An Unfinished Account of Post Christmas (really, i’ll be back soon)

My feet are killing me right now. I’ve been standing in line at Gate 7, the last gate of my tiny little town’s airport, waiting to talk to a customer service representantive. There are 5 people in front of me and the time is 5:00 AM. My flight is supposed to leave in half an hour but, alas, the gate seems to be closed. A petite, dark skinned guy with long gothic hair and a thick soul patch tends to the would be passengers in his navy blue sport coat. This guy, and I say guy because he is probably no more than a handful of years older than me, is coincidently the same person that helped check in my luggage and print out my boarding pass near the front of the airport when I first arrived here. “It’s like magic,” I tell myself. “No, this must be his twin.”

A curious and cute little boy behind me in line starts talking up a storm, asking intelligent and honest questions to what I can only assume to be his father. I listen to their conversation play out, staring forward blankly in a sleep deprived state. Styx is playing in on the sound system.

Boy: “Do we have to be here?”
Dad: “Yes, honey. We have to wait in line so we can reschedule our flight.”

The boy stares at a monitor above him.

Boy: “Houston. San Antonio. Look, Dad. El Paso. Why doesn’t it say Phoenix, Dad?”
Dad: “Because, honey, we’re not going to Phoenix right now. We have to go to Houston first before we go to Phoenix.”

Boy: “So, the computers in Houston say Phoenix because Houston is closer?”
Dad: “Yes, honey.”

Like I said, the child was adorable. But the father. Every time he called his son “Honey”, a loud explosive seemed to have went off right behind my ears. Who calls a boy, honey?! I wanted to ask him why he had to set off these bombs right next to my ears, given the circumstances, I figured it was best that I keep all talk of explosives to a minimum.

Bennie and the Jets is on now. The song reminds me of the Running with Scissors movie Stephen and I watched more than anything. A lot of Mexican Internationals are waiting for the same flight I am on. An old classmate of mine from high school is waiting here, too. We try to avoid eye contact from each other. Not that we don’t like each other. We just wouldn’t have anything interesting to say without being awkward. An old hispanic lady falls in and out of sleep as she clutches her purse.

Nothing Says “I Love You” Better Than an iPod

I’m at EWR listening to Gogo 2 and playing Sudoku. Actually, I stopped playing Sudoku, the 100 puzzle holiday edition I bought for $3.95 at the Amtrak station in Albany Thanksgiving break. I had made a realization – nothing good ever came from playing Sudoku. All it is is a 9×9 square grid puzzle that yearns to be filled with numbers 1 through 9. Even on the back of the book it says that solving it requires “no knowledge of mathematics.” And it’s true. Although, a measly little computer program could easily solve hundreds of puzzles in a few seconds, so why should I waste my time with just one?

I just found a little list I made the beginning of the Fall ‘06 term, things I needed to buy or do. Some items were already crossed out: $50 Lab fee for VIS ART, Details subscription, Books. Some things needed to be crossed out: cable service, IKEA, iPod, cologne, socks. And some things, even at 3 months past this To-Do List’s date of conception, still needed to be done: shower caddy, mirror, coat rack, Rice U. transcript, Ti 89. Good thing I stumbled upon this list, whose sole purpose is to metaphorically loom over my head and remind me that my life has an agenda. Let’s just hope I don’t lose it again.

I forgot to mention. The iPod I’m listening to right now, Gogo 2, was a gift from Stephen for Christmas. I was honestly surprised that he got her for me. I mean, I knew that I was going to get an iPod for Christmas because my family had been wondering what to get me and knew my old one was broken. I just didn’t know he was the one that was going to get one for me. It was such an awesome and sweet gesture. He even got the back of it engraved:

For Robby, with Love
Christmas 2006

Nothing says ‘I love you’ better than an iPod.

After finding my To Do List and thinking about Stephen’s gift, I start thinking about things I wanted or needed that could be given to me as Christmas gifts. I never really ask for anything, playing faux humble but in reality just wanting money. But after searching and scavenging, worrying and whining about what to get Stephen for Christmas, I decide to make a last minute list of things I wanted for Christmas, for those worry-warts of those too stubborn to give me something as “thoughtless” (and real) as cash. I added them to the back of the “To Do” list to remind myself and to keep handy.

XMAS LIST

- Braun Electric Razor (to replace my old cheap broken one, my 2nd electric)
- New Sprint Phone
- Grooming Kit from BR
- Grey Athletic BR socks
- Nice Sweaters (or Gift Cards for one)
- Rain Coat (see above)
- Black Wallet

I usually never let people buy me gifts because they either got me clothes that didn’t fit me right, gifts that are of poor quality and design or something completely useless and small – all of which I would prefer the cash value of, no matter how little they spent on me (and didn’t want me to find out). If I were really cruel and unthankful, I would re-gift the most horrible of gifts back to the person that gave it to me intentionally, whether it be for a birthday or just because, hoping that they too would be offended by such a heinous gift – theirs.

As I look up to the passengers leaving the gate before me, smiling cooly from my mental re-gifting scenario, I think of one last thing to add to my selection of tasteful, high quality gift ideas I, a snobbish, Ivy-educated homosexual so knowingly do not deserve.

- A Boyfriend

I stare at the word for a short while, warmly and with a twinkle in my eye. I cross it out and smile, like a child who, after peeking into his presents under the Christmas tree, knows he got exactly what he wanted.

And I did.

I look up again to the podium before me, listening to the airline officials chatter back and forth between the pilots and crew. Two unaccompanied children next to me are looking at a magazine. The younger of the too boys points and says every image that catches his eye; “Star Wars! Polar Express!”

It is almost time for me to board; passengers begin to huddle around the gate. It’s four hours to Houston. I don’t want to waste my time. I get up, grab my carry on items: my leather bag, camera, tripod and hoodie, and go off in search of a New York Times. At least I can do the crossword.

The Gayest Lunch Ever

-Tofu Vegetable Wrap
-Thai Shrimp Salad
-Summer Vegetable Pasta Salad
-Tuna
-Vegetable Barely Soup
-Crystal Light Iced Tea
-Lemonade

I feel so… healthy. It’s an awful feeling. Somebody, please, bring me a Spicy McChicken or a Double Cheeseburger from McDonalds before I turn Pesco. I’m dying.

Three Cheers For Old Nassau

It’s 2:30 right now. I’m back at my dormroom after a night of partying. It’s Saturday night and the freshman for the Class of 2010 (P10) just arrived and got settled in. Things have been going well. I reacquainted myself with a lot of old friends; so many faces to remember and so many names to forget. My dormroom is awesome, too. Far better than I had ever anticipated. I’m really looking forward to this year. I live down the hall from my old roommates Sam and Brendan. Saw Josh Lavine at the street tonight, too. That was nice. I finally got to meet Stephen the other night, too. He took the trains down from NY to Jersey and I had one the best days/nights I’ve had in a long time. Really. I’m really happy to have met him, finally, and hope to see him sometime soon in a couple of weeks. Josh Knight is here, too. I’m so glad he’s my roommate this year. I couldn’t imagine having a better roommate. Anywho, I just reviewed everything I just typed right now and realized how vague everything is because the state of my mind at this moment can only comprehend generalized statements. Oh well. I just felt like I should update this and tell the world that I am here and that I am okay. So sleep tight little ones, for tomorrow is a better day. And that’s all we can ask for. A better day.

The Search for Truth in Iowa – Part 2

I asked him to take me here. After coming to agreement with Donald that I should no longer be at his apartment, I told him that it would be best to take me to Cedar Rapids, more specifically, the airport in Cedar Rapids, so I could have the possibility to talk to people about rescheduling a flight home. I also knew it would be better to search for hotels here, knowing the possibility of kiosks or service agents available to help is high. I find myself in the lobby, looking about for clues to the nearest servicemen.

The airport is dead. All of the shops are closed for the night, dark and shut away by metal lattices. No lighted signs here. Most of the airport employees are nowhere to be seen; the ticket counters, empty, the floors, dotted with custodians. I guess I’ll have to phone Travelocity.

As I walk further into the lobby, a group of people pour out of the main terminal, from what I assume to be the last flight from Chicago into Cedar Rapids, the 9 o’clock. I notice, luckily, that I still have the long, white tag attached to the top of my suitcase, the one from baggage claim from my original flight into Iowa. If anyone was really discerning enough, they would notice that the Mexican with the huge suitcase, too large an overhead compartment, was not missing one. I already felt out of place as it is. It’s worse that I look like a terrorist.

I watch the travel ridden passengers scurry along towards the conveyor belts. I too follow suit, feeling more self-conscious as I trail the small bunch, realizing the inconsistency of pulling a piece of luggage tagged for ‘check-in’ before the conveyor belts even start moving. I manage to walk off to the side after entering the ‘Departures’ wing. Along the left wall are several small booths advertising different services, from Car Rentals to Airport Shuttles. The right wall consisted of a few rows of conveyors. I also notice, much to my delight, a flat maroon kiosk contraption erecting from the wall, decorated in backlit ads for different hotels and as well as two courtesy phones, for, I guess, convenience.

Acting as nonchalantly as my body is able, I rush across the open path of the room towards the kiosk, making sure my eyes faced a direction other than that of the people who saw me come in; like an ordinary air traveler with deadlines. I study the different options, judging each hotel by its amenities, but mainly by its visual layout. I call the Country Inn & Suites asking for a quote, but mid-call I notice at the next station a sign that reads “Crowne Plaza – Free Wireless Internet – Downtown Cedar Rapids”. I’m sold. I figured after having such a shitty three days, full of awkwardness and once-a-day meals, it was time I splurge a bit on myself, as I usually do in times of stress. I’d stayed at one of these before in San Antonio and remembered it to be a fanciful place, aside from turning a Hulk-like green from a neglected and dark jacuzzi, and knew that there was a high probability of me staying in town for more than just one day, so atleast I could walk around downtown and see the sights. I immediately and kindly talk my way out of my current call, hang up and dial ‘5′. A girl named Jenn answers, and immediately I feel a certain affinity towards her and her establishment. She tells me that a shuttle is on its way.

I wait outside of the airport in the area dubbed ‘Ground Transportation’ for my shuttle to arrive. Meanwhile, I use my ever-dieing cell phone to call Travelocity to see about the rescheduling of my flight. After the long wait through various automated screening mechanism, in which numbers were to be pushed only to have you wait another five minutes, I am directed to a man of who I can only tell is not of American decent. I recognize later, after the exchange of a few words that the fellow is probably Indian, since that seems to be the in thing nowadays, outsourcing Customer Service to India.

Me: “Yes. Hello. I recently used ya’lls site to purchase a flight to Cedar Rapids from Harlingen, but there’s been a change of plans. I need to reschedule my flight back to Harlingen on the soonest available flight possible.”

Service Guy: “I see sir. In accordance with Travelocity Customer Care Policy, would you please give me your Trip ID number.”

He responds in a tone which makes me think he didn’t even listen to anything I said because this was to be his response anyways. I search the confines of my satchel for my number, remembering it to be in the back pocket. I think.

Me: “Umm… I’m sorry sir. I can’t seem to find my my number. Is there any other way you can look up my itinerary?”

Service Guy: “Yes. Please tell me the digits of your credit card number along with the expiration date and the security code on the back.”

I tell him the numbers for my debit card. They don’t seem to match up. Same for the numbers on my credit card. Nothing.

Me: “I guess you really can’t help me right now until I get back to my hotel room and check my email.”

Service Guy: “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Me: “Well. Just tell me, hypothetically, how much it would cost me to change my flight back to Harlingen from Cedar Rapids if I had an original itinerary of such and such dates.”

Several minutes pass.

Service Guy: “With all Travelocity flights, there is a service charge of one-hundred dollars to change your flight in addition to the change in flight cost. The soonest available flight back to Harlingen is tomorrow at 10 AM and would cost seven-hundred and forty six dollars.”

“Holy crap!” I think. I totally forgot about the change in flight cost. The last time I used Travelocity and changed a flight was about a month ago when I flew Jennifer up to see me in Houston. I purchased the ticket at the spur of the moment so it was already at the maximum cost. And I had changed it within a day’s booking. This is bad. Real bad. Got to think of something.

Me: “But you don’t understand, Sir. There’s been a death in the family. That’s why I’m flying back. Isn’t there some sort of waver or something? I’m just a college student.”

Service Guy: “Yes sir. There is the possibility of qualifying for bereavement waver. But you will need your Trip ID for that.”

Me: “Okay. I’ll be calling back as soon as I get to my hotel room. The shuttle is here to pick me up anyways. Thank you.”

Service Guy: “Good night, Sir, and thank you for choosing Travelocity.”

Thank goodness. A way out. Fuck. I thought I was really screwed this time.

A white van tattooed with the the words ‘Crowne Plaza’ pulls up curbside. I walk towards the van, as do a couple of airplane pilots and a stewardess, calling Cedar Rapids home for the night, just like me.

Everyone gets into the van, tired from the workday. I had but woken up a few hours earlier, so I was awake in slight haze from oversleep and fluorescent lights. Suddenly, the pilot next to me starts talking.

Pilot 1: “So where are you from, Bud?”

Me: “Me? Oh. I’m from Texas.” This should be harmless, right? Friendly small talk?

Pilot 1: “Texas! That’s a long way from here. What you doing in the middle of Iowa?” Shit. What should I tell him?

Me: “Oh, I’m just here visiting some friends in college.” The hole just keeps getting deeper.

Pilot 1: “Really? Why didn’t they pick you up?” Oh no…

Me: “Actually, they just went camping in Wisconsin, but I should be seeing them tomorrow.” I hate this.

Pilot 1: “You go to the University of Iowa?”

Me: “No, sir. I go to school in New Jersey.”

Pilot 1: “New Jersey? You mean Rutgers?”

Me (bashfully): “No. I go to Princeton.”

Pilot 1: “Princeton! That’s a very good school young man. What are you studying?”

Me: “Civil Engineering.” I feel sick.

As fast as our conversation went from good, friendly small talk, my mind went into a guilt spiral. My face is sullen and here I am again, in a van, staring blanking in front of me.

Here was this nice, innocent, sweet man trying to have a nice talk with me, and I couldn’t even tell him the truth about things that shouldn’t matter. I hate lying. I’ve done it all my life and I’m good at it, too. I have to stop this. This isn’t right. The pilot turns and notices a pale look in my face. Just like I wanted him to. He looks concerned.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t really tell you the entire truth just now. My grandmother just died and I’m not entirely here right now. I just didn’t know what to say.”

Pilot 1: “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

Me: “It’s okay. I just have to reschedule my flight so I can get back as soon as possible.” Fuck it. I’d rather be the one to go to hell than have these nice people have to suffer for me. This thought always crosses my mind. If only he knew the real reason for me leaving.

The stewardess overhears our conversation and adds her two cents.

Stewardess: “You know, if you call whatever airline you’re on and tell them your situation, they should be able to help you. They may even give you preference.”

Me: “Thank you. That’s exactly what I’m going to.”

The van turns on a couple of streets and we find ourself at the marquee of the Crowne Plaza Five Seasons. I had no idea there was more than four. We step off of the van and the handsome generic white man in his mid-twenties that drove helped unload the vehicle. This is the first hotel I’ve ever been to where the main lobby is not at the first floor. Much to my surprise, the first floor is nothing but a bunch of elevators. I take one up to the next floor, pressing the button labeled ‘2 – Lobby’.

The hotel is extremely Iowa. It’s pretty to look at all together, but when you start noticing each of the items in the room by themselves, they’re all pretty boring and dated. The carpet is a dullish green and the walls are faux painted in light brown. Enormous long drapes that hang from the two-story ceiling are also the same ugly brown. I felt like I was in a hotel set for ‘That 70’s Show’.

I make my way to the front desk and a friendly face asks how she can help me. I glance at her name tag and recognize her name is Jenn – the same friendly girl whom I called earlier.

Me: “Yes, I have a room reservation for Robert Campos. I just called not to long ago.”

Jenn: “Sure thing. Let me see… Yes. We have you right here, Mr. Campos. I just need to see your credit card for verification.”

I hand her my card, aware of the fact that my face looks very worn and exhausted. I’m also a bit hungry.

Me: “Here you go. Sorry I look so tired. It’s been a long day.”

Jenn: “That’s okay. I understand. Here’s your credit card, Mr. Campos, and you’ll be staying in room 621. It’s in our Quiet Zone which means no housekeeping between 9 PM and 10 AM so you can have a good night’s rest. And, in case you’re hungry, I’ve written the extension to Room Services for you so you don’t have to go looking for it.” Man! She knew I was hungry.

Me: “Wow. Thank you… very much, Jenn.”

Jenn: “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Me: “Nope. You’ve pretty much cover just about everything. Thank you very much.”

Jenn (with a smile): “You’re welcome. Enjoy your stay at the Five Seasons.”

I walk back to the elevators, astonished by the outgoing, friendly people I had met in the past hour. It was exactly what I needed at the moment. She made my day worth living that much more.

The Search For Truth In Iowa – Part One

There I am, in the passenger’s seat. Waiting. The commercial lights from the airport terminal peering through the glass. I stare down at the glove compartment, not knowing what to say. I have to say something. I need closure.

Me: “Is there anything you’d wanted to say?”

Donald: “Nope.”

Me: “Well, I have something to say. I’m sorry, Donald. For everything.”

Donald: “Uh huh.”

Me: “I just have a question, Donald. What… happened? I tried everything possible to try to fit in with your friends. I tried so hard, too. I tried being myself, I tried being like them, I tried being funny. I tried being helpful with the move and getting things settled. Fuck, I even tried drinking and smoking out with your friends, because surely everyone knows that, at the least, getting drunk and high is the easiest way to make friends. Not even that worked. I just don’t understand how this trip could have gone so wrong so fast. What’s wrong with me? Tell me. And be honest.”

Donald: “You’re very nit-picky. You think that everything you say is right, even when it isn’t. You have a very aggressive personality. And your very judgmental and pretentious. My friends don’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”

Me: “Well… I can understand, sort of, that I can come off like that. But I’m not. I just didn’t know what they were looking for. What type of personality do they get along with.”

Donald: “My friends look for a person’s sense of humanity when they make friends. That’s what’s most important to them.”

Me: “Well. But I mean, it wasn’t just your friends. In fact, I got along well with Chad. And Meredith, too. She’s fun. I mean, you don’t even look at me in the eyes when we talk, Donald. And this was even when I first got here, before all this shit happened.”

Donald: “Well, I don’t usually try to look people straight in the eyes when I talk to them. I guess that’s bad social skill.”

Me: “I guess that’s just how ya’ll are. I mean, to be honest, Donald. That night, when everyone was drinking and getting high, I thought I was dead. I’m serious. Ever since I got here, things have been so weird. I couldn’t seem to find my niche and when I figured I should get high to help break the ice, instead it backfired. For awhile, I thought I was doing good. I was talking to your friends for a little bit. But then suddenly I realized, just as fast as I got high, I was out of the conversation. And no one was looking at me. And I thought, ‘Oh shit. Don’t tell me. I died on the way to Cedar Rapids. I fell asleep on the plane and then the cabin pressure dropped so I fainted in my sleep. And then the plane crashed and this is all some sort of weird ass limbo that’s trying to convince me that I’m alive when I’m really not. Like Waking Life or The Sixth Sense or something.’”

Donald: “See? You think too much, Robby. Not everyone thinks just like you do. Your very analytical. Iowa has a very subtle culture. We’re a quiet people.”

Me: “I know. Well, not all the time. I just… didn’t expect this to happen… this way. I feel like I just came at possibly the most inopportune time possible. I mean, you guys were just moving into a new apartment. School was starting back up pretty soon. Everyone was just barely getting settled. You had a boyfriend. And, also, I didn’t really know anyone. I mean, sure I had seen Meredith and Rachel from your films. And Danny. Danny I saw with you on cam that one time. But I didn’t even know them. I’ve known you for five years. And you’ve known me for that long, too. And you’ve known your friends for so long, but I don’t even know them. And within that are all these sorts of social dynamics and inside jokes that I just couldn’t get. I just wonder if we would have met first some other way, like maybe you coming to Jersey or me just coming at another time, if things would have been much different.”

Donald: “Eh, I don’t think so.”

A long pause settles.

Donald: “I need to get going.”

Me: “Okay.”

I exit the van, opening the sliding door to retrieve the huge black suitcase I had brought along for my trip.

Donald: “Do you need any money for the hotel or something?”

Me: “No. It’s okay, Donald. I’ve ruined your life enough as it is. I guess this is goodbye. Have a good life.”

And with those last words I turn around, walking towards the entrance with as much pride as I could muster up for the situation. I don’t look back.

Hey. What’s-Your-Boob.

So the other night when I was at Starbucks, sitting with Kyle and Andrew talking about crap, this large, awfully familiar white girl with large breasts came up to me…

Girl: “Robby!”

Robby: “Ashley!”

Girl: “My names not Ashley!”

Robby: “I don’t care!”

We give eachother a huge hug and I immerse my face into her breasts, biting the larger of the two just a little bit. After our small moment of intimacy, she backs off a bit to give me a better look and asks me if I’m drunk.

Robby (pretend drunkly): “Huhhuh… YES!”

Girl: “Oh, Robby. I’m going inside. I’ll talk to you later.”

Robby (still pretend drunkly): “BYE!”

Robby (turn to Kyle): “Yeah, I have no idea what that chick’s name is. Damn I’m good.”

I love my life.

The Day I Broke Up WIth My iPod

I’m crying right now. I keep shaking my iPod but it won’t talk to me anymore. I’ve tried everything. Throwing it on the floor. Hitting it cautiously against my knee. Putting it in the freezer to cool down. Nothing seems to work. And I’m freaking out.

It happens to all of us. All iPod owning youth are undoubtly attached and dependant on the glorious manifestation that is the Apple iPod. It’s part of our everyday lives. I even named mine after my favorite character from Kill Bill.

Gogo is the name of my 3rd Generation iPod, my most treasured possesion and current life partner. Sure, I’ve dropped her so many times and sometimes we’ve gotten into a few arguements, but our marriage is no different than any other in America. But that’s exactly it. Our marriage is in shambles. We don’t even have ear-sex anymore.

Gogo lost her original ear buds and although I gave her my old Sony Street Style ones, the ones that wrap around the back of your head, it’s just not the same. I thought doing it in a different position was supposed to rekindle your relationship. It doesn’t. It’s gotten so bad now that we don’t even trust each other anymore.

Last night, after I came home from work, frusterated, I decided to relax myself and look at some porn. I went to my usual site, Target.com, and decided to check out some of the new, hot models – the iPod nano, specifically. I thought Gogo was asleep but when I turned to grab my bottle of tea, there she was, glaring at me with a glowing intensity.

Now she won’t stop crying. It’s one of those continuous sobs you hear from normal people when they cry, with the heavy, involuntary inhaling. She keeps click-crying. I can almost feel her stomach churn and spin. She’s so emo-tional. And she’s been doing so ever since.

I thought that this would be just like any other time we have a problem: I do something stupid, she starts crying and then after I slap her once or twice over the head, she shuts up. But not this time. She’s had it.

Being the soul provider in this relationship, I decided that maybe it was time I do a little experiment. A sort of iPod-relationship counseling. I decided to go to the source of our courtship, the iPod section at the local Target, and show her the reality of the situation.

“Look, Gogo. Look at what I have given up for you. You don’t even love me anymore. Only when you ‘feel like it’. You see, I could always go and get myself another Gogo. A better Gogo. One that’s younger and thinner. And although it may not hold as much knowledge as you, it’s pretty and reliable. No moving parts for this baby to get up and go out on me. Or I can just turn gay and get me a beefy 60 GB iPod. One with video and color. You want that? Is this what you want for us?!”

I didn’t end up getting a new iPod. The costs just didn’t seem to add up. But now things are just awkward between us. We’re still married, but we rarely ever talk to each other. I’ll be on the computer trying to catch up on things for work while she just keeps buzzing away, busily, in her corner. One day, eventually, we’ll get a divorce. You’ll see me strolling down the heavenly streets of Manhattan, with a new special someone and a new set of crisp, white wires, streaming, almost dancing from my ears. And I’ll be the happiest man in the world.

A Decorative Box for a Father Figure

Lately, I’ve been eating very unhealthily. One too many McDonald’s Dollar Menu runs at two in the morning. I decided it was time I take action. Action, for me, being writing down on a yellow Post-It, the one next to the banana tree on the kitchen counter, and telling my dad, “Need Healthy Snacks.” This is how we communicate, both Dad and I. We are Post-It people.

Since my father is never home, whether it be because he’s working overtime or out running errands, Post-Its are the best way to tell him something important. It’s so indirect yet meaningful it works, on so many levels. And we keep them everywhere.

I have them attached with magnets to the metal beams of my loft bed; my father, near the edges of his dresser mirror. To my father, the faithful little yellow Post-It also serve as love notes between him and his girlfriend, Norma, with thoughtful little nothings like ‘Just thinking about you babe’ and ‘Here’s that foot fungus cream you wanted’, always signed with a dash and the first three to five letters of their names. He has one on the dashboard of his car that says something I cannot remember exactly but I know that it elevates my gag-to-vomit reflex. He tells me not to move it when I borrow his truck, but I do it anyway, saying in my defense that, “It’s for my driving safety,” although in actuality it poses no real physical threat.

Yestermorning, as I was rummaging through the fridge for food, I received a call from Dad, him asking what exactly I meant when I said ‘Healthy Snacks.’ Because to him that’s the entire contents of our fridge and pantry.

You see, my father is also a health nut. Borderline anorexic. When people come over, hungry as always, and ask what I have to offer, I tell them this:

Robby: “Well. We have Lean Pockets, Lean Cuisines, Reduced-Fat Microwave Burgers, Granola Bars, Fruit Bars, Sun Chips…”

Friend: “Umm… do you have anything, uh… good?”

Robby: “We have Diet Lipton Green Tea?”

Friend: “…okay.”

So when my father asked me what to get, I had to be specific.

Robby: “Get something that looks like a vegetable. Carrots. Celery. Cucumbers, I guess.”

And this could only be of my father’s doing. My father – the metrosexual. You know it’s a bad sign when the only thing you and your father have in common is an affection for modern design and all things square-shaped. I swear, he’s an HGTV-watching fiend. Sometimes I think he was meant to be born gay but something fucked with his genetic make-up. ‘Free radicals’ they call them, and now my father has an unusual attraction to women.

He’s very nit-picky, quite possibly more than I am. The house must be spotless. Any one thing moved from its usual place of inactivity and he goes berserk. If my trashcan is full, he’ll stare at it with a wary eye and order me to throw it out. He’ll pace about the house in a mini-frenzy and after waiting for all of one minute, he’ll just throw it out himself. It’s gotten to the point where the fullness (or in this case, emptiness) of my trash indicates whether or not he is home. Before, I had to walk all the way to his bedroom closet to check if his red fireman workbag was laying on the floor. Such a hassle! He also has a male roommate, also a fireman, and an attractive one at that, attractive being an understatement.

Ben is massive. At 260 lbs, he is what I can only describe as ‘built like a brick shithouse’. And they’re so cute together. Although consciously I am aware that they are both two heterosexual males sharing a three-bedroom home, I like to imagine their fictitious intimacy. I introduce them as such. When people ask where I live, I often say, “I live in a bachelor pad. It’s just me, my Dad, and my Dad’s roommate,” making sure to italicize the word ‘roommate’ when it leaves my mouth, leading to possible innuendo. I let people imagine the details. The other day, when I woke up early in the evening, I walked into the great room to find Dad laying on the couch watching a movie, Ben making tacos in the kitchen. Like a married couple. There’s even a picture up of Ben in our living room. Right next to my graduation picture (actually, it’s sort of in front of my picture).

Did I mention my dad likes square-shaped objects? If you haven’t noticed already, everything I previously mentioned either comes in a square-ish box, or is square-ish/box shaped. A long time ago, when my father and I were looking for a coffee table for the living room, we managed to find ourself at Furniture Row. We browsed around the room displays, Dad pointing at possible prospects and me shaking my head in disapproval. After looking through every possible piece of furniture correctly labeled as ‘Coffee Table’, Dad and I stood in neurotic disappointment. After a brief moment of shared mental end-of-the-world scenarios, I noticed a pyramid of modern end tables behind my father, ones that looked like upside-down pyramids with the points chopped off.

Robby: “Hey Dad. Maybe we can just buy like 4 or 5 of those things and just put them next to eachother. You know, like modular furniture.”

Dad: “ooOOoo.”

This is my Dad.

I came home tonight hankering for a snack fix. I remembered that earlier today, I left a note to my Dad asking him if he could cut up the veggies that he bought into something more manageable, for him to leave them in Tupperware or something in the fridge so I could eat them later. I opened the fridge, and there they were, three square Gladware containers of carrots, celery and cucumbers, stacked one on top of another – a tower of tonicity. On the fridge door, also, was a fresh bottle of Ranch dressing, as I requested, since the last bottle was three days expired. Better safe than sorry.

I sit here, now, before the blinding screen of my Powerbook, what should now be called a Macbook except that it doesn’t have an Intel processor. I’m listening to a newly downloaded sampler of Hip-Hop and R&B tracks that I retrieved from a code I got on Facebook. I’ve been telling myself I need to get new music before I go back, but I can only get into one of the songs.

I look about my room, staring at my own little set of notes, wondering to myself. Where did I go wrong?

Take Me Home Tonight – The Bitching Post

It’s that time of year again. It’s the end of August. Everyone is leaving back to college. I, of course, have to attend a university that has to be weird and start on the 14th of September, like in the old days. I imagine one of those cartoonish laminated school calendars stapled to the corkboard adjacent to the blackboard. The one with a little redbrick schoolhouse with a yellow bell on top for all to see, the word “SEPTEMBER” embossed in big letters over it. Because the month of September is totally iconic of going back to school.

I just arrived home from a typical night out of talking with friends at the coffee shop. I say coffee shop because I want it to sound more meaningful than for me to say Starbucks (so much evil is associated with that word that just the mere mention of it causes controversy). It was a smaller set of friends than I was used to and we were gossiping about the rest of the group that wasn’t there. It seems that everyone is feeling the same way I do.

Before, at the beginning of summer, all I could think about is how I should be spending time with the friends I hardly see all year, but after days and days of hanging out with the same people over and over again, it gets a little tiring. Often annoying. Sure, I’ve known some of my friends since the 1st grade and within that are such things as loyalty and understanding. But we’ve all changed, sometimes for the worse.

I’m starting to realize how raunchy my best friend is, from his stoner voice to his asshole laugh. He’s the kind of guy that will crash at your house for days at a time and never bothers to offer you help, like with cleaning up the room, opting to leave his wrappers, bottles, and empty Lean Cuisine packages about your room. He has obnoxious tastes in music, with favorite artists including the likes of Jack Johnson and Linkin Park. And he displays his bad music not only in his voicemail, but in the form of a ringback. I HATE ringbacks! And I hate the person that ever invented such a thing. I didn’t even know ringbacks existed until I realized that everytime I called RJ it went straight to voicemail. When, in reality, it didn’t.

Let me explain things further so that I don’t sound like a nit-picky little bitch.

He’s the only one out of all of us that isn’t in college anymore. He doesn’t have a steady job. He doesn’t have a car and although I don’t either, I don’t ‘need’ one where I’m going. He’s over all the time and all the time he’s just on the computer watching Naruto on YouTube. Last week, he was on episode 56. Now he’s at 140. I can’t help but want to tell him that he needs to get a job. Or something. I feel very bad because we have been friends for the longest time – 13 years and I think the reason we’ve been friends for so long is because of me. It’s because at one moment in my life I had the asinine idea that there was something between us. Something more than that of just friends. And I know he didn’t mind. He kept me around because it feels good to be wanted.

I used to put him up on a pedestal. He was very athletic, tall, easy-going, albeit a bit cocky. Now his face has grown sallow and splotchy from an unhealthy lifestyle. His clothes, tattered and worn. I just want to yell at him and tell him that there is nothing left for him to be cocky about. I know I may sound a bit harsh. But believe me, you’d feel the same way in my position. You get that sort of wrong vibe whenever your around him. Not a ‘bad news’ vibe or a ‘creeper’ vibe, but a ‘man-you’re-a-total-burnout’ one. One that used to be what I thought was sympathy.

Maybe this is a chance for me to reflect on my own personal faults and not on the quality of my friendships my relationships. Maybe this is just me venting because I feel claustrophobic from being stuck in Harlingen. But I do know a few things.

I need to slow down. I don’t like the personality that has taken over me. Well, not all of it. I need to practice the piano more often because I’m losing my skill and memory of such wonderful songs as Coldplay’s “Amsterdam” and Death Cab’s “Brother’s on a Hotel Bed.” I need to get better grades next year. I’m ready, I think, to go back to school. I’m ready… to go home.