I got to college a week before most of the rest of the students to try-out for marching band. My car insurance had recently been rescinded for having too many accidents, so my dad drove me up to Cedar Falls and dropped me off. I didn’t have any idea how fierce the competition would be, but I remember confidently assuring my dad that he didn’t need to wait to see whether I qualified. I piled my belongings as instructed in a dormitory hallway to begin my life out from under my parents’ roof. I would remain car-less for the next three years.
An audition was held, and I was ecstatic to be the only freshman who made the snare drum line, but this excitement was short-lived. The subsequent five days of band camp was called Hell Week, presumably because we rehearsed for ten hours a day, but it was especially difficult for me, as I had never learned to sight read in tempo, execute a flawless drum roll or play traditional grip. The rest of the snare line and the percussion instructor soon decided they didn’t want me there and tried to get me to quit. Their jeers only acted as fuel for me to continue practicing well after rehearsals had ended, enduring the pain while blisters on my fingers oozed until someone finally conceded to give me band-aids and ibuprofen.
On Wednesday, an upperclassman in the quint-tom section who had taken pity on me, named Roy, convinced me to take a break from drumming for an evening and attend a marching band house party. This was the first such party I ever attended, and probably imagined it was something like a birthday party- I had attended one of those when I was seven. Jim had received a life-sized toy M-16 that made sounds, and since guns weren’t allowed in my house, I convinced my mom that I wanted a birthday party, too, but I didn’t get the same present.
This party was different- it consisted mostly of loud music, beer and flirting. Years later, I would discover kids had been doing this in high school, but scrawny, zit-faced, glasses-wearing kids like me wouldn’t have been invited. I had never even seen drunk people before. This party contained about a hundred of them, all crammed in hallways and little rooms and squawking like chickens in pens. There was this cute redhead trumpet player that I had been curious about, and found her slurrily laughing and stumbling all over this other trumpet player who I had already deemed to be a total asshole. I quickly realized people acting drunk was really unattractive. I didn’t stay long before walking briskly back to my 7th floor Dancer dorm room alone.
Roy felt bad, agreeing with me that that scene was obnoxious, and decided I would better enjoy a much smaller gathering. On Friday afternoon, I called my parents on a pay-phone as pre-planned and instantly broke into tears. That evening I rode with Roy to a suite at ROTH, which was a recently-built dormitory exclusively for upper-classmen that offered such amenities as your own bedroom, a kitchenette and a bathroom shared only by four people instead of about a hundred. I joined Roy and two other guys, and learned how to play the card game Spades.
I loved it. In fact, that would be the most fun I would have until just before Christmas break, when I joined in on a sleigh ride with Phil and some girls from twelfth floor Dancer. I would spend a large part of the next couple years at Roy’s side, listening to jazz, transcribing drum parts, practicing drums on a practice pad and homemade rubber and wood double-kick drum contraption and playing Spades. Our association eventually waned after I got into playing chess and discussing all things philosophy with the guys from 9th floor.
About fifteen years later, a year before moving from Portland, I was invited by a co-worker to attend a house party. As such invites were rare, me being the hated boss and all, I showed up… about an hour earlier than anyone else. After a scolding from the co-worker, I found a bottle of Dickel Tennessee whiskey and a glass and settled in on the outside patio. For the remainder of the evening, I observed how pathetic I was at holding a conversation. People would introduce themselves, nod for at most five minutes, and then excuse themselves to dance, fix a drink, use the restroom, look for a friend, etc. Every once in awhile, I’d wander inside, where I would hijack a conversation about the difference between a dry and dirty martini or the like before retreating. At one point, I was interrupted by an older lady while explaining to her certain elements of quantum mechanics with, “Really I was just hoping to get a cigarette. Do you smoke?” Eventually the whiskey bottle was empty, and I stumbled home, which was several miles away. I don’t remember the walk, but I do remember having difficulty figuring out where my truck was the next day.
