To Keep You Alive (Chapter 1)

 

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I

I took a picture of her and kept it in my mind so even when she was gone I couldn't forget; I wouldn't forget what she meant to me and why this was something I kept up with. Her disappearances although reoccurring continued to catch me off guard. There was nothing I could do to prepare my heart for the surgery it continued to helplessly endure. The pain, the desire to withdraw and force myself to forget, would always seem too much to handle until I closed my eyes and searched for it. Without having far to look there she would be every single time she would disappear. Sitting there waiting for me, gracefully placed behind the walls quickly built to protect herself. Again, I was ready. Ready to live a life without her, and only imagine feeling the breath that would fog up the glass on those windows on those walls.

Class would end at 9:04 pm every Wednesday although our syllabus permanently said those four minutes were ours to keep. We would never complain, partly because we were terrified-partly because we respected him more than any of our teachers present at the university. The largest reason for not complaining, however, was because those four minutes every Wednesday set us apart from the orchestra's you would listen to disgustingly on your commute home in traffic, and the ones you would patiently await to be identified when their piece was finished. He made us flawless, but he never forced it upon us. No, like every great teacher he made us want that and accept no less. Dr. Hartley was a strong man, but that wouldn't be perceived by simply evaluating his stature. His outside appearance was quite feeble but hosted a muscular tone; he was the man of great contradiction. If you saw this man in the street or the mall, you wouldn’t think that Dr. Thomas Hartley was a man who held the ability of great leadership and great power. You wouldn’t think this man a genius, but that is certainly what he was. Dr. Hartley was a very large reason many of the music students attended this university; he most certainly was the reason that my roommate and I were there.

My roommate, fraternity brother, and best friend all joyfully and conveniently happened to be the same person. We met at the beginning of my freshman year in college back in 2009, so as of this fall 2011 we had officially been best friends for two years. At the end of every class we would get in the car and talk about rehearsal while he drove back to our two-bedroom house that was only five minutes away. The rule of "opposites attract" was most certainly the rule that brought us together. We were the best of friends and inseparable so far, although one would think that there would be nothing we would be able to find that attracted the both of us. Andrew was an average height, fit 21-year-old man, while I am a giant 75-inch-tall, 20-year-old. Our differences never pulled us apart too far. However, if that was ever the case, it would always be fixed come any given Wednesday night. Every Wednesday night was our night to watch whichever TV show we had agreed on binge watching, or movie we would find on Netflix, and eat wings. This was a tradition that neither of us had formally agreed on, but it was probably our strongest tradition nonetheless.

When we arrived home, we pulled up to the house still in mid-conversation about the night, and I saw a white sedan parked next to my own car. The car belonged to his girlfriend, Julia. She was a 20-year-old, very lovely girl with blonde hair-well brown, depending on what season it was. She was sweet, and fun to have around. I personally had no issues with Julia, but it was Wednesday. Any other night there would be no reason why it would be a problem to have her there, but it was Wednesday: The Night of Wings and too much TV. WEDNESDAY. Now unfortunately, and against my will, it turned into "Wed-nesday"-the two of them lounging on the loveseat as if they were wed, and me sitting on the couch adjacent to them just wishing I could eat my wings in peace. No matter who the girl belonged to, if there was a girl present, a man could never eat wings like he rabidly would in her absence. While generally we would start the 8th season of our show for the eighth time, or watch some obscure comedy, she was here, and that meant we had to find something to watch that we all agreed on. Sure, that was no problem at all, but no one really wants to compromise on a tradition. It was kind of like substituting a Christmas tree for a cactus; it's cool and all, but you would prefer a Christmas tree. Instead of choosing to endure the tricycle ride, I decided to go to my room and listen to my collection of vinyl records so I could write and dream about whichever tradition I wanted to make, at whatever time I wanted to make them.

Spinning on the record player was one of the only perfect albums that I owned. Adventures in Your Own Backyard was that one album that I could listen to however or whenever. In the dark, cleaning, sleeping, doing homework, or even writing, this one album was flawless, and every word that Patrick spoke on the album flew off in a circular motion, hitting my ears just right. Listening to "Blackwind," I couldn’t help but imagine you and me helplessly floating around in a spiraling cloud, lost while only trying to find each other. This continues until that one part of the song, where we begin to go higher and higher as his voice ascends as well. We see each other, and our eyes meet, but our fingers are still out of distance from each other. As he begins to resolve, we realize that we are no longer in danger of the uncertainty that lies beneath us because you’ve caught me and I’ve caught you. Through the "Blackwind" we grab hands, and we land safely and walk away as if nothing happened.

Finally, I found my happy place in the words of "Quiet Crowd," "Morning Sheets," and "Adventures in Your Own Backyard." I created my own tradition that only I could break when I felt it necessary or when I was ready. I could listen to this whenever I felt like I wanted to be with you, or whenever I felt lost and just wanted you to find me. I could wait for you there, and find you in the "Blackwind." Feeling finally free and fulfilled for the night, it was time for bed. Ready to sleep and continue to dream about the person that made me whole, the lights were turned out, the music was low, and my eyes were shut. The last thing missing was the image of you, because I’ve yet to know what you look like.

Morning came sooner than I was prepared, but it couldn’t break through my window barrier which was much more prepared than I. The most irritating thing when sleeping is to be woken up by the sunlight before your alarm is supposed to go off. Knowing this and fully aware of what drives me insane, I bought a curtain to simply keep the light out, and it works brilliantly. I would be lying if I said that the perpetual night time in my room never kept me asleep. There had certainly been many times that I would stay in bed past time to head for class. This morning, however, no such fortune awaited me. It was 10:20 am and I sluggishly made my way to the bathroom to relieve myself from the quick hours of hibernation. I brushed my teeth while humming the bright tune of my alarm clock and was instantly put in a great mood. Today felt hopeful. For whatever reason today felt good-better than the rest of the mediocre days we tend to live in. Today was good.

Set and ready to head out the door, I first did my pocket check just to make sure I had all the essentials. Wallet? Check. Chapstick? Check. It would continue this way until I was sure that everything I would need for this colder-than-normal fall day in Georgia I had, without having to come back home. With 20 minutes left until my class at 11:00 am, I hurried to my beautifully faded green Buick Skylark. She was a 1998, the last year model they made of the Skylark, and she was beautiful. She ran the streets better than a prized racehorse, and I held her in esteem as if she was the most expensive, luxurious car anyone could ever buy. Her name was Emma, and she was my baby. I hurried toward campus, not because it was far, but because finding parking was more difficult than a colorblind person finding Waldo amongst a crowd of inmates. It was nonsense! Every morning, car after car would pile in, desperately driven by students hoping to find a parking spot for a class they would prefer to not attend. Since I had hope in this day, evidently this day did not want to disappoint. Within 3 minutes on campus I found a parking spot reasonably close to the destination I was headed. It was not within spitting distance by any means, but it certainly was not a journey that needed a walking stick.

Walking through the doors of the Arts building was a relief that I had seemed to forget in the few minutes it took me to walk from my car to the inside of the building. So, I would not be "that guy," I took off my sunglasses and walked through the hallway at the front of the Arts and Humanities building, ready for whatever this day had in store for me. As I made it up the stairs, I saw the group of friends that I always tend to socialize with in-between classes, and regrettably enough during class as well. Saying my "hellos" and sending smiles, I continued toward my class for the day. It was without a doubt my favorite academic class this semester, Aural Skills III. Subsequently, this class was also taught by Dr. Hartley, along with two more classes out of the 11 I had for this fall semester. Dr. Hartley, again, was one of the biggest reasons that I loved this class.

As I entered the room, I saw Jack Dobbs sitting in the same seat as always, which was the seat directly to the left of the seat I choose to be mine every morning. Jack was a great guy- short, but great nonetheless. Jack made up for his lack of height by growing a beard like no other. If you couldn’t see him behind someone else, all you had to do was wait for him to turn, because he could certainly be distinguished by his beard. Jack and I had recently become friend’s due to our similar TV show taste, and what bond is greater than that, am I right? To my right was boy named Alex, a new student to the school this semester, but a guy with a great sense of humor and great talent. In this class alone, we were the three amigos-the three amigos in the back of the class.

“Today is Thursday, which means another Drop the Needle!” Jack said excitedly.

Every Thursday, Dr. Hartley would bring in a new piece that we would have to identify as a class: which time period it came from, what gave it away, and who the composer was. Although it was difficult, it was always a great time, better than busy work, and because every piece that our professor came in with was always even better than the last, and they were all phenomenal. Dr. Hartley came in just as energetic as always with his counted on “Good morning, class,” while waving the CD in his hand as if to say, “Don’t you forget about this today.”

“Alright, it’s time for the Drop the Needle, and this one is to die for.”

He would always preface each Drop the Needle with something different each time, but all saying the same thing, praising them all in their own way. He was right; every single time he was right. In no time at all did it seem like the piece had come to an end, and we all collaborated, throwing out different possible answers, just searching through our collective mind to find the correct one. Eventually, with a hint from our professor we would find the correct answer, and that would conclude the most exciting piece of the class, and sadly enough the day.

The end of Thursday came quickly since it was generally an enjoyable day. Beginning with Aural Skills, and followed directly by Jazz Ensemble lead by Dr. Nathaniel Lewis, Thursday’s academics always had some excitement. No matter how much I enjoyed what I was doing [here]? on Thursdays, I couldn’t help but continue to dread having to practice every single night in between work and school. Practice, practice, practice. The general redundancy of it all made me not want to take part in it. The truth of it all was that I was ready for something different-something that I could be newly passionate about. For a short-term fix, though, I was beyond ready to spend four weeks at home with my brothers for winter break.

It being 2:00 pm meant that I could either go home and do absolutely nothing but watch TV while my roommate was away, or I could stay on campus and practice for an hour like I should be doing in preparation for my level change. The music major level change is something that every student must go through to advance from lower level classes to upper level classes. It was a strenuous process, and it took a toll on anyone preparing for them. The process for saxophone players meant learning all of our minor scales coupled with the major scales and the arpeggios for all. If that wasn’t enough, we were also responsible for finding someone to accompany us, learning two contrasting pieces, and also choosing an academic sponsor to sit in with us (AKA the professor we knew liked us the most). Against my will and better judgment, I decided to stick it out be a good student and practice for an hour leaving me just enough time to get ready for work.

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