March 12, 1994
Eighteen Years Old
Log 03/12/1994—
Subject “D” —
Audio/video recording.
DISABLED
—Charter Observation Team – 309
1
Matteo rented us an apartment a few blocks from campus, on Mifflin Road. A two-bedroom walkup in a converted three-story Victorian. My allowance from the trust was deposited on the first of each month into an account with Brentwood Federal Savings and Loan. I accessed the funds with an ATM card from anywhere for a small fee. That first month, Matteo deposited an extra two thousand dollars, more than enough to furnish the apartment, purchase dishes, a microwave, and the other essentials of college life. I tried to find a recliner as comfortable as Auntie Jo’s, but that search proved to be fruitless. I settled for a beanbag chair.
Classes began on January 14.
Ten days later, I turned eighteen.
The winter of 1993-1994 proved to be one of the worst in Pennsylvania history. At one point, the drifts along Mifflin Road were nearly seven feet tall. Because most classes were within walking distance (and I quickly grew tired of scraping ice from the windows), my Honda sat unused in front of the apartment, nearly vanishing beneath a blanket of white. When spring finally arrived, I had to buy a new battery to get the car started. A new bloom of rust sprouted on the trunk, a few inches from the lock. I’d watch that spot grow over the coming years.
There were parties, but I didn’t touch a single drink. Keggers, frats, sorority socials. The alcohol flowed, pot was readily available, ludes, shrooms. I even saw coke at one party, but it wascollegecoke, no doubt cut with baby aspirin, flour, and God knew what else. I didn’t touch any of it. Instead, I was the guy in the corner with a can of Pepsi, sometimes a twelve-pack of Pepsi. I smiled and tried not to look too creepy as everyone else got wasted around me.
I wanted to drink, no doubt about that, but in watching the other students at all those parties, particularly the early ones, a realization came to me—theydrank to enhance the social experience. It opened them up, took away inhibitions, it was a release. I only drank to forget, to numb, to hide. Alcohol helped to bring them out, alcohol turned me in.Theydrank to be together,Idrank to be alone.
As I watched them all drink, as the laughter and shouting and dancing grew louder and slurred, I felt this gap growing—themand me,theyandI, and I found a new way to be alone.
At Penn, everything was celebrated. Tonight we were celebrating what we hoped was the final snow melt of the season. It was the twelfth of March. Someone actually found it, a small mound of brown slush, on the west corner of Spruce Cottage across from the telecom building. Either that same someone or a different someone roped it off, set up a keg ten feet to the left, a boom box on a table to the right, and an improptu party started right there. In the fall, we had gathered around large bonfires. Tonight, we encircled this small patch of snow and watched it melt.
Welcome to college life.
“Come on, let me hypnotize you,” she said again.
I only half heard her. She was one ofthem. This usually happened a few hours into most parties. Aside from the previously mentioned uplifting effects, alcohol also brought courage, and at some point, one ofthemwould inevitably cross that invisible barrier and find their way over to me. I suppose I was a good-looking guy, probably seen as some kind of challenge tothem, off in my isolated corner. Damn near every girl reminded me of Stella, though. The ones who didn’t reminded me of Gerdy, and that hurt just as bad, sometimes worse.
This girl said her name was Kaylie. She wore a flowered sundress over black tights and under a denim jacket. Her hair was strawberry blonde and curled under just above her shoulders.
More Gerdy than Stella.
A doctoral student working on her PhD in psych, she told me when she first introduced herself.
An unknown beverage sloshed around in her red Solo cup.
I took a drink of my Pepsi. “You don’t want to hypnotize me. I’m boring.”
“You don’t look boring. You’ve got this brooding, James Dean thing going on.”
“James Dean, huh?”
“Totally. A rebel for sure.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be talking to me. What if I’m dangerous?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you dangerous?”
Everyone I care about seems to die, so yeah, probably.
