind where you can see the yellow light turn red a quarter-mile ahead of you and sigh, moving your right foot from the gas pedal and letting it dangle limp in the air above the breaks. Class disappeared into the abyss of reading period, which crept away from me page by page as I wrote one final paper after another. Finally, came the slow fade-out that marked the end of the end: Leah and I sitting in exhausted silence and avoiding uncomfortable goodbyes as we watched Adams dining hall empty from one hour to the next, a half-assed attempt at moving out of our room (that we later paid for in $250 penalties added to each of our term bills), and trying not to cry in cold, gray rain as the Uber driver who was supposed to take us to Cape Cod hit us with a deadpan stare and shake of his head before driving away. You could say that I am quite bad at endings. I think it has something to do with my simultaneous urge to hold my life to my heart in an endless passionate embrace and my absolute devotion to running away. What ends up happening is usually a slightly pathetic mix of the two.
At any rate, our second Uber driver was kinder. He'd stifled his disappointment at having picked up two passengers who wanted to embark on a two hour journey away from Boston into the sparse woods of rural New England because, as he assured to us with a look of stoic (perhaps pained) resignation, "those are the rules of the game." However, his cheerful conversation slowly gave way to a silence of suppressed frustration as the inner city traffic somehow persisted far past Boston's outer limits and all through the small Massachusetts towns that formed a ribcage around the interstate. Finally, though, we pulled up to the winding driveway of Leah's Cape House. Our driver let out a high-pitched wheeze that had to be fueled by a passionate mixture of relief at having the ordeal over with, the overwhelming thought of driving back to Boston, and the desperate urge to pee. Sheepishly, he asked if he could come in for a few seconds to use the bathroom and we graciously acquiesced, so the three of us became a wet, exhausted procession, slowly following Leah's brother Max into the house. Perhaps as compensation for our hospitality, Abdel, our driver (for we were intimate now), did us the kindness of pretending not to notice that the entire house smelled like a dispensary. Max's friends, it turned out, were also stoners.
A string of halcyon days followed. At least I think they did -- I'm not entirely sure what that word actually means because I'm too proud to look it up before using it, but they definitely felt deeply related to that one Bon Iver song. Max's friends, it turned out, were not only stoners but also an incredibly welcoming group of boys. They allowed us wholeheartedly into their antics, becoming our deliverers to a kind of lightly inebriated paradise.
Actually, these antics left some pretty lasting impressions on my life. For example, I discovered that no game stokes the competitive embers that burn in the depths of my soul more than Slap Cup, the only proven way of distinguishing the mortals from the gods. At sunset, we would pull on our sweatshirts and step into the cool air of the outdoor deck where the boys arranged an entire bag of red solo cups filled with cheap wine and cheaper beer at the center of a huge glass table. After explaining the game to us about three and a half times (I promise we were still sober at this point, just incompetent), it would finally begin and I have never before experienced a joy so pure. Between the ping pong balls flying off the grooved glass, the cups being drained and somersaulting off the table, and the rapidly increasing rowdiness of the group, it was bliss. I'm not quite sure what the fact that this was one of the best evenings of my life says about me, but it definitely was. Maybe it's just that I like a good time (I definitely do), but I think it might be a bit deeper. I think it's the abandon, the cognitive radio silence borne of easiness, a simple goal, and unlikely intimacy that can sometimes take the place of all of the words in my head. Win. Laugh. Look at the granulated silhouettes of some Harvard seniors you barely know and see them spending the last week that they may ever have all together and smile from your little corner of their world. You have found as close to immortality as possible in the gold-leafed memory of the best time of somebody else's life. You're lucky.
A few rounds later, whatever ice there'd been left to break melted from the warmth of the now-empty cases of beer that had relocated themselves into our veins. The very picture of those slightly rowdy but well-intentioned teenagers you sometimes saw and shuddered away from when you were twelve, we embarked on a short, slightly stumbling stroll to the beach. That's one of the nice things about being on the Cape in early May, all of the huge summer homes lining the streets sit dark and empty. No pairs of inquiring eyes watch from behind thickly curtained windows and send condemnation into the summer air. So, in the comfort of that vacant night, we walked onto a small stretch of wooded shoreline with our spliffs in tow. Having seated ourselves in a sorry attempt at a line on some logs by the sea, we watched the glowing orange spot of the joints move from person to person, growing quieter as they continued to make their rounds up and down. Eventually, they went out, so our eyes, in lieu of the small circles of light they had lost, fixed themselves on the full moon and its silvery luster collecting in patches on the water and the ridgelines of each other's faces. Leah and I, being the lightweights that we are, were even more entranced by the scene than most, so when the group left to see the dock, we deemed ourselves inept to join their journey. Instead, we silently opted to intertwine our fingers, lay back, and watch the soft lines of our profiles shift with every change in the wind as the stars collected and clustered together in the darkening night. Ā
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