Two Hundred, Another List of Memories

• First season of Cylons with a friend
  
• Hearing the tuba again
  
• Spontaneous late-night table discussions with new people and old people
  
• Couch-crashing
  
• Baseball games
  
• Guacamole and taco salad
  
• Brownies
  
• Baking a cake
• Jesus loves this guy!
• A cave
  
• A museum and a shut-down factory
  
• Local eats
  
• Southern drawls
  
• A splinter in a little girl's hand
  
• Extremely thankful patients
  
• Gangrene
  
• Exploration of an old but new town
  
• One skittish dog
  
• One wonderful vegetarian restaurant
  
• Being reminded that time doesn't stop
• Writing that reminds me of my friend
  

One Hundred and Ninety-nine, 1812 Overture

I had a really bad weekend a long time ago.  September 7th - September 9th, 2001: I first got caught for going 30 over the speed limit in a residential zone--a mandatory court date--and then I proceeded to twist my ankle on a putt putt green.  Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't that big a deal with the following Tuesday to come but at that point in my life, it sucked.  My ankle healed well enough.  I learned that I really did NOT have the upper body strength to walk all the way across campus on crutches without stopping for a break every hundred feet.  But as the week wore on, I began building up some strength and I managed to go two hundred feet without stopping by the time I finished with them the following week.  The anxiety from the speeding ticket, however, did not cease.  The court date was set for Oct 22nd or 23rd--somewhere around there.  Court was in my hometown, school was over an hour away, I had no car.  Oh, and I never told my dad who pays my car insurance.  Yeah, I was freaking out.  I turned then to those who I go to when I'm in trouble--the Beatnik, Lord Chaos, and the Engineer.  They helped me crack a plan where Beatnik and Lord Chaos' older brother came down Sunday night, took Monday off to drive me to my hometown and court, and then return me to my schooltown later that day.  

The elder brother--Politico for short--and I really grew close that day.  He helped coach me on dress as well as making sure to show the proper respect to the judge.  On the way up north he had classical music playing to help relax me.  It didn't really work.  I was a nervous wreck all the way up.  Getting to the courthouse, we went in and sat down--us in our suits, everone else in their everyday clothing.  I might have been self-conscious about it except again, I was a nervous wreck.  Then he called me up...incorrectly saying my name.  My brain went into auto-pilot as I stood up and walked to the front; I corrected the judge on the pronunciation.  Part of me cringed as did Politico back in the benches (I learned that later).  He spoke the offenses then reduced them on the basis of it being my first one.  I believe I said guilty when he was done talking and he then told me I had the choice of points on my license or driving school to rescind them.  The rest is a blur in the courthouse except for the stop at the payment desk where I shelled out court costs of around $76 from my carefully collected rainy day fund.  Then Politico and I began our trip back to schooltown.

The Beatnik is the English major, but storytelling runs in their entire family.  For some reason, Politico began the story during the start of a Tchaikovsky piece.  Both the story and the music began softly enough up to the point of the cop pulling me over.  There a major musical announcement came forth.  Again the music quieted down and proceeded along with the story in much the same fashion that I simultaneously ignored the situation with moments of utter terror for the next month.  Then the planning stages of the court date were upon me.  Slowly all the pieces began fitting into place as odd as they might have seemed and the situation promised to move forward as smoothly as we could manage.  The drive up to the courthouse was a tense, advice-filled time and proceeded up to the entry into the courtroom.  Then the great battle (ok, this part was slightly off between the story and the music) during which the decisions for my mistakes were made.  Then, as we left, great relief!  Wave after Wave, Bombardment after Bombardment, everything was finishing up and the pounding noise massaged my relaxed self having survived the ordeal.  That song is now forever associated with that event and with the Politico in my mind.  In the grand scheme of things, not a big deal, but to me at the time, it was my world crashing down.

I realized then that if I ever got a chance to do something similar for someone else, I wouldn't hesitate.  The world gave me the company of people I needed at the time and I wouldn't hold myself back for my friends if such a time came for them.

Thank you my friends.

One Hundred and Ninety-eight, Son of God

Jesus loves me!

One Hundred and Ninety-seven, One Thousand Words

One Hundred and Ninety-six, Hiss

I stare out a window, old enough to warp the light coming in so the tree in the distance looks spooky in the gloaming.  The house across the way has some vines growing up the sides and I've never seen a light or person there.  Maybe it's abandoned.  People tonight are dyeing eggs and celebrating birthdays and eating good food.  I sit here in the dark listening to the gas from the heater behind me hissing out.