2003-04-29 - 5:11 p.m.
The End of the Tunnel
When I was 19, I had just been kicked out of school for the first time and I really had no idea what to do with myself. After a month of couch-surfing in Providence, I went to a party that some RISD kids were throwing in honor of Beltaine (a.k.a. May Day). It was at midnight, in the bus tunnel that runs up College Hill from South Main to Thayer.
Halfway up the tunnel there were a bunch of torches. There were giant dragon puppets and pagan girls dancing around with candles. There was a big circle of drummers in masks. Insufferable types might call it �tribal�, but really, it was a lot of fun.
So fun that a police officer came by to visit. A drummer in a papier mache dog�s head decided to try drumming on him. The cop was not amused and grabbed the drumsticks. The drumming kid went ballistic and hurled himself at the cop. Both tumbled to the ground grappling in the middle of the drummers� circle.
The crowd went wild, screaming, cheering, banging on drums, waving around torches and puppets. It was one of the coolest things I�d ever seen. Eventually, the kid was cuffed and dragged off.
When the police showed up in force, the torchlight was replaced with cold flashlight beams. The Mace was surprisingly subtle. Too bad my nose kind of itched. Too bad my eyes seemed to have started watering. In fact, too bad my face felt like it was sloughing off. Everyone started to run down the hill out of the tunnel. I didn�t see anyone I had come with and started following the pagan girl with the candle. Everyone looks more attractive with their eyes watering red and snot flowing freely.
Outside, shockingly enough, there was now an angry mob in the open instead of an enclosed and dancing group. People began to hop up on police cruisers, to kick in the windshields. �Do you want some water?� said the pagan girl. �My dorm�s right here.�
We washed up and went back out to watch the rioting for a bit. Back at RISD, I perused the usual trappings of an art-school dorm room � pet ferrets, Gothic posters, a giant Exacto for cutting foam core, notebooks filled with depressed scribbling. At the time, I suppose, I found all this rather attractive. One thing, of course, led to another.
At some moment of transition, she giggled about not knowing if she should trust someone she just met. Well, I pointed out, you�re the one with the giant blade. Giggle. I felt something cold on the back of my neck. �Uh. Whatcha got there?�
Three things occurred to me in the silence at that moment: I was hundreds of miles from home. No one knew where I was. And nothing would ever again turn out the way I thought it would. She let me squirm for a minute and put it away.
That was ten years ago. A lot has happened since and I am a very different man. I no longer drift from couch to futon. I can�t run from police anymore. I don�t hop in bed with strange Goths. I make a home wherever I am. But one constant has remained: nothing has ever turned out the way I expected.
It�s funny how things come around. On the tenth anniversary of this lesson, the night of April 30, 2003, I�m walking through the tunnel again. This time, I�ll go all the way through. I hope you�ll join me at that bar on Steeple St. beforehand for food and drink and see what you find at the end.
(c) 2003 Geoff Gladstone
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