Slumbering Somewhere Else

I should have known that the world wasn’t right when I decided to sleep on the couch that night.  But it was one of the first warm nights of the year, and I was desperate for a change of scenery.  I awoke suddenly around 1 or 2 am and went to the bathroom.  When I returned to the living room, windows open and the cool breeze drifting in and out of the apartment, Lynn was standing next to the couch.  “Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“That noise.  A loud…popping.  And then screaming.”  I realized what had caused me to wake so suddenly and now that she mentioned it, recalled the screaming as well.  My half-awake mind had processed it as being the normal college party screams that seem to come out after dark on the weekend. “The scream–” she continued “–it was terrible.  Something must have been terribly wrong.”  Recollecting the sounds in my mind I remember placing the popping to the east, at the entrance, and the scream to the west, a few buildings away.

Just then sirens became audible and we could see the red and blue lights flashing at the apartment complex’s entrance.  We craned our necks for a better view from the front window, but could see nothing.  A man ran in front of the field-house and down the other side of the complex.  A single police man followed in hot pursuit.  We heard nothing more.

A few buildings down we could hear a large group of people.  Their loud voices were speculating what had happened.  “Was there a gun?”  “I heard a gun!”  “Where did he go?”  “What is going on?”

Cars started to form a back-up at the complex’s exit, now completely blocked with Urbana police.  Why were so many people trying to leave at 2 am?  I suggested to Lynn that we go outside and stand on the walkway of our apartment three floors up.  Dressed in hoodies, glasses, and  our pajama pants we leaned over the railing hoping for a better view.  Nothing.  A car was sitting with its lights on, backed into the handicapped space, below us with 4-5 passengers.   A  black man  walked over the the car, greeting his friends.

Lynn’s timid voice: “Um, excuse me.  Do you know what is going on?”

“Lynn NO!”  I pulled her down under the wall that we’d been peering over.

“What?”

“Lynn.  Gunshots?  Two little white girls.  A car full of black men.  A man who appeared to be flashing gang signs at the car.  We’re trying to look like we’re not here!  Don’t give us away!”

“Oh, jeeze.  Sorry!  I can hardly see with these glasses.”

We watched the police blotter for weeks.  Nothing.  My speculation is that a man left a party, possibly in anger.  When a gunshot occured a few moments later a female, still at the party screamed–awakening the entire complex.  OoooUrbana.  You’re so cute.

I no longer slept on the couch.

it’s gett’n hot in here

It was somewhere in the wee hours of the morning.  The fire alarm went off.  It took me a while to realize what was going on (it always does).   I distinctly remember trying to lazily find pants and shoes rather than exiting the building–as one should do during a fire.

There were only three of us in the apartment that night and we stood outside with the rest of 1347 looking back at the building with the knowledge that it had been a false alarm.  There just happened to be a fire station next door to the complex, but about seven minutes after the alarm had begun a firetruck strolled in from campus, obviously not in any sort of hurry.  In fact, I don’t even recall any sirens.

Eventually we went and sat in Lynn’s car rather than in the open air.  It took a number of minutes for the building to be given the all-clear.  Mimicking the fire-men’s efforts we rolled out of the car long after everyone else had gone back into their apartments.  When we reached the second landing on our ascent to our apartment a college-dude stepped out of his place and stood only a few feet in front of us.  He was shirtless.  The obvious attire required when surveying the non-fire.  I held in my giggles.  I looked at Lynn who was doing the same.  When we reached the third floor we burst into laughter at the complete and total awkwardness that guy had created.  “Oh,” Lynn said, in a timid quasar-voice, “so there’s where the fire is!”

Meet Monocle.

Monocle MirrorMan has lived in our apartment for about 5 months. Stays in the bathroom, mostly, but I suppose it is as good a place as any. When friends come over they always make it a point to visit him and amend the dry-erase speech bubble that remains next to his perpetual moustache and monocle.

He is quite the conversationalist, constantly coming up with new things to talk about. And he is quite fashionable too. What started out as a top-hat has been changed into a beanie, miter, jester’s cap–he even had a red-white-and-blue theme for the 4th of July.

A few months back Lynn’s boyfriend and I devised a plan to make Monocle a facebook profile. I took the picture and created the email address–Dan got to work making the profile active. Within a few days Monocle had a number of friends as well as pictures of fellow monocle-wearers. A fan of facebook, Monocle started writing on people’s walls and having in-depth conversations via the World Wide Web. In the meantime, Lynn was oblivious.

A few days later, at the instance of Dan (who, honestly, was having a hard time containing his excitement) Lynn checked her “friend requests” and sure enough Monocle had made his move. I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I hear, “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

“Yes Lynn? Oh, nothing. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

In honor or the up-coming half-marathon, Monocle decided to show his full support. In fact, we’re calling ourselves “Team Monocle” because we cannot imagine such an important event taking place without his presence.

 

 

I’m moving out today. And I’m leaving behind my dear friend. A tear appeared on his cheek a few days ago, along with the message, “I will miss your beautiful soapy hands.”

no shame no gain

There is this crazy thing about running.  All that constant movement greatly increases flatulence.  And you can’t hold it in because that strength is greatly needed elsewhere.  This isn’t so much a problem because I always run alone and usually early in the morning so the likelihood of anyone caring is minimal.  However, with the half-marathon approaching it occurs to me that I will no longer be alone–I’ll be surrounded by 12,000 other runners.  Lynn assures me that there is no shame in running–letting one rip is as normal as stopping for the next cup of gatorade.  But I’m skeptical.

In all this thinking I was reminded of an SNL commercial for a fart machine that transformed the noise of gas leaving the body into a low, monotone, draw-out voice that says things like, “Nice weather we’re having” or “that is a great idea.”  (I wish I could find it…I searched for it already).  So, my conclusion was that it would be ideal to use this contraption while running.  Rather than detering people with your gas, you could utilize it as a conversation starter.  “Races at 6.30 am are really rough.”  “I could really use some water.”  “What’s your bib number?”  I’m convinced that it would make situations much less awkward and increase the likelihood of making friends.

Christine and I were walking to the library one sunny morning when I spotted Lynn about 100 yards ahead of us.  She’d just gotten off the bus and was heading to her 9am class.  As she rounded a corner she picked up the pace.  Her strides lengthened to a brisk walk.  She kept her shoulders stiff and arms straight in an attempt to keep her backpack in place.  She must have been in a hurry.  No one runs with their backpack on.  That is just nerdy.

A few moments later she stopped running and resumed her original pace.

I confronted her about the spectacle later.  “Aaaww man.  You saw that?  I was hoping no one saw me.”

“Yeah, I saw it.  Do you do that a lot?”

“Yes, actually.  I just like running.  I know its really dorky, but sometimes I just feel like not walking.  I try not to do it for too long because I don’t want anyone to notice. I can’t believe you caught me.”

Cute.  Lynn likes to run.  It gets her places faster.