Tales from Beyond the Lost Semester - Volume 1

As my nine readers probably know by now, Tales from the Lost Semester has quickly become a runaway smash hit within the blog community. Thousands of emails pour into newsandnotes@hotmail.com on a daily basis from crazed fans begging to be placed on the distribution list (sign up now!) of this fabulous blog, while several book publishers have entered into a bidding war for the rights to these hilarious, true-to-life tales of bad grades and good bud, certain that they have the makings of the next classic American novel.

Were any of this actually true, I might be sitting pretty right now with a fat commission check for my next three books, invitations to sit on numerous panels discussing the horrors of fraternity hazing and the medicinal benefits of marijuana, and the adoration of doting fans from sea to shining sea. However, this being reality, we all know that this isn’t the case. I know of perhaps five people who regularly comment on this site, leading me to believe that my readership lies somewhere south of the nine I constantly brag about. To date, I have received two emails asking to be put on the distribution list. And while my pipe dream is to someday author a book about these experiences, I feel that my current portfolio couldn’t get me past the reception desk at any reputable publisher. As I like to say, “Woe is me.” The truth is, I don’t need to waste time whining about all this crap – there are stories to be told and laughs to be had! That being said, over this past glorious holiday weekend during which America turned 229, loyal reader Mary voiced the following concern regarding Tales from the Lost Semester, specifically Volume 3:

“While your story about Hell Week was good, I was extremely disappointed that you didn’t fold in your initial encounter with your dorky roommate.”

Despite my best efforts to convince her that I had a very specific agenda for the Tales – that they were to represent the best stories from the actual Lost Semester – Mary’s point was that there was so much else out there that needed to be told. Whether for contextual purposes, or merely to provide cheap laughs, stories like this Roommate Summit deserved to be put down in writing and preserved as a guideline to future generations of when you should consider an emergency roommate switch. It is with this in mind that I introduce my new series: Tales from Beyond the Lost Semester.

OK, I realize that I’ve got several balls in the air, and that I may be biting off way more than I can chew here. My primary goal is to get through the 20+ volumes of Tales from the Lost Semester that I had mapped out in my head before committing myself to any additional efforts. However, to Mary’s point there are just some stories outside the confines of the Lost Semester that should, no, MUST be told. Whether they lead up to the Lost Semester or serve as a byproduct of it, there is some value in each in every one – mainly the fact that getting them off my chest helps me along with the healing process. Therefore, allow me to kick off this new sub-series with the often-told, never tedious story of…

Big Tim

As told in Volume 3 of Tales from the Lost Semester, despite my best efforts to sabotage my future and my social life, I was able to gain attendance into a great school (Illinois), as well as secure housing at a dorm that would be able to provide me with a normal social life (Hopkins Hall). During the summer of ’92, as I flagged traffic and shoveled asphalt on my way to unimagined riches, I received about 476 pieces of correspondence from the U of I regarding the upcoming semester. One of these bits of information was a letter that contained the name and home address of the individual who was to be my roommate – Tim Barker (not his real last name). Tim hailed from south suburban Chicagoland, an area I knew little to nothing about given my west suburban upbringing, my dad’s company’s tendency to bid jobs in the city and north/west/northwest suburbs, and my perceived lack of necessity to ever visit the intersection of LaGrange Rd and 143rd Street. However, I thought myself to be quite open-minded and tried my best to mentally prepare myself for any number of possibilities – how different from me can this guy really be, I wondered. This is a question that would not remain unanswered for long.

Once I got Tim’s name in the mail, I thought it would be logical to look him up, call him, see what kind of hand I’d been dealt and figure out who would bring what to create the ultimate dorm room experience. Much to my pleasant surprise, I received a phone call one July evening from none other than Tim Barker himself! “Great,” I thought, “let’s get this shit figured out.” We started the conversation by exchanging general pleasantries, finding out what each other’s majors would be (his was Engineering), determining what our musical tastes were (his were ghastly – mostly Bon Jovi, Styx and other crap of the like), and hashing out who would bring what to campus (I volunteered my boom box stereo, and Tim said he had a TV for us, albeit a bit worn down by his own admission, but a TV nonetheless).

After settling most of what we needed to settle, we kept talking in the hopes of finding out exactly what we were both getting in a roommate. The important thing you must know about Tim is that the sound of his voice is very…I don’t know…‘strange’ might be the best word. It’s nearly impossible to describe in writing, but imagine if you will the sound of someone whispering, but at normal volume with a deep underlying voice and perpetual out-of-breath undertones (seriously, if you’ve heard me do the impersonation before, you know exactly what I’m talking about – if not, ask me the next time you see me and I’ll lay it on you). At any rate, it is like no voice I have ever heard prior or since – bonechilling to say the least.

As we began to delve further into what made us click, I slowly began to realize that Tim was not someone I would have been very likely to hang out with had we attended the same school: He didn’t play sports (except for badminton), we liked completely different types of music (I mean, I like Styx’s “Blue Collar Man”, but anything past that is a stretch), he liked to work in really lame jokes and laugh at his own work in the progress (I laugh at my own jokes too, but hey, I’m funny) – we just didn’t seem to be clicking. At one point, we had the following exchange:

Tim: Do you like to play cards?

J: Well, to tell you the truth, the only card games I’ve ever played are drinking games.

Tim: Oh, well, I’ve never had a beer in my life.

My immediate reaction was, “Oh shit, major red flag – a roommate that does not party.” After hyperventilating for a couple of minutes, I soon snapped back to reality and convinced myself that there were indeed people in this world, normal people, who didn’t have their first experience with alcohol in a suburban park when they were 13 years old. That being said, I tried as hard as I possibly could to keep an open mind, to find some common ground, to really give this guy a chance. And that’s when the shit hit the fan.

Tim: Hey Jason, can I ask you a question?

J: (growing nervous) Uh, sure…

Tim: Do you like to hang mobiles from ceiling?

J: (after approximately 14 seconds of silence) E...e...excuse me?

Tim: Do you like to hang mobiles from ceiling?

At this point, I could practically hear his devilish smile through the phone, as if he were chomping at the bit prior to revealing the grandest of punchlines known to mankind. Stunned beyond the point of reason, I meekly offer my response:

J: Um, no…but if you want to bring yours down, that’s cool…

Tim: Well (the sound of his smile was louder than a Bon Jovi encore at this point), that might be a problem for me because…I’m six-foot-six.

And there it was. Not only was I moving away from home for the first time ever to go live with a non-drinking Engineering student with poor taste in music and a horrific sense of humor – he also had 13 fucking inches on me. So much for backasswards luck, eh J?

From that point the call quickly wrapped up, mainly because I had to get off the phone before I either started to laugh hysterically or sob uncontrollably. Needless to say, Tim and I had zero more conversations until our historic first meeting when my dad dropped me off at school in late-August (of course, Dad was as cordial as can be when meeting Tim, and on his way out he seemed to have this grin on his face that said, “boy, you’re in for some fun!”). Given that we spent the entire Pre-Lost Semester together, you can bet your ass that I have a few more tales to share regarding the phenomenon that is, was and always shall be…Big Tim.

Until next time…