Driving
I was driving along in Glenview when it hit me. It was that wonderful smell, almost like someone had bottled a sunny backyard barbecue and waved it under my nose. The scent lingered on my tounge and beckoned my mind to wander, which is dangerous while driving. I was at a red light, and it'd be like that for a few seconds. It was still not the best time. I did it anyway.
The last time I had smelled it was two years ago, at their place on Waveland Ave, the place that was so close to Wrigley Field that you could hear the crowd roar from their backyard. Jim lived there, along with two of his roomates, whom I didn't really know too well. They treated me well and all, I just didn't know them as well as I would have liked. Well, that's not true, I suppose. I guess I could quantify how well I knew them by how many times I had crashed at their place, and that year, it was quite a bit. The parties. God, the parties they would throw. Crazy, wild parties sometimes, or sometimes just laid back gatherings of close friends and well-wishers.
We used to barbecue on their back porch, sometimes late at night, sometimes early in the afternoon. It didn't really matter, there's always a good excuse for a barbecue. At least we always had one. Usually, the barbecue would consist of hotdogs, some cheap burgers, or some chicken, but occasionally, for a hip party, someone would bring by some steaks and we'd cook and drink. The times were good, the beer was plenty, and the air just smelled right. You could feel the warm air waft over you as you sat on the porch, cradling your beer, balancing the paper plate that precariously held your burger on one knee. I didn't think too much about it then, but those times were truly great. One by one, people moved on. Jim eventually moved into another place with a few more of my buddies, and the good times persisted for awhile, but then he left. He and I had talked about leaving like the way two kids talk about Santa Clause; hushed tones, whispers, occasional giggles and a shit load of cigs and beer. Alright, maybe kids don't smoke when they talk about Santa, but the image is fairly true. Then, one month, he told me he was leaving, off to find a new adventure somewhere else in this huge world of ours. I was happy for him, but a part of me just wanted to leave with him, to pack it in and go. 'Course, I didn't. I have things to do.
Steve left before Jim did. Steve used to live downtown too. He used to go to school there. We would party almost every weekend at Steve's place. Most of the time, our idea of party was to get a lot of cheap beer and drink until we were sick, but we had a damn good time. The whole gang would be there, and everyone would laugh and joke and just have a damn good time. That was the point. There was no greater thing we were looking for, no hidden meaning other than each other's company. We just wanted to be, and there, we could. Steve would never have barbecues, but several nights found us at a local all-night diner, downing greasy food, trying to quell the drunken foolishness we had subjected ourselves to. A few parties got busted by the Resident Authorities; I spent more than a few minutes hiding in bathrooms or closets, trying to control my breathing, or trying to keep the other drunks that might be hiding in there quiet, so we wouldn't get busted. He ended moving somwhere else close in town while he finished school, and we partied there a bit too, but then he was done, and he got a job elsewhere. Damn near half way across the continent. I always think back to those parties, though. Good times.
My life is different now. I've changed quite a bit, as have my buddies. We all still keep in touch, and I see most of them quite a bit. Not as much as I would like, but quite a bit. That'll stop. Most of 'em'll get married, or move away. Things will change. I'm scared. I don't want them to change. I don't want my whole world to consist of working and sleeping, eating and working. I'm scared. Is this what it's like? Is this why I grew up, why I rushed myself through my teenage years, and college? For this? This has to be some cosmic joke, some higher power has to be looking down and laughing at
Green Light.
The last time I had smelled it was two years ago, at their place on Waveland Ave, the place that was so close to Wrigley Field that you could hear the crowd roar from their backyard. Jim lived there, along with two of his roomates, whom I didn't really know too well. They treated me well and all, I just didn't know them as well as I would have liked. Well, that's not true, I suppose. I guess I could quantify how well I knew them by how many times I had crashed at their place, and that year, it was quite a bit. The parties. God, the parties they would throw. Crazy, wild parties sometimes, or sometimes just laid back gatherings of close friends and well-wishers.
We used to barbecue on their back porch, sometimes late at night, sometimes early in the afternoon. It didn't really matter, there's always a good excuse for a barbecue. At least we always had one. Usually, the barbecue would consist of hotdogs, some cheap burgers, or some chicken, but occasionally, for a hip party, someone would bring by some steaks and we'd cook and drink. The times were good, the beer was plenty, and the air just smelled right. You could feel the warm air waft over you as you sat on the porch, cradling your beer, balancing the paper plate that precariously held your burger on one knee. I didn't think too much about it then, but those times were truly great. One by one, people moved on. Jim eventually moved into another place with a few more of my buddies, and the good times persisted for awhile, but then he left. He and I had talked about leaving like the way two kids talk about Santa Clause; hushed tones, whispers, occasional giggles and a shit load of cigs and beer. Alright, maybe kids don't smoke when they talk about Santa, but the image is fairly true. Then, one month, he told me he was leaving, off to find a new adventure somewhere else in this huge world of ours. I was happy for him, but a part of me just wanted to leave with him, to pack it in and go. 'Course, I didn't. I have things to do.
Steve left before Jim did. Steve used to live downtown too. He used to go to school there. We would party almost every weekend at Steve's place. Most of the time, our idea of party was to get a lot of cheap beer and drink until we were sick, but we had a damn good time. The whole gang would be there, and everyone would laugh and joke and just have a damn good time. That was the point. There was no greater thing we were looking for, no hidden meaning other than each other's company. We just wanted to be, and there, we could. Steve would never have barbecues, but several nights found us at a local all-night diner, downing greasy food, trying to quell the drunken foolishness we had subjected ourselves to. A few parties got busted by the Resident Authorities; I spent more than a few minutes hiding in bathrooms or closets, trying to control my breathing, or trying to keep the other drunks that might be hiding in there quiet, so we wouldn't get busted. He ended moving somwhere else close in town while he finished school, and we partied there a bit too, but then he was done, and he got a job elsewhere. Damn near half way across the continent. I always think back to those parties, though. Good times.
My life is different now. I've changed quite a bit, as have my buddies. We all still keep in touch, and I see most of them quite a bit. Not as much as I would like, but quite a bit. That'll stop. Most of 'em'll get married, or move away. Things will change. I'm scared. I don't want them to change. I don't want my whole world to consist of working and sleeping, eating and working. I'm scared. Is this what it's like? Is this why I grew up, why I rushed myself through my teenage years, and college? For this? This has to be some cosmic joke, some higher power has to be looking down and laughing at
Green Light.
posted at 11:41 PM
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