twenty-something

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part Two, Section One: "Belongings"

« Previous (1.6: Perfect Gentlemen) | Next (2.2: The Allison and Sam Variety Hour) »

The room was silent and largely empty for the first time in many months. A more typical dorm room had never existed. The small, 10x12' box had a matching set of everything: two miniature windows; two beds, bunked; two desks; two dressers; two cramped closets; and two roommates. The beds had complimentary plaid flannel comforters. Laundry baskets overflowed with dirty clothes from the bottoms of the closets.

The ugly eggshell colored walls were covered with posters. I glared at Rich's -- of Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead, and that special black light one of Jim Morrison, which seems just as uncharacteristic of him now as when I first met him.

I looked up at my additions to the walls -- the rare Dave Matthews one I special ordered for college cred, the Scooby Doo I got as a going-away present, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer (what the hell was I thinking with that one?). I removed the sticky tac from the back of my new-ish Guster poster while roommate Rich sat on the floor nearby, attempting to unhook the room's makeshift entertainment center, tangled in a mess of wires.

This was not how I envisioned my final night at the University of Rhode Island. The walls were depressingly bare, although I had only taken down that one single poster so far. And almost everything seemed packed up into boxes, ready to be hauled away the next morning -- but in reality, nothing was ready to go. It was 7p.m. -- and not a drop of drink in sight. Already, Hopkins Hall was far too quiet, far too empty -- like we didn't live there anymore.

"Shit!" It came from Rich and was followed by a loud crash. In his fooling with the stereo wires, he had accidentally knocked over our carousel of CDs, spilling hundreds of discs across the floor. Without a word, I quickly joined him on the floor to pick up. We sorted through our joint music collection, separating mine from his, without much chatter, aside from the occasional question or verbal jab.

"Blue Rodeo -- that's yours."

"This is your God Street Wine, right?"

"Here's your Sarah McLachlan," he said with a snicker.

While we were sorting, the door must've quietly crept open as she slipped in unnoticed. She remained invisible until she exclaimed, "Oh, boys, what happened?"

We turned to find Allison in the doorway, a smiling, blonde vision in her infamous tight red GAP t-shirt (my favorite) and a pair of well-worn (or is that worn-well?) comfortable khakis. Both hands were behind her back and she had a mischievous grin on her face.

"Hubba hubba," I commented.

"Yeah, what he said," Rich added.

"Want some help?" she offered.

"You don't have to."

"I've spent all year cleaning up your messes. Why stop now?"

I stuck out my tongue as she came in the room and closed the door behind her.

"I brought some friends along, for old time's sake." And with that, she revealed the surprise hidden behind her: four beautiful, chilled bottles of Raspberry Cider Jack. I was sick of the stuff after the untold gallons we had consumed during that year. Our desks, dressers, and floors were stained with sticky, reddish-purple rings left behind from various celebrations, like dorm parties or Tuesdays. My taste buds cringed at the memory of the overly sweet taste, and my stomach cowered with similar thoughts. But this was our drink, Allison's and mine. And, like she said, this was for old time's sake. "Hope you don't mind."

"Baby, you're the greatest," I told her.

She passed out the brews and joined us on the floor. She held up the extra cider. "Where's Carly?"

"In her room. Packing," Rich answered quickly.

"This is no time for packing. Go get her."

"We have to be out of here by Friday. It's the perfect time for packing."

"It's Tuesday! And it's Sammy's last night in town. There is no way she's wasting it up in her room!"

Rich, convinced, got up to leave. "I'll see if I can talk her into coming down."

"Tell her I miss her already," I said.

"And don't be too long. I know you two."

Rich left, smiling.

"Well, he's gone for at least two hours. They've got to practice saying good-bye some more."

"They're both here until Friday."

"Sick, isn't it?" I joked. "I get his beer."

"Bitch."

● ● ● ● ● ●

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.