found drama

It’s move-in day at St. Mary’s College and we’re moving back in for some kind of repeat of our senior year. The roster for the house has changed up a bit and there are six of us instead of four. M.G. is there, as is B.T. (and myself, of course) but K.M. is not, replaced instead by this kid “Keith” that I went to middle school with, someone named Dan, and a woman with whom I supposedly work.

We get about half of our stuff moved in before everyone just sort of takes up seats in the living room of the townhouse. At first it’s to just “take a break” but it seems to go on for quite some time (the sitting). This would not be as bad if the townhouse had been updated to more easily accommodate six residents but there are still really only seats for four. The woman is spinning records, so she’s not worried but I didn’t manage to get a seat. I’m pacing around the room, trying to participate in the conversation (which is working marginally well) but most of what everyone is talking about is articles and ads that appear in the newspaper (which I can’t see at all).

I try ducking back into the kitchen, as though fixing myself something to eat (or else putting some more items away) will help to move things along but every time I duck back into the living room, they’re still talking about what’s in the paper (mostly: shows and club nights in D.C.). I keep trying to divert my attention away from what’s going on in the center of the room (thinking that things will settle down if I don’t look concerned), so I make up alternate tasks: organize the bookshelves, locate my bottle of Russian vodka (which seems to have disappeared), get my own turn on the decks. But I’m just shut out of things and more and more self-conscious about it all the time.

About Rob Friesel

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