Foreword and Chapter 1

FOREWORD

My name is Tim Girard.

Beginnings are always difficult. The end is easy, either because it’s the most recent and it’s still fresh in your memory, or it’s the most exciting or interesting. Chances are, it’s what happens in the end that makes you want to tell the story to begin with. The beginning is just all the exposition crap you have to go through, just so you can justify what happens in the end. Beginnings are boring and full of unrecognizable foreshadowing that only makes sense in retrospect. Most of the beginning I don’t even want to try to remember because it pales in comparison to what was eventually to come.

Is my story even worth telling? I think so. I think that what I have become and why will be very significant in the near future, so it’s important to know how I got here. Maybe it’s just out of loneliness. This could be the result of not having anyone to really talk to for a long time. An attempt at appealing to a larger audience in the hope that someone out there has seen what I’ve seen and know what I know. Then I won’t feel that time was wasted. Maybe one of you is looking for what I am looking for and like me you’ve thought you’ve found it countless times, only to realize you are now even more lost than before.

Oh well, the only way to begin is to begin…

BOOK I

CHAPTER 1

My story starts like most other days for me: I was running late for class. I was a Super Senior (fifth year) at the University of Rhode Island working towards a Music Composition degree and I lived off campus. I was on Route 1 north, waiting at the stoplight to turn left onto 138 west and time seemed to stand still. That must be what it would be like if you were conscious while you slept, to be sitting still for a long period of time with no discernable way to tell just how much time has gone by. Don’t get me wrong, I was checking my watch constantly, but I think time moves differently when you are sitting still. Finally the light turns green, but apparently no one in front of me is in as big of a hurry as I am. Plus you’d be surprised how many people forget that “GREEN” means ”GO”.

Now the drive along 138 has the potential to be a very beautiful enjoyable ride, but not when you are late for your 1 o’clock class (that’s right, I overslept for a 1 o’clock class, that’s me, deal with it). It’s fall and there are lots of trees all along both sides of the road, so the colors are stunning…not to me, not today. I am able to relax a little however when I’m able to pick up some speed and cruise along at a fairly reasonable amount over the speed limit. That is until, for no apparent reason, the car in front of me suddenly brakes and slows to a speed well below the speed limit requiring me to slam on my brakes and join his pointless deceleration. Oh, and just a side note, my car, a 1980 Buick Skylark, had been dead for some time so I was driving my parents’ Dodge Ram Van. So that’s a lot of extra weight to bring to a crawl. This slower speed also gave all my frustration that I left behind a chance to catch up with me, as well as adding the anxiety of almost hitting the car. I check my watch again, like knowing what time it is will help get me there faster, and think out loud how I would like to know what it is like to be on time for this class.

After what seems like an unnecessarily long amount of time, and another slow light, I’m in the home stretch. I turn right onto the back road behind campus, stop and rush through the stop sign, turn left, race the engine and then turn right into the parking lot behind the Fine Arts Center (from here on affectionately referred to as the FAC) and…the van stalls. Oh, I’m not kidding, apparently if you are going fast and then turn and decelerate at the same time she doesn’t like that and goes into total shutdown, which includes the power steering and power brakes. So here I am, late for class, standing on the brakes and pulling the wheel with all my might, so I don’t smash into the car that’s leaving the parking lot as I’m trying to enter it. Once I am able to regain control, stop and restart the van, now it’s time to zip (and when you’re talking about a van ‘zip’ is a relative term) up and down the aisles looking for a spot. Now here’s the thing with the FAC parking lot: it’s usually full. At this point everyone has already parked and gone to class for this hour, or has already left from their class that ended last hour, so because I’m late, I’m probably S.O.L. What’s that you say? “Maybe if you didn’t come so late you would have a spot.” Here’s the thing, if I got here on time, I would be fighting with everyone else who has a class this hour for a spot, in addition to the traffic of everyone leaving, both vehicular and pedestrian. Oh, you think you still have the answer do you? “If you come early, you can beat the rush.” Oh my God you are so smart, why didn’t I think of that!? Oh wait, I did. If you get here too early, the lot is full because everyone has already parked and gone to class for this hour, or has already left from their class that ended last hour. (Does it sound like I’m repeating myself? It irritates me as much as it does you, believe me.) It’s this vicious cycle and the only answer is to actually have enough parking spots for everyone who goes to your school. Sorry, I digress.

So I’m frantically looking for a spot and eventually I find one waaaaay in the back. I now go through my routine of unbuckling my seatbelt, putting the car in park, rolling up the window, turning off the engine and taking out the key grabbing my bag off the seat, opening the door and locking it, jumping out, and then shutting the door all in one fluid motion. It’s really quite beautiful actually, like a ballet. Now it’s time to check my watch again (to tell you the truth, I don’t know the purpose of this) as I mad dash at top speed across the parking lot to the FAC.

I get to the door yank it open and run through making an almost immediate left as some of my friends call to me but I tell them I can’t talk I’m late for class but ask them if they’re coming to the party at my house on Friday they say yes I’m still running and around the next left more people yell to me and I remind them about the party as I run down the ramp I grab the handle to the door on my right and pull expecting it to open but it sticks and doesn’t open and that hurts my shoulder but I give another hard pull and it gives so I yank it open and lunge through it and bolt up the stairs three at a time my shoes squeaking to the door and grab the doorknob and…nothing.

The door is locked. So now, instead of sneaking in quietly, I have to knock on the door, and disrupt the class, alerting everyone to my tardiness. By the way, this isn’t some big lecture class you can sneak in the back of and the professor doesn’t know you. It’s a classroom with less than twenty students, and it’s a music class, so the professor definitely knows me. There’s nothing else I can do so I suck it up and knock as quickly and quietly as possible. The student sitting closest to the door opens it for me and I come in with my head hanging low, still hoping that maybe no one will see me. Yeah. No such luck. All eyes are on me. I finally meet the gaze of my professor.

“Sorry,” I say as I make my way to an empty seat.
“Mister Girard,” He looks at his watch, “You know it is quarter after already.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I slip into the chair.
“This is the third time you realize.”
“I…Uh…Never again,” as I start to unzip my bag but the zipper sticks.
“Well I’m counting on it.”
“Sorry,” still tugging at the zipper.
He holds his gaze a little longer, then, “So, where was I? Oh, yeah…”

He goes on with his lecture as I yank the zipper and it opens, spilling most of my stuff onto the floor. I scramble to get everything I don’t need for this class back into my bag and find the right notebook so I won’t get any more behind in the notes.

After class I take a minute to organize my things that I crammed into my bag. A few students were waiting to talk to the professor, so I knew I would be safe from another disappointed look. I finally sneak out and head down the stairs and out the door back to the van. Next it’s time for me to drive half an hour to work at the Warwick Mall Structure, where in addition to cashing people out, I had to endlessly fold clothes (now I know how my mom felt), and pretend like these clothes make me, and everyone that wears them, a better person. Now don’t get me wrong, I did like the clothes, that’s why I started working there. I guess it’s probably like this with all retail jobs, but I’m still confused as to why, I was required to be a whore. But, it was a job and being a college student doesn’t leave many opportunities outside of retail, and there are worse jobs.

And everyone needs money, right?