Untoward Motion

January 25, 2010

I’m writing this from the place where dreams are made: a Comfort Inn in Pittsburgh.

Jon’s and my first stop on our cross-country was, oddly enough, our old high school. This was a convenient meeting place, since it’s halfway between Jon’s house and mine, but it also had a certain begin-at-the-beginning poetic logic to it, which was definitely needed to turn our itinerary into something more momentous. Thus, before hitting the road for the first time in my adult life, I visited my former teachers and mentors, to say something like “hi, you taught me, I’m now unemployed, etc.” and relive old times. They were all (except one) outwardly pleased to see us. Now that we are alumni—and thus no longer part of any student-teacher social contract—they were strangely honest, and two of them mentioned how much they disliked the school and wanted to quit. Others were much the same. Of all the things about adult human beings, what do you think has the most potential to change? I’d say their hair.

Being back was, as expected, awkward, and there was much smiling, shifting, and deflection to go around. When you visit your old high school as a (semi-)adult, and without the cover of a reunion, the social dynamic very explicitly requires you to explain your existence, which for me was a little aimless. Jon has a job waiting for him, but for me it’s a vacation that has the possibility of turning into something more. Basically: no plan in particular. So in describing the trip, I would seek out a good pop culture metaphor, to nail the point home. Something like Fear and Loathing without the drugs, or a platonic all-male Bonnie and Clyde without the robberies. In other words, it would be two friends throwing aside responsibility, embracing the freedom of youth, and driving through Pennsylvania for six hours straight. (Note: the “all-male” and “platonic” qualifiers were added to the Bonnie and Clyde analogy after its ill-thought-out use raised an uncomfortable question with our history teacher). When I told one particular teacher about the trip, and before I could slip in a pop culture metaphor of my own, he exclaimed: “It’s like that famous novel! You know, the one with the long road trip. What was it called? Oh, Lolita.” (Not what I was going for, but ok.)

(Other possibilities: Two Lane Blacktop, where they actually get there at the end.)

RCDS has grown. Physically, I mean. The main building is sprouting glass-and-steel appendages that jut into the athletic fields. Revisiting a renovated old setting is a strange experience: with no active construction, the human element is gone, and it becomes like the buildings have multiplied on their own. With this makeover, they’ve also added a new security system: the front entrance to Rye is now video-monitored. I asked a teacher what spurred this on. Apparently, the answer is paranoia.

(Stranger Than Paradise, with nerds instead of hipsters).

On our way out of the school, it had started to sleet. Do you ever get the feeling, I asked Jon, that it seems impossible that everything that’s happened to you is all part of the same lifetime? It seems more fitting to say that you lead a series of micro-lives, each set in a different place with a different tone and a different series of concerns, placed end to end but incapable of forming a cohesive whole. He said yeah, sometimes.

Wrapping it up quickly: pictures of clouds, heavy metal, and Thai food.

(Thelma and Louise with men and no cliffs, but that might be too easy).