Write Night

I'm sitting in a booth across from one of my oldest friends, laptop open, writing.  She's writing, too.  

We got here at 6 pm.  It is now 8:40 pm, and we'll stay until closing.  This is our weekly ritual for over a year now.  We reconnected after she moved back from Colorado.  In the process of catching up, we discovered we both had story projects we were slacking on.  To motivate each other (and our friendship) we became accountability partners.

We waste a lot of time.  We get a lot done.  Some nights we're pouring words out on computer screens, other nights we talk and surf those same screens.

I enjoy Write Night more than I can say.  It is what I look forward to every week.

Write night is like college when I used to meet up with friends in the SUB. I was always in the student union before, between, and after class.  There were always things to work on, but mostly I was there for the people.

The SUB was magical to me, fully accessible to coffee and food.  No invitation needed; yet, you were soon surrounded by a party of friends, as though by plan.

The colors were muted, and the walkways covered with a faded blue carpet. I didn't love the carpet, but I didn't pay much attention to it either.  When they replaced it with an abstract, dizzying design, I paid a lot of attention.  I raged for worn down blue.   But as the new carpet faded, so did my preoccupation with steel loop fabric.

Friends filtered in and out of the SUB; to study or to chat.  It was like the days when neighbors weren't strangers; when guests dropped in throughout the day, sharing stories and tea or coffee.

Students studied, avoided studying, cried, began and ended relationships, and even slept in the SUB.  Often, nothing happened, and yet anything could.

On September 11, 2001, televisions were set up all over the SUB.  Every day we marched solemnly past News programs replaying each crash over and over.  We stared at screens waiting for updates.  Loud voices were quickly hushed.  But in time that atmosphere faded and the voices of students competed with those of the News Anchors.  It wasn't long before we came to school and the TVs were gone. Often, nothing happened, and yet anything could.

One day a student pulled the leg of a dead horse from her bag and set in on a nearby table.  They had to shoot her sick horse, she explained to a wide eyed friend.  She kept the leg for an upcoming biology presentation. Often, nothing happened, and yet anything could.

I spoke to my father for the last time from the SUB.  I called the VA Hospital from a public-use phone.  I called to tell him I wouldn't be visiting that night.  It was late and I just wanted to go home.

I miss the SUB. I left many things behind there; but, you lose what you love, you're still expected to move forward.  As much as I try, my progress is painfully slow.  After 15 years it can still feel like nothing will ever be good again.  But that's a lie.  Good again is in your path and mine.

For now I meet with my friend once a week to write.  I laugh together with my mother.  I let my friends know I love them.  I run away from, and pursue, 'good again.' But no matter what, 'good again' finds me; often on these nights pouring words onto computer screens.