PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The day began well, with my roommate's departure after his last final; a sense relief after ten weeks and five days.  Two more incompatible people could not have been chosen, by random selection, to occupy a dormitory room.  Although it was easier to remain cordial then contentious, I believe, now, that we were equally judgemental and intolerant---these aspects were not entirely one-sided on his part.

   Most of my immediare neighbors had either departed the day before, or were in the process of departing.  Thus day was the Dining Hall's last day of full operation, so I was able to have breakfast and lunch onsite.

   After lunch, I wiled away the remaining time reading Doctor Zhivago and awaiting my parents' arrival.  My emotions were radically mixed on that afternoon:  I was excited at the prospect of seeing Cerulean (and hopeful that the enforced separation had not stifled our friendship); but I feared both the stifling of that friendship, and the resumption of Lloyd and Betty's judgemental hostility (which was far more accurately directed, and intensely performed, than my roommate's attitude).

    They arrived that late afternoon, or early evening, between five and six p.m, and dusk was beginnig as the car merged on to I70.  My clothes, my most precious books, and my stereo and records were all crammed into the large trunk of my father's car (I was thankful, for once, for the size of the autmobiles he liked to drive).  My parents said little that was controversial.  As the westward miles accumulated, I had an almost palpable sensation of the college releasing me from its clutches.

     We stopped at a local steakhouse, and I had the suspicion that my parents were attempting to delay my arrival at home, because they had the suspicion---which would be realized shortly---that I would attempt to see Cerulean that night.  I did not even ask if my c.b. radio was still intact, or even still in their house:  I was afraid of their answer.  I, therefore, ate in relative silence as my parents chattered on to update me on all manner of developments among friends, neighbors, and relatives, and our Spaniels, Monica and Penny, who were the only two whom I cared to hear of during that conversation.

      As we drove through our hometown from east to west (my parents' home was on the last street westward), they drove me past the fastfood where Cerulean had obtained part-time employment, while also attending senior year classes in high school (but that job was soon to be relinquished).  The interior of that building was highly illuminated, and I had an unmistakeable, but fleeting glimpse of my Beloved working at the front counter.

      Upon our arrival, the car was unpacked rapidly, and within less than a half hour the items I had brought with me were now safely ensconsed in my bedroom. And in this house, I no longer needed to think of myself as "Fairy Jerry," or, in my mother's often repeated words, "Just the little boy around here"; I was, and had been, and would remain, during this break, Starwatcher, and no one on earth could take that from me. 

    As soon as I entered the room, I had checked the top drawer of my dresser and found my Midland C.B. safely contained therein.  Once this process was over, I stepped outside (despite the night's chill) to spend some time with the Spaniels (although not a pup any more, Monica also urinated a few drops on the porch in her excitement to see me; that was a very flattering gesture on her part, not disgusting at all).

      After I had spent what I thought was sufficient time with Monica (due to the dark, I could not toss a ball for her to fetch), I let the dogs back into the enclosed garage where, through late autumn and winter, they were accustomed to sleeping on a large and thick rug just outside the door that led from the house into the garage).  I told my parents that I was going to leave in my car, with my c.b., contact my friends on channel twenty-two, and hopefully spend a little time with Cerulean.  The expression on their faces was exactly what I had expected, unchanged since September eighth of that year; they raised the objection that an episode of M*A*S*H was about to begin at nine p.m.  I replied that I was not interested in a sitcom episode at the moment.

     I slid my c.b. radio into its mount below the glovebox on the right dashboard, started the car, and turned the c.b. on.  It was already set to channel twenty-two.  I drove off my street and on to the town's Main Street in order not to disturb my neighbors with the c.b. transmission.  I listened to the voices of my dear friends, but did not hesitate to speak yet; I feared I may have been forgotten, or would even be shunned for my long absence.  Finally, I said the words, as usual, "Breaker-break for Starwatcher," and was immediately greeted by several of my closest friends on channel twenty-two, and was welcomed back warmly and enthusiastically.  They told me that, after I had departed to the college, a young man attempted to appropriate my handle; but, led by Cerulean, my friends "dead-keyed" him each time he attempted to speak while using that handle, and he soon withdrew from any participation on the channel.  Cerulean's sister than greeted me, and suggested that I could save her a drive into town if I would, myself, transport Cerulean home after work.

     I arrived at the fast food restaurant just before closing, and walked in.  I cannot begin to describe the flood of emotion I experienced---and, to my immense joy and relief, it was reciprocated (although less obviously, as customers were still eating, and the staff was preparing to close the store for the night).  Because I could not guarantee that I could restrain my own enthusiasm, I said I would wait in the car.  Cerulean said that the closing procedures might require almost an hour, and I replied that I was certainly glad to wait.  Back in the car, I resume conversations with my friends on channel twenty-two, and also visited channel twelve where we had also made a few friendships, although it was not our home channel.

     Finally, Cerulean stepped out of the now darkening restaurant and climbed into the car.  Despite the cold temperature outside, the car was quite warm by that point (my heater was very efficient for such a compact vehicle).  "I gotta get out of these shoes," Cerulean said, slipping them off.  The "clunk clunk" sound of the shoes hitting the floorboard was like music to my ears.  The next day was still a school day, but Cerulean's sister agreed that we could drive around town until midnight.    I thanked Cerulean profusely for protecting my handle during my absence; then we began our usual kind of conversation, with each other as well as our mutual friends on channel twenty-two, as if no absence had intervened for the prior ten weeks.

      I would not have to return to the campus until January second of the new year.  My parents insisted that I must work through my break---back to the survey from November twenty-ninth through December thirtieth, but my weekends would be free.  (The reason for this emploment, according to my parents, was as much show the neighbors that I was "ambitious" as to contribute to my college tuition.)  I would learn of my mother's perfidy when, during an evening visit to my high school mentor's home, I learned that my mother had contacted her to ask that she advise me to give up any interest in writing, or even reading, Poetry; to which my mentor refused, but agreed to remind me to give my studies and homework first priority while at college.  On a weeknight (but not Friday) during the first week of December, while Cerulean drove my car as we talked on the c.b., I was able to help Jellybean, from channel twenty-two (and then a Junior in high school), with the paper she was required to write about John Milton's epic poem, Paradise Lost.  Because of the lengthy conversation, and not wanting to be rude to our neighbors on the channel, we dropped down to channel seven or eight, which were usually unused in our vicinity, for an uninterrupted discussion.  I spoke to Jellybean for nearly two hours about Milton and his great poem (I think I tried to emphasize the grandeur of the poem, and Milton's vision, above all else).  When we returned, after that discussion, to channel twenty-two, we found---much to my surprise and hers---that several of our close friends had dropped down to the lower channel with us, to listen silently.  I was very, very flattered by this gesture.

    That night of November twenty-third was profoundly emotional for me, for more than one reason.  I had been richly blessed in several ways:  I had completed my first term at a college I, then, hated (and have never, since, forgiven for its disruption to my life, my mind, and my soul; although my rage toward it has subsided in my old age); I had returned to that home that, despite my parents' attitude, I still loved and enjoyed; my c.b. handle had been protected on channel twenty-two; and Cerulean and I resume our friendship just as if the previous ten weeks and several days had not intervened or interrupted.  I knew that another sorrowful parting was ahead; I did not know that, on New Year's Eve, just at midnight, Cerulean and I would hear a song, by Orleans, entitled, "Dance With Me," a song that has, since that night, represented both the sorrow of parting and the hope of reunion.  But, on November twenty-third, I did not allow myself to think of the painful parting ahead on January second of the new year.  I only wanted to enjoy the restoration of the distinct and most salutary and celebratory elan of the summer of nineteen seventy-six.

Starward