Postmarked from Albany, 1-7-86

It was a Friday night. Looking back, it was like many Friday nights. Tunes echoed through the quad, each different tune was a small party. Showers ran hot as we prepared for our big party. People bopped in and out like buzzing flies. The adrenalin flowed in everybody as the first of many kegs was tapped. The week's emotions and frustrations poured out like they always did on those nights.

I sat on my bed running a favorite blue towel through my hair. My roommate sauntered in with a toothy grin and presented me with a fresh cup of frothy fluid. We each drank deep and resounded a sigh, a very comforting sigh. We exchanged hands up high, almost a non-verbal ritual. I could see myself in his eyes. "Yea, Buddy. Me and you, a team!" We continued our preparations.

He set a tape in the deck and manipulated it until he was satisfied with the selection. He adjusted the volume accordingly and began his dance; mimicking musician's various duties and prancing to some favorite prose. He then abruptly sat in his director's chair and began scribbling in one of his notebooks. I turned back to my own scribbling of songs and albums to be played during the evening. I felt a presence in the room: anxieties, unspoken desires and the adrenalin.

My roommate broke my train of thought as he hovered over me, whispering some forgotten lyrics. The intensity in his face grew, then he spun on one heel and threw his fist into the air as the song on the stereo climaxed. He sung "...Son, he said, grab your things, I've come to take you home," as he left our room. I turned back to my desk and looked at an old picture pinned to the cluttered memory board. I thought to myself how much I had grown since that picture was taken. I felt so much more mature. Someone yelled out in the lounge, I picked up my beer and left our little world.