Before gas pumps had little TV commercials blaring out of them, and before smartphones, I used to play a game to pass the time.

1. Look at my trip odometer
2. recall my historical miles/gallon
3. calculate the number of gallons used
4. multiply by the price of gas
5. make a guess at the expected price of the fill-up, plus or minus twenty-five cents (1-3 percent), in my head

One day when I was at the gas station filling up my red Isuzu pick up truck, I realized that most people don’t do this. I don’t really know where to take this thought from here. There’s a difference in connotation between “weird” and “strange”, but honestly even both those words sound like I might be implying a form of self-pity. That story could be perceived as a humble-brag, or an outright brag, and it’s not. Being naturally math-y is like being naturally tall. If a basketball player brags he can reach the top shelf, they’re just being dense.

I wish I could explain why I wish I could explain this better. 

I’m sure some of you have “superpowers” or physical or mental games/tricks that you took for granted for years. Would you care to share them?

To those of  you who read the “game”, and say “Yeah. I get that. No biggie”, let me just say what a pleasure it has always been to be your friend. I wish we’d been more nerdy together when we had the chance.

I had a medallion of Saint Kevin, after whom I am named, for a while. My mom and brother brought it back from Saint Patrick’s cathedral in New York City when I was a tween. It was about the size of a nickel and I wore it on a let’s-call-it-silver chain. My namesake was supposedly born in 498 and lived to be 120 years old, and like me he spent a period of his life in the wilderness, bathing in lakes, and communing with animals.

I can’t say that the medal was particularly meaningful to me in a religious way, but I’m pretty sure it’s the only jewelry I ever wore. It was meaningful because it was a present from my family.  It was significant enough that I gave it to a girlfriend to wear my senior year in high school, because I did not own a school ring. It meant enough that I got it back when we broke up. It was meaningful enough that I wore it again afterwards.

My saint and I share stories from our life that are shrouded in legend. The saint is said to have aroused such passion in a local young maiden that she went to his hermit cave to seduce him. He beat her with thistle branches and she devoted herself to God.  I got so drunk visiting my brother in Newport, Rhode Island during the summer of 1989, that I attempted to fight a bouncer and was rescued from a certain beating by Jim’s girlfriend. 

While praying in the woods, the saint had a blackbird land on his hand, and build a nest. Rather than disturb the bird, he stayed in prayer until the eggs hatched, being fed berries by forest animals. I was so drunk when we got back to the apartment that I apparently  threw up in the toilet and shit in the tub, and then switched places for a repeat show. The next day, we went out for a sumptuous seafood meal which I could not eat. 

When Saint Kevin lost his prayer-book in an icy mountain lake, an otter appeared, swam to the bottom of the lake and retrieved it, undamaged in any way. When I ripped my St. Kevin’s medal from my sweaty, inebriated neck, there was no magical animal to redeem it.

I went to group therapy for a semester or so in college. Maybe it started late sophomore year but definitely junior year. I don’t remember exactly why I went to the campus counseling center. Honestly I can’t remember what I was feeling that I made the appointment. I was in a relationship that ultimately wasn’t particularly healthy and ended weirdly, but I don’t think I had any sense of that at the time. I was very grounded in my friend group, which was also the group from the Newman House, and those are still my most meaningful friendships from college. I wish I could remember, but I can’t.

Let’s assume it was about the relationship, because the doctor recommended I join the men’s group therapy. We met weekly or every other week, and most of what we talked about was relationships. Maybe it was just me. 

(Sidenote: privacy is tricky. I want to balance the meaningful parts of “my story“ with respecting that other people are more than merely supporting characters in my memory. They certainly were more than supporting characters in my life. That’s doubly true for the members of my therapy groups privacy, and triply true for past romantic relationships. I’m going to struggle to tell this well.)

There were two other guys in the group who I could recognize if I met them today. There were several other really good, really introspective men in the group who I would like to meet again, but they have faded. Spike (not his name) was memorable because he wound up in the group for his anger problem. While being broken up with by an ex, he got angry and punched the engineering building. When I met him his hand was literally full of pins from the recent reconstructive surgery. I suspect he has punched more hardened concrete structures in the past thirty years. I’m not really one to judge, because I’m not sure I made any breakthroughs either.

Guy number two I remember because he was the ex-boyfriend of the woman I was dating. We hadn’t met socially, but we both knew who was who. We met in group for months and never talked about it to each other or the group. At one point during a rocky patch in my relationship, the rocky patch was him. We never talked about it. Then one day we did. I think I announced that we had broken up, and then mentioned that now we were both exes. Or something similarly passive aggressive masked in “humor”. This is all really sketchy recollection. When I dropped that bomb, the group was pissed! It got tense. The doc running the group tore me a new one right there, and pointed out how we had effectively betrayed the group trust by not revealing it. He was right of course. The other guys were mad as well.

That wasn’t the actual end of group, but it’s the last thing I remember. I don’t remember how and when the group ended, or if I just stopped going. It may have just petered out with a semester break. I remember “enjoying“ the group and I must’ve learned some lessons from it. Having said that, I’m not sure the women who I dated between the ages of 20 and 25 would agree that I got anything out of it.

Oh pitcher, you are made by a graceful hand, and I can’t decide which would be more lovely: the hand that created you, or the water that would pour from your lip. I have picked you up and held you in my own hands, roughened by rocks climbed, and splintered by wood shaped, for the safety of the clients of Genesee Valley OLC. 

You need a home, but is mine the one? My horse-stall at the Outdoor Learning Center is little more shelter from the elements than this flimsy tent stall at the Baltimore Arts Festival, and the sun might scar the purple glazing of your neck. How would I protect your delicately curved handle, upon which a string tag twists a price in mockery? Thirty five dollars is almost ten-percent of my monthly pay, and I have no running water. Would you be satisfied with filling from a duck pond? Your majesty is rival to that Canada Goose that threatened me when I strayed close to her nest? How could I protect you, if it were to dive-bomb while I cradled you in my arms;  your shell encasing my own hopes for the future? 

If another takes you home, you will not fill from a pump and be carried across the uneven swale-wet ground risking a stumble on the white moon-reflecting rock. They would not ask you to share a shelf with a mouse who has babies in their underwear box, I suspect. Their friends would not ogle you, and wonder how much beer you could hold. But would they long for you like I do? Would you symbolize the elegance missing from the life of a man who came in second place for days without a shower? 

No. 

The water I do not drink from you will be sweet, and perfect, and cool on my lips forever. You will be a fantasy of perfection; a cup that I let pass through cowardice. I will protect you and myself by giving your protection to another. I will put you down; back down on the folding table, and walk away, leaving you full of what I am losing with this choice.

“OKAY EVERYONE, WELCOME! LISTEN UP! HOW MANY OF YOU HAVE PLAYED ‘ROCK PAPER SCISSORS?’ MOST OF YOU…GOOD! WELL TODAY WE’RE PLAYING A BETTER VERSION OF THAT, PLUS TAG! TODAY WE’RE GOING TO GET STARTED WITH A GAME OF GIANTS, WIZARDS AND DWARVES. I’M KEVIN, AND I’M GOING TO EXPLAIN THE RULES OF THE GAME TO YOU ALL! MY ASSISTANTS WILL SPLIT YOU UP INTO TWO GROUPS, AND THEN EACH GROUP WILL HUDDLE UP AND DECIDE IF YOU ARE A GROUP OF GIANTS WHO STOMP (I stretch out tall and raise my arms above my head), DWARVES WHO CHOP (I crouch down low and hold an imaginary axe) OR WIZARDS WHO CAST LIGHTNING (I hold my arms out Emperor Palpatine-style). AS EVERYONE KNOWS GIANTS STOMP WIZARDS, WIZARDS FRY DWARVES, AND DWARVES CHOP GIANTS (I do the poses again). AFTER YOU PICK, YOUR TEAM WILL LINE UP FACE TO FACE AGAINST THE OTHER TEAM. ON THE COUNT OF THREE, BOTH TEAMS WILL STRIKE THEIR POSES. REMEMBER, THE WHOLE TEAM DOES THE SAME POSE!! IF YOUR TEAM ‘WON’, GO TAG THE OPPONENT AND THEY’LL JOIN YOU ON THE WINNING SIDE. IF YOU LOST, TURN AND RUN TO FIGHT ANOTHER TIME. MY ASSISTANTS WILL DESIGNATE THE SAFE LINES.”

From the springs of 1993 to 1994, I lived and worked at Genesee Valley Outdoor Learning Center, in northern Maryland. It was a ropes course, if you know what that is. It was part adventure, part school, part camp, part teambuilding center, part working farm. It’s operating, by the way. So while I say “it was”, I think “it still is” but I’m sure the parts mixture has changed a bit in 25 years. We had clients that ranged from federal agency and corporate team building sessions to small groups of therapy groups for at-risk kids. 

You’ll be unsurprised to know that school field trips were the largest part of the gig. While I was there, Chelsea Clinton was a junior-high student, and although I didn’t work with her or her classmates, I remember the secret service agents wandering around the farm for two days, like the world’s fittest and most protective dads. 

The place was in the middle of nowhere, so everyone arrived after an hour on the bus or in the car. People would land full of pent up energy, anxiety, and urine, so before any of that overflowed, or the rules got laid down, we’d try to get them out of their before mood and into a headspace more suitable for a day of challenging fun. Out of the gravel parking lot at the top of the hill, we’d lead everyone to the other side of the wood-rail fence into the giant farm field, and get everyone good and goofy. In small groups of 5-10 you warm up with jokey games of “frog-and-handkerchief” and with a couple dozen you play a rousing round of “zombie-soccer” or “popsy-the-egg” depending on the age-group.

When a fleet of busses disgorges the entire sophomore class at 9am you’ve got a challenge. You’ve got yourself a crowd for a good game of “Giants, Wizards, and Dwarves.” 

At some point while I was working, that’s what happened. I don’t remember what grade, or what school, but I know it was a couple hundred teens, teachers and parents. It was big. I don’t remember exactly when, but I know it was after my brother Jim had been working as a parade adjutant at the Marine Corps Barracks Washington. The reason that is germane is because Jim had to practice his “loud voice” to project out over a parade ground crowd. Now my loud voice came naturally, but I’m always willing to learn a few tips from people who have to yell over the sound of explosions. 

So go back and read out the intro and instructions.  Imagine someone trying to be a cross between a drill sergeant and a head cheerleader. Now imagine that coming out of Anthony Michael Hall’s character from Sixteen Candles. That’s probably about right. I thought I was so cool. 

Each round one team would grow smaller and smaller, until there were just a few intrepid holdouts lining up to face an overwhelming phalanx of classmates. Now that I think about it, I think instead of going ‘one, two, three’, or  ‘ready, set go’ each round started with them going through all the poses for practice then committing to their team’s choice. 

“READY? GIANT….WIZARD…DWARF…GO!”

During Industrial Arts class in eighth grade, we spent several weeks doing metal working, which was mainly bending and cutting sheet metal to make a tool box, I think. I spent one two entire classes making ninja throwing stars. I got away with that. I kept them in a green plastic filing box of “secrets” under my bed. I used to throw them at a board in my back yard, until the thin metal bent. 

Later, during woodworking, at the urging of another classmate who I was trying to impress, I tried to make a pipe to smoke pot. I’m sure junior high kids must attempt this all the time. The teacher apparently watched me the entire time, and busted me, very discreetly. I never got in any trouble for it. Whether he knew I was doing it to impress another student, I don’t know.

One summer night before the millennium changed Michele and I had tickets to see Cirque du Soleil in Houston. Before they were an over-commercialized Vegas show, they had a traveling show tent set up in the Astrodome parking lot, and getting to see them seemed like a big, avant-garde deal. The entire show was a weird magical fantasy and if you haven’t seen a cirque show you definitely should and blah blah blah…

The main reason I wanted to go was because my favorite juggler had been a consultant and helped them design a new juggling routine that was designed to express waves on the ocean. I’m including that piece of detail so you have more evidence as to exactly how huge a nerd I am. 

The thing that really amazed Michele and I was two performers that we still refer to as Adam and Eve. They performed a series of acrobatic and balletic balances and lifts that I don’t have the skill to capture in writing. They were physically beautiful, as many athletic bodies are, and painted in neutral, white, marble-like makeup from head to toe. The indelible thing was that it was done in such slow motion. I’ve googled a bit and though there are many iterations on YouTube, none of the videos captures what I remember exactly.  What I remember is more a series of sculptures than a dance. This act took place close to where we sat. The transitions between poses were honey-slow, and we could see perfectly, so each muscle twitch of strain was just as stunning as every rock-still hold. Their intimacy was more than just physical proximity, it was their connectedness. The trust and support they must have given each other each show was insane. I’m sure there was music, because it was a Cirque show, but my memory of it is entirely visual. I’ve frequently thought about how profound seeing that particular act, just as we began our marriage was: so much of being a partner is holding as still as you can, bearing the weight of the other, trusting them to keep you in balance, while your muscles tremble.

I’m three years younger than Jim, so my freshman year in high school was his senior year. The friend of his that I was most comfortable with had been friends with him since kindergarten, so I’d known Rob for essentially my entire life. Rob was always very good to me as a fellow youngest brother, so I expressed my teen gratitude to him by being a huge sarcastic pain in the ass.

Early in the school year, when high school life was still an emotionally fraught soup of anxiety and social confusion, I saw Rob in the West Cafeteria. The West Cafeteria was the “cool” cafeteria that had been remodeled to look like a mall food-court. I don’t remember my brief conversation with Rob, but it ended with him making a brotherly lunge at me, probably for a noogie or other testosteroney exchange. I turned to run from him, tripped over my own two feet, and watched my armload of books and binders spill out all over the speckled vinyl composite floor. As I fell in slow motion, I remember it being the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen…

… except that it wasn’t. In my memory it’s an instant revelation as I laid out on my tummy, but it’s more likely something that percolated over the next day or week. No one cared. The expected mockery montage never came. The need to live it down never had to happen. A whole room may have seen a nerdy kid fall over, but they all had better things to do then remember it. The literal scene from a sit-com or school dramedy happened, but there was no pointing and laughing. It was very freeing.  I can’t say that I am more immune to embarrassment than the average person. I am certainly just as susceptible to a surge of adrenaline that comes from expecting to look like a fool in front of a stranger. It just doesn’t stick. I learned the Ridikkulus spell when I fell down, and defeated the boggart inside me.

(This terrible cheesy ending is entirely the fault of my inability to concentrate because of the playlist I’ve linked below. I put my headphones on tonight for two reasons. First to keep my cat from meowing at me while I write. Second to get into the high-school mood. I googled 1987 greatest hits and got the generic knock-off cover version playlist below. It’s an amazing alloy of bad and cheesy in a way that you must experience yourself. 

https://play.google.com/music/listen#/album/Bciuaao5plyjj53h7fjeqhllwvy/Various+Artists/Top+Hits+1987

At some point between the time my parents bought me a Commodore 64 and the time I started trying to make my own games, I played a text based adventure game. The most famous text games are the Zork series, and this was a cheap knock off. It was fine.

If you’re not familiar with text adventure games, here’s a quick tutorial: 

Everything is words. You move by typing in move north or move south or east or west. Every time you move you need to tell the computer you’re looking around. It tells you what objects you see or find. You tell the computer what objects you want to interact with and then it gives you a description. From all that you slowly piece together that you’re in a puzzle, and assemble information to solve it. Think badly written Sherlock Holmes choose your own adventure.

Pretty sure this was a science-fiction game that started me off on an abandoned plane. That’s not the important part. What I remember about playing it was how lost I was when it started, figuratively and literally. 

I remember stumbling from location to location without logic, filling my head with a messy  collage of objects and descriptions that left me confused. The world seemed huge and overwhelming. This was way before you could get information online, and even computer magazines where I probably could’ve gotten hints and tricks were just starting.

Eventually I broke out a notebook and markers and began systematically exploring. I went as far south as the computer would let me, and then started moving north one “space“ at a time until I hit the limit. I repeated for East-West, until I had the boundaries of the world. I can see my hand written grid map on the spiral notebook page, and recall how flummoxed I was to find out that the whole world was only a 10 x 10 grid. This gave me the edges of the puzzle. By systematically exploring each grid  space I could fill in the pieces of the world that I could picture and stop getting lost in. I don’t really remember what the plot and solution of the game were, because they were anti-climactic compared to the labor and value of mapping it out. That game was one of the few things I attempted mastery at in my teens, where perfection was the goal (besides math tests). 

The other vivid memory is typing “Fuck” into the game. The first time, it gave a firm but polite warning about using bad words, and requested I not do so again. Of course, I did so again. The screen, and it’s border, started rapidly shifting colors (it was connected to a 14-inch TV, maybe) and the game quit back to the C: prompt. It was very startling, and quite effective, especially since it didn’t save the game before quitting. I did not do so again-again. 

The lesson here, in Doogie Houser style is that problems often seem huge and overwhelming until you get a chance to map them out. Also, randomly typing “fuck” usually doesn’t net you much. Most people on the internet would benefit from learning both of these. I’d settle for either.

Rick Miller sent an email out to me Jim Papa and Dan Montuori, reminding us that this past week was the 30th anniversary of a camping trip we took the summer of 1990. He’s trying to get the New York guys together for a reboot of it, which I think is fantastic, and makes me want to be back there, in more than just memory. 

Here’s the funny thing: I have only a couple fragments of memory from that trip. One of the things in the email that the other three guys all referenced I have no recollection of. Even typing this makes me uncomfortable, because I know those guys will read it.

The most important thing I remember from the trip is that it was cut short. We were still hiking up the mountain when Rick stumbled and cut his knee cap open on a rock. We could see his bone through the skin. He tied a bandanna around his knee for a bandage, I think, although even as I say that, I realize that I had just come off of Outward Bound and had a wilderness first aid certification. I was probably nerdy enough to be carrying a fanny pack of wilderness medicine crap with me. I actually can’t wait to hear what they say about that, because my memory is suspect on the issue. Anyway we headed home. 

The other fragmentary set of memories I have are not flattering to me. Again, I need to express my nervous feelings as I put this down. I think I acted like a dick that trip. I had literally just gotten off of a month-long intense super crunchy granola back-to-the -earth spiritual hiking course. And I was a literal sophomore in college (I had just finished technically) and as you know all 20-year-olds instantaneously have moral certainty about whatever they had just learned a little of. The rest of the guys were looking forward to a fun reunion of high school buddies, and I was very judgey that they “weren’t camping right“. I know we hiked up with beer, and I was so not happy with them. Also, because “I was the expert“ I piled a bunch of expectations and responsibilities on myself, and that somehow I was the leader, because we were in the woods. Looking back at it it’s so easy to see what bullshit that was. We were literally on a mountain that Rick had chosen because it was near a part of the Adirondacks that he grew up hiking, yet somehow I imagined myself in charge. I was never the leader of this group in high school, if we had a leader. This story illustrates so much about the weird mix of overconfidence and fragility I was at that age. Honestly examining that little section of story I see so much of the baggage that I would wrestle with when I started teaching at Chinquapin four years later.

The tragic part isn’t the memory of the twenty year old person I was; it’s how the memories crowd out the marvelous twenty year old guys I was with. They were much of the bedrock of my high school experience and development. It might be that I pulled away subconsciously. It’s possible that weekend may have been the beginning of the natural change in our relationship that was going to happen with time. That doesn’t make it any less poignant.

On the off chance that any of those guys read this, and feel like they owe me anything for the 30-year-old feelings of a twenty-year old man, I want to preemptively say “I’m sorry”. My love for you, and the wonderful guys you were, and are, is timeless. Honestly the fact that you are still friends back home in New York is a thing that brings me peace and joy in the moments when I sit quietly.