Wednesday's Victories
Through the thin and tired wall against my back, a buzzing drone accompanies my sleep- crusted blinks. In five minutes I will rise out of my bed and walk across the room escorted by a rhythmic orchestra of detonating alarm clocks. Competing with one another, they echo through rooms and hallways. I am now coherent. My bare feet collect dust and other forgotten remnants strewn about the hardwood floor. Hurrying through my room to a nearby hallway, a familiar aroma greets my nose. It is laced with musty-house-smell, grass-clippings and rotting pizza. My drowsy grip finds the bathroom door locked.
I am running late.
My hair is a mess.
I have unfortunate breath.
In stealth, I run to steal someone else’s unoccupied bathroom. None of the other five showers are vacant.
Shabbily dressed and smelling of yesterday, I saunter into the kitchen. The search for a clean bowl takes some effort. I follow a trail of maverick flakes to the opened box of raisin bran. I discover that the milk has soured and for a fleeting moment I ponder the use of Dr. Pepper as a dairy substitute. In distant rooms an alarm clock chorus begins again. Overhead, a door slams; running footsteps soon follow. I am not the only one late this morning. Another hungry slumberer enters the kitchen and discovers the turned milk. We exchange stoic glances. I eat a spoonful of dry bran flakes and remember that I live in a fraternity house with thirty other people.
Later that afternoon, the distant campus bell-tower’s interjections remind me that another rigorous day of sitting in class has been completed. While scaling the up the 27 steps of the House, I notice more 1940’s stucco surfacing through peeled paint. A deliberate groan bellows from the carport. I wonder when its arthritic rafters will collapse. I shoot a sympathetic wince at my parked car, impatiently waiting beneath the crooning beams.
Will my car suffer its wrath when it goes?
Save for the faint droning television, the house is virtually silent. Short-lived afternoon quietude is sweet company. Donning my apron, I march towards the kitchen. In a messy three hours, I attempt to make dinner for forty people. A few flow in and out of the humid space offering help or a friendly "hello."
I like doing this.
At 5:30pm, a friend rings the dinner bell. After years of this tradition, I imagine our neighbors hate us. The antique cowbell clangs around house. Stampeding hungry footsteps find haven in the dining room. Motley countenances glance about. We gather close into a makeshift circle to bless our meal. Next to me are my pledge brothers. Across the room I see my friend, Phil. Last year, my pledge-brother accomplices and I helped liberate a baby opossum into his room while he was studying. It took him 45 minutes to find peace and rodent-free focus.
It was hilarious.
We were smug.
Within ten minutes, the dining room is ablaze with conversations, laughter and stories. My friend, Tom, sits across from me. He is an aspiring lawyer and not fluent in Dramatic Arts. Nonetheless, in a year he will attend the performance of my senior project in the Theater department. From the stage I will see his silhouette in the last row of the theater; it will be a symbol of his support and loyalty in our friendship.
For me, this house has defined community.
Gradually we find our way into the living room and gather to discuss what it means to follow Christ in the twenty-first century. Within the next six years, I will be perform a part in six of their weddings. A sincere prayer concludes the time of our vision-casting. Too soon we will move away and our daily rituals will be replaced. Dessert initiates a retreat to shared rooms, procrastination, jaunts into town, and study attempts.
I love Wednesday nights.
posted by tom @ 1:26 PM
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