You know those mornings you wakeup, and you’re not sure why, but something just feels off? You question it. Does the air feel heavy? Is the sky a little too dark? Is it me, or does the light inside seem unclear, like there’s a yellowish-brown tint to it? It’s slightly hard to breath and your brain feels, for lack of a better word, fuzzy. It’s the kind of day you call your best friend and he’s feeling off, too, he’s upset/pissed/sad, but not sure why. Basically, you feel like you’re in the beginning of a Quentin Tarantino film. That’s how last Saturday began for me.
After spending my first two hours awake trashing empty beer bottles, mopping the stickiness off the kitchen floor (that I hoped was beer), and washing the blankets my buddy pissed on, I decided I deserved a break.
As I packed the bowl I bought while in Telluride over break, god that was a great trip, I thought about how excited I was to finally take Miranda out that night. She was, by far, one of the greatest girls I’ve met in college.
See, in college, girls are a dime a dozen—if you aren’t ugly and capable of holding a ten-second conversation. But Miranda’s a different type of girl. It wasn’t just that she has a great smile, great mind and tight ass; our personalities clicked. She smokes with me and even offers to buy sometimes. We can talk about stuff, from Ronald Reagan to Jack Johnson, and she’s funny, god is she funny. She can hold her liquor with the best of ‘em, rarely turning into the “annoying drunk girl”. She was comfortable in heels and those little “look at my tits” tops, but she can also sport a pair of Birkenstocks and a Northface, no problem, and still look wicked hot. She’s the type that was born with a golden apple on her shoulder, a person truly blessed, things come easy for her and everyone always likes her. Normally, this person would have some jealous enemies, but not her, you just felt lucky she let you in her world.
At five, I left my house and walked across the empty campus to pick her up. It was odd seeing the dead campus. There were no students rushing to get to their next class, no students walking with their heads down cell phones pressed to their ears, no student rally trying to stop abortion/war/taxes/Bush/whatever. As I looked at the old-gray-stone buildings that were darkened by the cloudy sky, as well as the large overly grown tree branches, a chill went up my spine. How many of these buildings are haunted by the spirits of students? Some kid killed himself at a dorm last week. How many other places on this campus could somebody have died? No sign to commemorate their deaths, already forgotten, and the only thing remembering them—the walls of the buildings. I think I’m losing my buzz.
I walked up the old wooden steps of the red brick house she lived in with six other girls. The glass pane shook when I knocked, and I noticed paint was chipping everywhere. Obviously, the land lord took very good care of his investment. When Miranda opened the door I felt a grin come across my face, and when she smiled and hugged me I forgot to breathe—but just for a second.
I thought our hands fit perfectly together as we walked to a local Italian restaurant. I teased her when she told me her friend was in a local commercial for the restaurant. She giggled when I said that every 30-seconds I wasted watching that piece of cultural pollution was 30-seconds I’ll wish for when lying on my deathbed. She jokingly agreed.
The light was dimly lit inside and we sat at a plastic table in the corner of the building across from a high-hung television. I ordered wine, she had beer. I loved that. I love kisses that taste of beer, which was what I was hoping for. As we finished our second basket of bread and fourth round of drinks, I noticed a weather report on television. Just then our waitress told us there was a tornado warning, it was to last all night, and they were closing early. She asked us to leave and by this time it was dark.
Miranda wanted to come back to my house, and who was I to argue with a lady? I was excited. Creepy as it sounds, I knew there was no way she would be able to walk home in a storm. We continued through the dark campus, this time it didn’t feel quite so haunted, and just as I put my arm around her the rain began. It rained harder and harder as we ran down the empty streets. The lightning lit the sky and thunder shook our eardrums. The wind blew fiercely, but we kept running. It was exciting, the slight wine buzz helping, until the hail came. That, quite frankly, just hurt. I wasn’t sure what to do until Miranda started pulling me towards the English building.
The doors slammed behind us and the foyer became completely black. I told her I couldn’t believe they left this building unlocked. She told me all of the buildings were left unlocked on weekends. Who knew?
Miranda led the way upstairs with help from our open cell phones and I couldn’t help but notice the smell of moldy books and dust. I’d never been in this building, but she told me she was taking me to her favorite place on campus.
I could tell we walked into a large room, the air was slightly colder and the ceilings felt higher. It wasn’t until lightening lit the room and my eyes adjusted I could see where I was. There was a spot that a fireplace had once been, with marble encasing. The room must have had 30ft ceilings and was lined with old dark brown empty book cases. The wood looked like it was from the ‘60s, but that meant it was probably 20-years-older than that. Where the book cases stopped, 4 large windows on every wall began. In the middle of the room stood three tables with six chairs around each, and a large folded banner draped across a fourth.
-This is the Center for Literary Arts, she said.
-What is it about this place you like so much?
She told me there was something old and beautiful and romantic about it. She said she loved coming here in the spring and reading while sun shone on her through the massive windows. She loved to watch the snow fall in the winter and the leaves fall in the autumn. I asked her what she liked about the room in the summer. She didn’t think I was funny.
As her chattering teeth became in sync with mine, I coyly suggested we take off our wet clothes and use the banner as a blanket. I almost choked when she agreed. The banner was old and rough to the touch, and the situation became awkward as we stared at each other naked. I could tell she felt it too, but all was recovered when she suggested we trip on shrooms. I was a little shocked when she opened her purse and pulled out a little plastic baggy, but at least the girl was prepared.
We sat in the dark, no longer shivering, while a warm and clear image of the world came over us. Everything was breathing. The chairs, the windows, the tables and even the banner. When it thundered, it seemed to shake every bone in our body and when the lightening struck it created a euphoric feeling that brought us to our feet.
We spoke to each other. We completely understood everything about each other. Her mind was clear and touchable to me. She told me she thought the chairs were angry at being locked in this room for so long. She went to talk to one while I sat on the banner and watched. When she came back she told me they were from Jamaica and then sat and watched the room breathe with me.
I’m not sure how long we tripped before she kissed me. And I’m not sure how long we had sex before I realized I was watching her nakedly climb one of the bookshelves, I suppose she was trying to free the chairs. I also have no idea how long I waited before I approached her lifeless body after she fell.
There will never be a plaque that reads, “in memory of Miranda,” outside the English building. People enter and exit this campus every year, and like everybody’s life, it will soon be forgotten. What’s left? What’s ever left of a life lived and a life forgotten when the only thing remembering are the walls of a building.
What would I do if I no longer could afford toothpaste or soap or wax for my upper lip? What would I do if the government made me wear a newsboy hat and my fingernails had ink under them from trying to sell their propaganda for quarters on street corners? Would I learn to sing for change or tie tin cans to my shoes and do a little jig for a two-day-old loaf of bread? Would that jig eventually become so popular, bums and vagrants and gypsies would gather around fires in the moonlight and do the “two-day-old loaf of bread” jig?
100-years from now, would 8th graders recreate this dance for their American History class as reenactment projects? Would women get kicked out of the business world to make room for more men as they tried to “provide” for the women they have kept in small identical houses that have small identical children and bathe in small identical showers? Will MTV have to start playing music videos with no money for reality television show production? What will the consistency of our toilet paper begin to be? Will I have to give up my quilted, four-layer ass swabs for two-ply and a chapped caboose? 
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