Last month I unveiled Chapter 1, which you can find here.
And now, without further ado, here's...
Chapter 2
As soon as I found out that I was selected to be the “He Said” I immediately wanted to know who my partner in relational banter would be. I had heard some rumblings about which females had applied for the “She Said” position and was largely ambivalent about them, but as it turned out, the girl that The Mirror selected just so happened to be the girl that I was hooking up with at the time. Heyyyo. She was a tall, attractive, dark-skinned Italian girl with brown eyes and jet black hair from northern New Jersey named Jackie.
Jackie and I got to know each other during our sophomore year because she was hooking up with my good friend Matty K. She was flirtatious by nature and my buddy had capitalized on it. I even went with him to a party at her house in the summer before our junior year. Shortly after this trip, Matty K and I vowed to never step foot in the state of New Jersey again. It wasn’t Jackie’s fault. We had a good time at her party1. New Jersey is just the worst place ever to drive. There are parkways that turn into expressways that turn into turnpikes that turn back into parkways. On our drive back to Matty K’s house in Westchester, NY we pulled off at an exit in Mahwah, NJ because we saw a sign for a Wendy’s. We followed the exit ramp and continued on for a mile seeing nothing remotely close to a Wendy’s before we were suddenly on another parkway. Fucking Mahwah.
Jackie, the Italian that she is, was abroad in Italy for the first semester of our junior year, but rekindled the old flame with Matty K one night in early February. I know this, of course, because Matty K was one of my two roommates junior year.
My other roommate that year, believe it or not, was not Tim. This was simply due to logistics and not because of a fight, rift, or anything of that nature (sorry Aunt Eileen). When the time came to select housing for junior year Tim was flirting with the idea of going abroad for a semester and because of a financial hiccup on the home front I had applied to be an RA. Low and behold Tim’s grades were not sufficient enough for him to even be eligible to go abroad and I was apparently not what the Residence Association was looking for in an RA. Unfortunately by this point, two different groups of our friends were in need of one more guy each to secure five man townhouses. It was either that or we stayed together for a third year in the dorms so Tim and I decided to go where the action was and live apart for a year.
Each townhouse had a dishwasher-less kitchen, a carpeted living room, and a half bathroom on the ground level, two bedrooms (one with 2 beds the other with 3) separated by a bathroom with a shower upstairs, and a cement basement. Fairfield even ponied up a round wooden kitchen table, four chairs, a sturdy, industrial couch with synthetic padding, and a rectangular wooden piece of furniture that could only be used as a TV stand. My four roommates all played varsity baseball and I lived in the triple with Matty K and a kid named Dylan who hailed from a wealthy, country town nearby.
Matty K was about 6’3 with dark brown hair that he flipped up in the front, sideburns bordering on mutton chops, a large backside, and a pointed Italian schnozzle. He was an athletic computer geek (oxymoron, I know) who loved his mother’s cooking about as much as he loved baseball. He was more skinny than fat, but he loved to eat. In fact, most freshmen had a meal plan at the cafeteria that allowed them to eat 12 times per week (buffet style) and Matty K was the only kid I knew that upgraded to the 19 meals a week plan.
Dylan had short, black hair and was equally tall and well versed in Italian cuisine as Matty K. In fact, the two of them often shopped at an Italian deli and then cooked what seemed like gourmet dinners together. He had a more rounded schnozz that was perhaps his most distinguishable feature. By that I mean that if you had one look at a picture of his dad you’d know that they were father-son based solely on their olfactory organs. Dylan, who like Matty K was a pitcher for the baseball team, was a wild card in that he seemed to have a new passion every month. One month he’d be convinced that he was going to be a Navy Seal. Then the next he would be training for the Tour de France. He owned a few flannel shirts and liked to hit the bottle hard.
The cement basements in the townhouses were supposed to be for storage, but were primarily used for recreational activity. The townhouses were on campus and thus monitored by Public Safety, so everybody partied in the basements because of volume control. My roommates and I combined our inclination for sports with our understanding that this cement fortress would be our arena for parties and laid down green astro turf on day one. One of our most memorable endeavors was an 80's party. Aside from playing nothing but the freshest 80's jams, I wore a 1988 Whitesnake concert tour T-shirt that I found (bought) at the Salvation Army. Unfortunately the basement party scene ended when a friend from freshman year (one of the kids that got into drugs) had a run in with the Fairfield Fire Department after he left a lit ‘cigarette’ in his townhouse basement. This prompted Fairfield to lock everyone’s basement for the foreseeable future.
Even though we were no longer roommates I ended up seeing Tim more than I saw some of my house mates. He got me a job refereeing and eventually supervising intramural games on campus. It was an easy job that enabled me to get to know a significant portion of the Fairfield student body. Once I became a supervisor I was afforded the privilege of swiping in and out of work with my student ID. Admittedly, the other eight supervisors and I used this power a bit liberally. For example, I spent countless hours down in the Recreation Complex essentially getting paid to play basketball. We often joked that we were technically professional athletes because we got paid to play. Although we were basically stealing money from Fairfield, we actually did a fantastic job with the intramural program in the two years that I was involved. We posted standings, kept stats, composed team power rankings, had All-Star games, and gave out post season awards. Our efforts earned us rave reviews from our bosses, their bosses, and from students.
In early April, I was at a small gathering in Tim’s townhouse, while my roommates were elsewhere, presumably partying. Tim and his roommates had been able to break the pad lock on their basement door in such a way that it wasn’t entirely noticeable without close inspection. To this day, I still don’t know how they did it. I always just imagined that they were high watching an episode of MacGyver and used a toothpick, cardboard box, and 3 feet of rope to get it done. Either way, there were about 15 of us down in the basement that night doing what college kids did back then. A few kids were blasting Phish songs from an iTunes playlist, a few kids were playing Guitar Hero in between hits, and a few others, including me, were circled around the beer pong table either socially drinking or trying to toss ping pong balls into red solo cups half filled with cheap beer.
That particular night my beer pong partner was Jackie. She was wearing a navy blue New York Yankees player t-shirt, a jean skirt, and for some reason her dark black hair had a few reddish strands in it as if she was in some sort of experimental stage in her life2. We were winning game after game and casually flirting the entire time. Each made shot turned into another excuse to up the scale of physical contact. Eventually the beer pong dwindled down, but the flirting had intensified. Jackie and I made our way upstairs and a playful water fight turned into a full-fledged make out on the bed of one of Tim’s roommates.
I figured the drunken hookup was just a onetime thing so I didn’t tell Matty K about it even though, according to guy code, he still had “dibs”3 because of his prior encounters with her. I knew he wouldn’t care, but I again avoided telling him even when Jackie and I began to hook up on a semi-consistent basis. However, like most college hookups, things never got serious.
That summer at home in Syracuse, NY I worked a bunch of odd jobs just to scrap together enough cash to get by with during my senior year. I wasn’t too worried about my financial situation because I knew that I would have a weekly check coming from the Department of Recreation once I got back to school. One week I worked for a friend’s dad and cleaned out an old auto parts store that had suffered from fire damage, another week I worked a basketball camp at my high school, and for about a month I worked in a pipe factory.
Things were no different from any previous summer. I played golf at a par-3 course about twice a week4, basketball every Tuesday, and softball every Friday. My friends and I saw the same people at graduation parties, smoked cigars and hookahs, and went to the local watering holes every weekend. However that summer is the last time I remember feeling free of any sense of pressure or responsibility. Unfortunately this feeling did not register until the following year when summer turned into a stress-filled job hunt during a down economy.
I quit my pipe laying job in the middle of July to give myself a week off before I went on vacation in New Hampshire. Boredom naturally set in half way through the week, but it was quickly supplanted by excitement when I started to think of my senior year. I was going to be the sports director of my campus radio station, an intramural supervisor, and the writer of the “He Said” column. My role as the sports director of the radio station provided me with a weekly two-hour block to host my own sports talk show, so I started thinking of ideas for the show, commercials I could create, and whom I could have as guests.
These creative juices steam rolled into thinking about what I would write in my first “He Said” column. I figured that the first topic would just be a standard welcome back, so I spent an hour or so writing and fine tuning a prospective column with that topic in mind. Since it was my first article that would be read by the entire student body I knew that I had to come out with guns blazing. I wanted this first article to be a statement of what was to come. After a few minor edits, I was satisfied with my first rough draft and went into vacation mode.
That week of vacation was as relaxing and serene as usual. I laid out on a beach and tried to convince my white, Irish/Polish skin to darken without turning as red as a stop sign first, read On the Road by Jack Kerouac, and had some brewskis overlooking a lake. During the week Tim and I talked a great deal about our excitement for our senior year. We were going to be living together in a tiny beach house right on the water of Long Island Sound with two of the “Musketeers” from freshman year. My excitement for senior year was such that I asked Tim’s dad, my Uncle Jim, if I could move in with them for the month of August and work for his company. I thought that living in his house would be like the preamble to my senior year because of its proximity to Fairfield. Uncle Jim obliged, but I ended up only working for his industrial supplies company for a few days in August because Tim and I spent the majority of our days painting the house of his Aunt and Uncle, who I knew from vacationing in New Hampshire.
Living in Uncle Jim and Aunt Mimi’s basement that month was great. I went out with Tim and all of his friends from high school that I had gotten to know over the past three years, played a lot of golf, and made some cold, hard cash. We scrapped, sanded, primed, and painted with power jams blasting on the radio everyday from 10-6 and seemingly always had dinner waiting for us when we got home. Toward the end of the month we were finishing up the house and getting all of our things ready for school virtually at the same time. I set up an internship to be a sports writer for the major newspaper in Stamford, CT while up on a ladder and Tim made contact with a guy to buy a TV for our beach house. I went home for a few days late in August to get the rest of my things and to celebrate a friend’s 21st birthday, but made it back to Tim’s house for one last night in my basement bedroom.
Finally the day after Labor Day arrived and we moved into our quaint, poorly insulated, beach house. Don’t ask me why, but most of the beach houses that were rented annually by college seniors had names. I don’t know how or when it started, but I guess it was just easier to say, “I’m going to a party at The Dugout,” instead of telling someone what the address was. Our house was painted hunter green, but its name was “The Pink Box.”
It was almost shed-like in size, but it was right on the water and in a good location (a little over a half mile to the bar). Upon entering “The Pink Box” the bathroom was to your immediate left. The parameters were pretty tight, especially in the shower, but we made due. To your immediate right was the first bedroom. It was roughly half the size of our freshman year dorm rooms as evidenced by the fact that it was adorned with a bunk bed because there wasn’t enough room to put both of the beds on the floor. Just past the doorway to the bedroom was a wooden ladder attached to the wall that led to a small loft intended for storage. Even though you couldn’t even stand up in the loft we still festooned the area with blankets and pillows just in the hopes of luring a female or two up there for some late night activities.5
If you took one step past the ladder to the loft you would have found yourself in the middle of the kitchen that we hardly used. It had a boomerang shaped counter that edged out to create the sense that the hallway continued on to the living area. The living area spanned the full width of the house and half of the length. We put a rectangular, plastic table up against the wall on the left close to where the back door resided and two couches, a coffee table, and our new TV on the right hand side. Also on the right hand side, tucked against the near wall, was a door that led into the 2nd bedroom, which was under the loft and to the right of the kitchen. Its dimensions were almost the exact same size as the first, but Tim and I lived in it, so we called it the big room.
Out the back door was an 8x20 foot enclosed porch where we placed our beer pong table and kegerator (colllllegggge). Outside the back door of the porch was a raised cement patio that overlooked a beach of roughly 20 yards and the water.
Our roommates, two of the aforementioned “Musketeers,” were Greg and Max. Greg was from a nearby suburb and had been an RA during our sophomore and junior years, but was ready to be re-released into the wild our senior year. He was a good-looking kid that got with so many girls our freshman year that he earned the nickname “The Hound Dog.” Max was the son of Argentinean immigrants that settled in Long Island. He was a short, dark-skinned, soccer loving kid whose chest protruded like a gymnast after sticking a landing. He was also fluent in Spanish and studied abroad in Spain for the first semester of our junior year before living in Tim’s townhouse in the spring.
The first week of senior year was everything I thought it would be. Partying with my friends that I hadn’t seen for months while on a beach in warm weather was awesome. Throw in the fact that girls were still tanned and desperately trying to soak up every natural wave of sunlight that they could and life was pretty good. The only downside was seeing way too many of my fellow male classmates shirtless.
On the first day of classes I got an email from a girl in my grade named Steph, who identified herself as the editor in chief of The Mirror. In the email that she sent to both Jackie and me, she explained both who she was and what our roles with the newspaper would be. She told us that each article was to be about 400 words, that our deadline was 6 p.m. every Monday, that our first topic, just as I suspected, should be a welcome back piece, and that we were responsible for thinking of and agreeing on a topic each week from there on out. This last piece of news was like music to my ears. I always assumed that the editors chose the topics. My excitement for my new role grew even more knowing that I had virtually free reign over my column. The only person standing in my way of writing what I wanted to write was Jackie and I knew that she would be on board with many of my ideas.
For the next few days, I shared the prospective column that I had written back in July with some of my friends from home and at school to gauge their reactions. Basically I was trying to develop an inner circle of advisers to consult during the year. People that could read my work and offer both constructive criticism as well as new ideas from which to springboard.
The general consensus from my potential advisers was that the column needed little improvement so I sent it in that Monday.
The Mirror on September 12th, 2007:
Welcome Back
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd welcome back everybody!6 Summer is over and the new year is finally upon us. The 9-5 work is no more and now it’s time to do work on the females of the class of ‘11. (Does that look scary to anyone else?) My advanced scout, a.k.a. my friend who had to take summer classes at Fairfield in order to qualify for medical school7, has informed me that we have some real blue chippers in the incoming class to replace the overworked class of ‘07 that was past their prime anyway.
Speaking of girls being in their prime, I know we all went to a bunch of graduation parties this summer in which we had to endure awkward conversations with the same parents weekend after weekend. Like I needed a weekly reminder that I only had one more year of college left. Okay so back to the girls. Did anyone else catch themselves thinking about how attractive the high school girls suddenly became? Out of nowhere your friend Joey’s little sister developed (think about it) into a nice little prospect. It was like that time period in high school when girls started getting their braces off and you decided it was socially acceptable to begin talking to them. But the girl who just got her braces off was your age, the smokeshow little sister is about 16. There are laws against that.
For the record, every male on campus thinks they are going to tap into the freshmen class of women, but few are as successful as they think No one really knows what women want and nobody really cares that much either. We just want them. Plain and simple. In order to leave your mark on/in the freshmen girls you must first follow these guidelines. First and foremost, no v-cards. You don’t want a stage 5 clinger to deal with all year. You want a girl who knows the ropes, but not like Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby who I still do not believe is a female. Too much experience can cost you too though. Leave the Grand Canyon for the sightseers. Also, don’t worry if a girl has a boyfriend from home. There is nothing alcohol and being “such a great listener” can’t solve. Lastly, exhibit absolutely no morals. I’m sure that won’t be too hard. Just get in, get out and go on your way. Good luck guys.
1- I mean, her older brother and his friends knew every word to “Juicy” by Notorious B.I.G. Of course, in no way was it shocking or impressive for 8 white kids to know those lyrics. In fact, Kyle Korver was also in attendance that day (either that or I saw him the next day) and ever since we have texted each other every time we’ve seen a white kid rap the lyrics to this song. Coincidentally I got a text from him 2 weeks ago that said, “At a wedding in Albany –You’ll never believe it BUT…These kids know Juicy.”
2- It was a Robinson Cano t-shirt with the #22 on the back. Cano would give up the #22 to Roger Clemens the following year and decide to wear #24 instead. That said, how I remember these details about Jackie’s outfit I don’t really know. There are no pictures to confirm, but I’m 100% certain that my memory is accurate. I can’t figure out if my remembering is impressive, just completely random, somehow significant, creepy, or what. I’ll let Jackie decide I guess.
3- I’m actually surprised that someone other than Dylan had dibs on a girl back in the Spring of 2007. Even though he had a girlfriend at the time he still somehow claimed to have dibs on upwards of 25 girls.
4- I got my second hole in one that summer and it happened exactly one year to the day as my first. July 4th (Clearly I love America.)
5- Check and check.
6- Chris “Mad Dog” Russo used to begin every edition of the incredibly popular New York sports talk radio show “Mike and the Mad Dog” on WFAN by saying, “Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd good afternoon everybody!”
7- Matty K
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