The Good Life

by Matthew Holden

To my parents, for without them nothing I do would be possible.

hat do you want to do today? my dad asked. It was the summer of 2007, and I was going into my senior year of high school. We were in New York City for a campus visit; the previous day had been spent touring some of New York Universitys campus buildings, which were dispersed throughout downtown Manhattan. Big city life was something I had dreamed of as a kid. My dad traveled constantly for work, and I was always picking his brain about the new places he got to see. When I told him I wanted to try and get into NYU, he was ecstatic that I had set my sights so high. Our hotel room looked out over Central Park. I couldnt really appreciate it at the time, but a room like that was hard to come by. After getting dressed, I stood by the window, in awe of just how big the park was given how small the island of Manhattan was geographically. I dont care. Ill do whatever you want to do, I said. My dad had found success in the logistics business, which required him to travel all over the country to discuss trains, trailers, and barges. He loved New York City, but he could never live there. He was a big bear of a man with a 64 frame who grew up in the small town of Brookston, Ind., where his high school graduating class had 43 people. He was accustomed to having enough space to spread his legs; New York didnt offer that. This short-lived vacation into big city life meant he got live a little, even if that meant doing something mundane. Hey, you want anything from this mini-fridge? Im going to have one of these Diet Cokes, my dad said. I might even have one of these candy bars too. Arent those really overpriced? I asked sheepishly. I was bummed

about having to go back home the next day and also because I had no idea what I wanted to do on my last day in the city. Who cares, he said. Its not like your mom is here to yell at us about it. My mom hadnt worked since shortly after I was born, but she was always getting on my dads case about his spending habits. It was never his money, but rather our money, and he was okay with that. We started laughing as I reached for a Coke. Theres something about it being overpriced that makes it all the more sweet. Come on, lets go downstairs and ask the receptionist if there is anything we should see before we leave tomorrow, my dad said, heading to the door. Spontaneous behavior was something that was absent from our lives in the Midwest. I could tell he missed it. Growing up in West Lafayette, Ind., meant our options were limited when it came to things to do and places to eat. Although it was home to Purdue University, I never saw that side of the city growing up. Harrison High School, where I was a student, was so rural that a cow pasture next to the school meant sometimes the smell would permeate our noses on the way home. Excuse me, miss? my dad said to the receptionist. Could you see what concerts are in town tonight? My son and I are looking for something to see before we leave town. Certainly, Mr. Holden. Looking at the calendar I have here, it appears that John Mayer is in town as well as The White Stripes. Theyre performing at Madison Square Garden. Tickets are still available. My dad turned to me for approval and noticed that my eyes had lit up. I loved that band and was almost embarrassed that I didnt know they were in town the same time as I was. Give me two tickets to that, he said. It was hard to see many live acts in Indiana. Not too many artists put the state on their tour until well after they were past their prime. Typically I would have to go to Chicago if I wanted to see anything relevant, which required months of preparation and working on my parents to let me go. I had already seen John Mayer, a concert for which I had gotten tickets six months in advance. Tonight I was seeing The White Stripes, something I didnt know I would be doing when I woke up. Later that night, we went to the show, where were stood three rows

behind Chris Rock. (I cant believe he likes them, I said to my dad. This city was filled with revelations.) My dad had a quirky taste in music, quirky not necessarily meaning cool. The first cassette tape he bought for me was Shania Twain. It was a sincere gift. He seemed to be enjoying the show, bobbing his head along. Soon he stepped out to go to the bathroom, and an attractive woman in her thirties who was sitting next to me offered me some pot. I said no, for fear of my dad smelling it on me, but it was exciting to know that in a city like this I had the option to live a little. * * *

Mr. Holden, We regret to inform you that we will not be able to accept your application to the New York University undergraduate school of journalism for the fall of 2008. We have received an unprecedented number of applications this year, and there is simply not enough room for all of them. Good luck on all of your future endeavors. Sincerely, The Admissions Office New York University I had just gotten home from school in mid-March 2008. My mom handed me the letter with a big grin and big hopes, but judging by the packaging, I knew I hadnt gotten in. In previous weeks, I had received acceptance letters from Indiana University and Ball State University, both of which sent their letters in giant glossy envelopes with the phrase Congrats! on the front. I held the letter in my hands, running my thumb on the grainy paper. No gloss, no exclamation marks, no explanation. I didnt feel a swelling of tears coming; instead a certain numbness had overcome my body. All along I had known that I wasnt going to get in. My grades were shit due to a serious lack of motivation throughout high school. On paper I looked incredibly average, and this letter justified my belief. Well, you didnt really want to go that far away for school anyway, did you? said my mom. The truth was that I really did want to go that far away, and she was the one who was relieved to find out that it wouldnt be happening. I wanted

the big city, but it didnt want me. I had called and left a message on her voicemail, but she never called back. Dont be so down, Matt. Maybe this is happening for a reason. Ball State isnt a bad school. Your dad got his education there and looked how well that turned out for him. She had a point, but it was still hard to take in. Ball State had a good journalism program, it was in-state, and my dad went there. On paper, this was the logical decision all along. On paper, this was the average, normal, calculated decision. Gone were my hopes of New York. The course my life was on was heading straight for normalcy at an alarming rate. I threw the letter in the trash and the rejection out of my life. I mailed my confirmation to Ball State, letting them know I would be joining them in the fall for the next phase of my predictable, average life. * * *

Sometime after midnight on Aug. 6, 2009, I was sitting on the hood of a Muncie police car, watching more than 50 friends and peers march out of my college house to be cited for underage drinking. I had just blown a .18, more than twice the legal limit, at the age of 18. I hadnt lived in the house for more than eight hours and had managed to get 12 cop cars to surround the run-down two-story house where I was going to spend my sophomore year of college with five of my closest friends. Gone were the days of big city dreaming. I had become comfortable in my second Midwestern home. All summer, my would-be roommates and I planned this opening party. All year we would be throwing parties like this, we thought. All of us were from different cities around the Midwest, mostly cities in Indiana, and we all brought a gang of friends from our hometowns. Separately, they were small gatherings of people. Together, we had managed to throw a party worthy of making the Channel 6 news in Indianapolis the next day, where the reporter would discuss the 35 minor consumptions and the citation for possession of marijuana. My grandparents called my mom shortly after the broadcast, laughing at the idea that this could possibly be my house. They stopped laughing when she told them that it was. Youre lucky I dont take you to jail, said the police officer. He had that sort of tone that said this was a humble brag, this was something he saw all the time, and this incident was no different. It was a humid summer night,

yet I was shivering with fear. It was only a few hours ago that my parents had left after helping me unpack, and now their worst nightmare had come true. Plastic mouthpieces started to pile up on my porch as some of my friends from West Lafayette walked out with their heads down. After making the two-hour drive east on my recommendation to come to the party, they were leaving with the gift of a court date and a hefty fee. A police officer with a dog made his way to the front door of the house, and my heart dropped into my stomach.Excuse me, what is that dog doing? We caught someone at this party with some drugs on him. That dog is going to search him for more. The only thing I could think about was my dad and how excited he was for me when I applied to NYU. A school with such promise, in a city filled with promises. Now I was using his, or rather our, money to drink myself numb of all ambition. I had spent my freshman year testing my drinking limits, lying to my parents about getting involved in student media and lying about my grades. My life had become a sequence of irrelevant events, leading up to this climax of a disaster. I was to be put on probation by Ball State for a year and a half, meaning if I did anything close to this again, Id be kicked out. What are you doing with your life? my dad said the next morning when I called to tell him the news. You cant keep living like this. Youre going to destroy your future. My parents were a few seconds away from telling me that I would be forced to transfer to Purdue, which would allow me to live at home. Dad, Purdue doesnt even have a journalism program, I said. If I move back home, Ill have to change my major and redirect my goals. The environment youre in right now is toxic, he said. You need to get out of there somehow. If that means we get you a single bedroom apartment far from your friends, then that is something we will do. You need to get your life back on track by removing yourself from this situation. * * *

Hello, boys, I am Dr. Jim Coffin, the director of the study abroad programs here at Ball State. Im so glad youre interested in studying in London next year. Coffin was nearly bald, with a few strands of gray hair dotting his head.

His posture was relaxed, as if to say that his job of getting students set up to spend a semester in a foreign country of their choosing was an easy one. We were sitting in the office of International Studies at Ball State, one of the few offices students went to with excitement. Coffin leaned back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head. Sitting next to me was one of my roommates, Jared. It was the end of April 2010, and our sophomore year was coming to a close. Were just looking for something different, I said. We need to get away from this place. Coffin laughed the way wise old men laugh when theyve heard something they hear all the time. There were a number of students with the same sentiment, few of them needed to get away in the same ways that I needed to. My sophomore year had been spent trying to right my wrongs. I had gotten involved with the student paper, stopped dropping classes, and started to give a shit. That summer I was signed up to take more classes, which would offset the semester abroad. So what interests you two about London? Coffin asked. The answer was simple. It was one of the biggest cities in the world, and they spoke English. I would be able to live the life I dreamed of when I was looking out over Central Park. It wasnt New York City, but in so many ways, it was better for me in that moment. Im looking forward to being able to travel all over Europe, said Jared. We had met freshman year when we lived on the same floor in our dorm. On Halloween that year, he stumbled into my room when he heard our group getting ready to go out. He wanted to get involved, and from then on we were friends. The discussion of us becoming roommates happened over a cigarette outside of a house party freshman year, as we talked about our majors and what we wanted to get out of college. He was a telecommunications major who wanted to make movies. He also had hopes of studying abroad at one point or another. If youll give me your deposit checks and sign along this dotted line, well get you all set up for your semester abroad, Coffin said. Youre going to love your time away from Muncie. I signed my name and handed over my check, smiling from ear to ear with excitement about finally being able to taste big city life.

The night of Jan. 15, 2011, was quite possibly the worst night of sleep I had ever gotten. Stranded in Chicagos OHare Airport, I was forced to spend the night with more than 30 Ball State students I had never met. We were supposed to have taken off for London by this point, but due to the winter weather, our flight was delayed until the next morning. With anticipation being the common thread throughout the entire group, Jared and I started breaking everyone down, as strangers at this age often do. So do you know any of these people? I mean, we all go to the same school, but I dont really recognize any of them, I said as I was swiftly eying everyone around me. Though some looked familiar, I was struggling to put a name to any of them. We had a meet-and-greet a few months prior, but that was mostly filled with name games and Who are you? What are you studying? questions -- no real moments or experiences to build a relationship on. Jared and I worked well together. A few inches shorter than me and with a much stockier build than mine, we complemented each other well in person and personality. I had a tendency of leaving meals unfinished when we went out. He had a tendency of finishing said meals. Oftentimes we would share music, movies, and stories, as roommates usually do. What was ahead of us was an entire experience that we would share together. There are some pretty hot girls around here, man. I wonder how many of them have boyfriends, said Jared. The ratio on our trip was 27 girls to eight boys -- I dont think we were quite ready for the descriptor men -- meaning the odds were pretty good that the two of us could make some mistakes along the way. I dont know, man. Well see, I said. My guess is that the ones that do will be talking about them quite a lot, kind of like a defense mechanism or something. My approach to the trip was one of an open mind. I had no girlfriend to tie me down, no one to worry about getting in touch with every day. All of those things that people in healthy relationships reveled in I had stripped myself of. After all, this was a trip of self-discovery. This was a trip about finding the answers to those questions I had yet to have. The trip started with a short flight from the Indianapolis airport to OHare, where we would catch our flight to London. Anticipation filled

the gate as we boarded the tiny plane intended for connecting flights. I took my seat in the back of the plane, and a lanky blond girl sat next to me. I feared death by small talk was imminent. Hi, Im Megan. Ive never actually traveled out of the county before, so Im a little nervous. Have you ever been to London? Never to London, but Ive been to Germany before, I said. I see your iPod there. What kind of music do you listen to? I had always found that music is a great conversation topic to have with the opposite sex. Tastes tended to overlap much like a Venn diagram. Well, actually this is my boyfriends iPod. [Aha!] He lent it to me for the trip. Wasnt that nice? And the boyfriend talk began. I texted Jared, who was sitting six rows up. Blond girl named Megan. Boyfriend confirmed. The cramped flight didnt last long before we safely touched down in Chicago. Soon we would be boarding our next flight and making our way to London. At least that was the plan. We had roughly 45 minutes from the moment our plane landed in Chicago until the moment our next plane took off for London. That seems like enough time in theory, but its tough to make your next flight when youre unable to get off the plane. Hello, everyone, this is your captain speaking. Looks like were a little backed up here on the runway. Im guessing itll be about 35 to 40 minutes before we can get to our gate, so just sit back and relax. How were we supposed to relax in a time like this? Here we were, 35 college students filled with excitement, forced to contain ourselves in seats that werent designed with the average-sized human in mind. Soon Jared was pacing up and down the aisle, filled with impatience. This is bullshit, dude. This is bullshit! he said. Were here, man. I mean, were actually here. Itd be one thing if we missed the flight because we were still in the air somewhere, but here we are at the airport. Cant they just let us off the plane and well walk the rest of the way? I mean, its our fault if we get lost or something. This sort of take-charge logic permeated every decision of his. Can you just wake me up when were ready to get off? I said. I dont want to deal with all these bad vibes right now. This apathetic decisionmaking was the essence of my every move. Minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder as everyone around me was trying to navigate their confined bits of space. We had fewer than 10

minutes to reach our gate, and we were determined to make it. Everyone, I suggest we run as quickly as we can. Otherwise were going to miss it! said a round, curly-haired student from the front of the plane. It was as if we were Indy cars pacing back and forth on the track warming our tires, just waiting for the green flag to wave. The hatch opened, and we filed out into the airport as quickly as we could. Luckily, I packed only a few essentials in my backpack, so my jog was easy; the hard part was feeling a twinge of rude behavior for every girl I passed who was struggling to pull a suitcase along the ground, all of which seemed to be complete with a faulty set of wheels. We rounded corners and sped past gates, blowing by food courts and corner stores like exits on the freeway. Its up ahead! Only a few more gates! shouted a voice from the front of the pack. As far as we knew, things were looking good. Shit, dude. Shit, said Jared. He came to a halt in the middle of the pack. Everyone slowed and wondered why he had stopped. Fuck, thats our fucking plane right there, Jared said and pointed. Following the path of his finger led to the vision of a large plane, one intended for international travel, backing out of its gate. Jared raced to the desk in the hopes of stopping the entire operation. Im sorry, sir, but Im afraid its too late, the desk attendant said. Well have to see if we can get you on the next flight. The people working at these desks have this incredible skill or sincerely not giving a fuck about anyone or anything. We wouldnt be able to catch our flight until the next morning, postponing the beginning of an experience we had been anticipating for months. That night was spent curled up on the floor, with my coat doubling as my mattress and blanket. A Tylenol PM-induced sleep led to a slow motion morning as the group prepared to waste what we considered our first day of studying abroad trying to reach our destination. The dream sequence I kept playing over and over in my head had hit another roadblock. Big city life was within my reach, yet I was already finding it wasnt going to be everything I thought it would be. The wheels of our next plane left the ground at 9:45 a.m. Inside, I was struggling to get comfortable in my seat when Jared suggested a remedy. I bought this bottle of Jack in the duty-free store, he said, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of his carry-on bag. Do you want some? I figured it would make it easier to fall asleep on the plane.

The flight attendant brought us two Cokes, and we began to make ourselves a drink. I pulled a pill bottle out of my bag to offer something as part of this makeshift potluck. I saved my pain pills from winter break when I got my wisdom teeth pulled, I said. Do you want a couple? Our ability to complement each other was getting quite strong, and soon the discomfort from the night before had left our bodies. I had just covered my eyes in preparation for sleep when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Excuse me, sir. Youre not supposed to open things from duty-free on the flight. Unfortunately, you wont be able to take that bottle with you when we land, the flight attendant said. Youll have to leave it here. She walked away as if she was fully aware of how much of a buzzkill she had just become. Jared turned with a disapproving sigh and offered a suggestion. We should offer some of it to the other people on the trip, he said. Well be able to get a good sense of who is going on this trip with an open mind. This seemed like perfect logic. I grabbed the bottle and crossed the aisle, seating myself behind two of the girls on the trip. After indulging in a little liquid courage, I talked with them for an hour or so about our expectations. They were both of the same mindset that I was, looking for an escape from the mundane and hoping to come across a few adventures along the way. I poured them both drinks, finding comfort in the conversation. They had no idea who I was, which meant I got to reinvent myself. Far from the kid sitting on a cop car in Muncie, I was now a motivated student looking to gain a new perspective. They would never know the kid that read the rejection letter from NYU. * * *

It was March 5, 2011, in London and I was turning 21 at the stroke of midnight. All I could think about was how temporary my lifestyle had become. A Saturday night out in London meant we would go to KOKO, a nightclub that had once been home to an opera house. What was once a venue for the celebration of sound had turned into a destination for sin. Jared and I walked up into the girls flat so we could get the night started before we had even left, bottle in hand. As I walked up the stairs, I felt an

eerily silence that was soon broken by a simultaneous chant. Happy birthday! said all of the girls, eight in total. They were spread out around the living room with a makeshift cake in the middle. On the cake, written in what looked to be ketchup, was the phrase Happy birthday, Matt. Shit, you guys didnt have to do this, I said. This is awesome! Im so excited to celebrate it with all of you. Thanks for spending it with me. While the gesture was nice, there was a creeping loneliness, the kind that comes from knowing the temporary experience of the moment would likely fade into the collective memory of everyone involved. We would pass through, move on, and never think much of this time. Yeah, dont eat it, though, said a girl standing nearby with brown hair and a nervous smile. Its more of like a gesture. Im pretty positive it will make you really sick. Well, its the thought that counts, right? I said. Speaking of which, I thought you guys would want more alcohol for the trip there, so I brought this bottle. I figured we could finish it off while we wait for the train. A group of 15 drunken Americans made its way down the street toward the train station, ready to indulge ourselves further. Wrapped around my arm was Michelle, with whom I had developed a casual relationship. Casual in the sense that we didnt go on dates or show any signs of affection toward each other in public; relationship in the sense that most late nights ended with us waking up together. I cant believe you get to turn 21 in London! Youre so lucky. Ill be turning 21 when we get back to Muncie. It wont even compare. There was a long pause. I was struggling to wrap my head around how I was feeling. Its almost like too perfect, you know? I said. Saturday night in London, going to the best club Ive ever seen. I think this is the peak of my youth -- like from here on out its only going downhill. I realized this is something you dont say before a night of partying. I was trying to avoid being the buzzkill of my own party. Forget what I just said, I laughed, shaking off the tension. Can you pass me that bottle? Im starting to feel a little thirsty. With that, I tilted my head back and didnt let myself bring it down again until my chest burned and my senses went numb. Soon the train pulled up to the tracks, and everyone drunkenly shuffled on board. On the way to the club we tried to keep our laughter in check, as taking

public transit in London requires you to be muted, showing no emotion whatsoever. Eventually, though, our American heritage and the alcohol in our system broke free, as we took turns posing for pictures that would capture the moment. The half-hour ride seemed to last minutes, and before we knew it we were approaching KOKO, which seemed to light up brighter than ever before. Inside was an overstimulation of the senses. The theater had an old Victorian design, with red velvet adorning the walls and booths along the side. A giant projector screen covered the stage, showing the visualization of the sounds pouring out of the speakers some 50 feet in the air. A mix of indie rock n roll and electronic house music were being mixed by the resident DJ, his stage placed high enough for him to gauge the energy of the crowd below on the dance floor. After getting comfortable with my surroundings, Michelle and I headed up to one of the balconies to get a drink and relax. A balcony where London socialites used to enjoy the theater was now being used to overlook 20-somethings on the dance floor who were falling in love for minutes at a time. This is crazy, isnt it? I mean compared to the stuff we see at home, I said. All I could think about was how I might not ever have this again. Temporary friends in a temporary club, seated next to me a temporary love. You just have to enjoy it while you can, I think. I mean were so lucky to have this experience. So many people will never get it. Thats the truth, I said, appreciating my place in the world. I dont ever want to lose sight of this, though. I mean, were going to go back, and soon enough well be stuck in those same old routines we were in before. Doesnt that scare you? It doesnt scare me as much as your attitude right now. Come on. Its your birthday! And its almost midnight! Let me get you a drink, and then well go dance. On the dance floor, my worries escaped me, and I became fixated on Michelle. We danced with our group of friends, but it felt like she was the only person in the room. The two of us left shortly after and went back to our flats so that we could be the only two in the room. * * *

Halfway through our semester abroad, I was busy stressing about the future. I was worried about the coming summer because Ball State requires every journalism major to have an internship before they are allowed to graduate, and I knew that the summer before my senior year was the only opportunity I would have if I wanted to graduate on time, one of the few things my parents had stressed to me throughout my college career. I spent the bulk of the two weeks after my birthday hunting for internships online with one goal in mind: make it to New York City. My fear was that if I got an internship somewhere in Indiana I was destined to remain in the state. I had always had a romantic affection for New York City ever since I got turned down by NYU. I refused to accept the idea that the city simply didnt want me. When searching the internet for New York City internships, a site continued to show up that I refused to look at. Dream Careers, it said, guaranteeing internships in the biggest cities all over the world, NYC included. The catch was a hefty fee required for living arrangements and trips the organization held on the weekends. I called my dad to see what he would say. Is it something youre interested in? he asked. I dont know, maybe. I was struggling to articulate my ultimate hangup with the idea. Doesnt it kind of sound like cheating, though? I mean, paying someone to guarantee an internship? I think, given the fact that youre a kid from the Midwest who is going to a school like Ball State with no real ties to any internships in that city, your options are kind of limited. If this is really something you want, I think you have to take a look at all the possible ways of getting out there. There are no rules to this. It was a reality that I knew I had to face. My average-at-best rsum would get me only so far, and given the number of students across not only the country but across the world who were looking for internships in NYC I had to be realistic about my options. I skimmed the hyperbolic bullshit the website was feeding me about chasing my dreams and filled out the application, entry fee included. I was playing the best hand I could with the cards I had been dealt. * * *

April approached, and my semester abroad was coming to a close. After a phone interview the week before with a prospective internship in New York, I had my sights on the summer. Jared and I had planned on staying in Europe for a couple of weeks after our semester ended, but I told him I was ready to be done. While checking my email before class one morning, I received an email from Katy, the editor of an art magazine in New York called Whitewall. Matt, After looking through your clips, I think you would make a great asset to Whitewall. Therefore Id like offer you our summer internship this summer. Hope to hear from you soon! Thanks, Katy I replied immediately, telling her I would love to take the internship and that I would see her this summer. I had done it. I was going to New York City. * * *

Lightbodies: an installation by Kilu, the invitation read. I had been assigned to my first event for my internship, and I was sweating like mad. It was the middle of June, and the air conditioning unit in my apartment at 14th Street and 4th Avenue in downtown Manhattan had stopped working. On top of that, I had no idea what I was supposed to wear. There were three interns at Whitewall, and I was the only male. This made it hard to collaborate on fashion. I found myself pacing back and forth in my room while looking in the mirror, trying to decide how to represent myself and the magazine in my first appearance. Do I wear the blazer? What about a tie? What if Im too dressed up? Then Ill look like a pretentious asshole. I dont want to look like a pretentious asshole! Downstairs waiting for me was one of the other interns, Danielle. She was a student at the University of Florida. One thing I quickly found out about living in the city is that you were either from the East Coast or you werent. That fundamental difference usually was the deciding factor in whether we could get along. Although she was from Florida, Danielle

fell into the category of Not East Coast and therefore we worked well together. Do you think this is okay for me to wear? I asked her. I didnt know if I should wear a tie or not. I think you look fine. I mean as long as we act like we know what were doing, thats all that matters, right? Absolutely, I said. I mean, whats the worst that could happen? I was about to find out. The event was being hosted at an appliance boutique in Chinatown called Bisazza. The thing about Chinatown is that there are loads of boutiques and galleries in the area, yet they are all hidden behind the veil of trash, street vendors, and bad odors. Chinatown was the epitome of a dump, and walking through it, I was skeptical about what was going to happen. Its kind of gross here, Danielle said. I hope this place isnt like the rest of the area. We were both in over our heads. As we walked in to Bisazza, it was as if we walked into a different dimension. The small store was lined with sinks and bathtubs so ornate that I couldnt believe they were for sale. People of every ethnicity and age populated the room, with all the men dressed in suits. Fuck. I totally should have worn a suit. Hi, may I ask who youre with? A woman holding a clipboard greeted us. She knew we didnt belong and looked at us with suspicion. Hi, were with Whitewall Magazine. Im Danielle. This is Matt. Kilu was known for doing installations, which in most cases is the act of letting art interfere with everyday life. In this case, his work consisted of black-light lamps made from mannequins. Attached to the headless mannequins were purple bulbs covered with a small black shade. The mannequins were custom-made, as they were all in different positions throughout the store -- some sitting down, others with their arms in odd positions. There was even a dog mannequin near a table being used to serve drinks. Danielle and I walked over to get a glass in our hands in an effort to feel less awkward. Do you want a glass of champagne? I asked. For a split-second I wondered if I was breaking any sort of journalistic integrity rules by drinking on the job, but I realized that whoever would criticize me for it would probably be someone I wouldnt want to associate with anyway. Sure. Can you believe this place? Danielle said. This is not what I

expected at all when we were walking through Chinatown. I shifted over a few inches so we could both take in the atmosphere. I know! This place is so- BANG. Suddenly everyone at the event turned and looked to where the sound came from, which happened behind me. I turned around in confusion to see the dog mannequin rattling around on the floor. I traced the power cord illuminating the dog back to the source, but before it reached the outlet the path of the cord was stopped -- by my foot. Oh my god. I am so sorry, the words fumbled out of my mouth as my face turned a shade of red that made my hair look blank in comparison. Kilu was standing nearby when it happened and was already down on his knees, picking the dog up. Good thing we made these things of plastic, I suppose, he said, not a spec of emotion on his face. I looked up as everyone continued to stare back. I had been at my first publicity event in New York City for 10 minutes and had managed to draw all the attention to myself in the most way. Its alright, everyone. Please, carry on, said Kilu. Kilu, I am so sorry. I didnt realize what I was doing. Please, dont worry about it, he said. I couldnt believe how calm he was given the fact that I had made such a scene at his event. Honestly, it probably got people excited, gives them something to talk about. We could all use a little excitement in our lives. This is far from exciting, I thought. I had never felt like such a small fish in such a large pond. That night, I went to bed in the city that never sleeps, surrounded by millions yet more lonesome than I had felt in a long time. * * *

A month into my internship, I had attended a few more events, all of them without causing a scene. The one I was heading to tonight would be the biggest one I would cover in my time at Whitewall. An Obsession of Craft was being hosted by Persol, a high-end sunglasses company. I had to get special access to the event because there would be many highprofile guests, so they wanted to weed out anyone who would cause a distraction.

On this Tuesday night in July I was preparing to look my sharpest, putting on my blazer and tie. I had gotten used to the idea that there was no such thing as being overdressed in New York City. The event was being held in a swanky art gallery near the Chelsea neighborhood, an area known for being overly swanky itself. I emerged from the subway station in the southwest side of Manhattan and was surrounded by beautiful homes pressed tightly together, resembling the people I had just sat next to on the train. These houses were dispersed throughout the area, intermingling with high-end fashion boutiques that were masked by industrial exteriors, such as the gallery I was heading to. I was worried about missing my destination until I got within a few hundred yards of it. The entrance was flooded with photographers who were circled around a red carpet entrance like visitors at a zoo. Flashing lights lit up the street as I approached, lighting my way. As I got closer, I saw models of all shapes and sizes walking the red carpet, slowly making their entrance into the gallery. Watching people work the red carpet is a strange experience. They stop and pose every couple of feet, making faces for the photographers who are relying on these shots to bring them their next paycheck. There are never any candid photos; those posing are used to faking these smiles. The entire ordeal would happen only in a city like New York, where fame gets perpetuated because it seems like an obligation. In front of me were two of the biggest men I had ever seen; they must have been failed football players. I dont know what other profession you could have at that size. I followed them through the rusted iron door of what I presumed to be the gallery into a room with no ceiling and no door. I looked up to see nothing but hallowed space for five stories. The room had four steel walls and a wooden floor. In the corner was a man sitting on a barstool. I thought maybe he was the gatekeeper to this secret room I couldnt find. When will we be let into the event? I asked, puzzled by the layout of the room I was in. I want to let enough people get on. That way I dont have to make too many trips. Trips? Confused, I leaned against the wall, waiting to see what would happen. Soon enough, the door to the outside shut, and the man pulled a lever, setting in motion an elevator big enough to carry two full-sized

SUVs. This epitomized New York City, much like the event in Chinatown did. New York has this rough and gritty exterior, intended to shut out those who werent welcome. I just happened to be part of the in crowd on that particular night. Soon the elevator stopped, and suddenly I was in an art gallery on the fourth floor, stark white from the walls to the ceiling. Inside, the models who had been working the red carpet seemed at home, laughing in packs and sipping glasses of champagne. I had never seen such a collection of interesting-looking people, and once again I realized I did not belong -- as did everyone else who looked my way. The event was a celebration of filmmakers, and all the films being featured had characters that were wearing Persol sunglasses at some point in the movie. My editor wanted me to profile the curator of the event, which required me to find out who that actually was. Instinctively, I searched for people wearing headsets. Hi, Im looking for the curator of this event. My name is Matt Holden. Im with Whitewall Magazine, I said to a stout woman wearing a red polo and black slacks. They were hard to find among the trees of women in heels. Whitewall? Yes! Hello. The curators name is Andrew. Do you see that tall skinny guy with the curly dark hair? Thats him. Hes kind of a dick, so be careful. I couldnt tell if she was joking, so I nervously laughed it off, heading in Andrews direction. He was in the middle of a conversation with two men, both wearing suits that fit them much better than mine fit me. His hands were in constant motion, as if he was conducting an orchestra. I didnt want to interrupt, so I awkwardly made laps around one of the installations, waiting until he was free. Hi, Andrew? Im Matt from- Matt? Sorry, but do you know who Sir Ben Kingsley is? he snapped. Uh, yeah. Yeah, I know who he is. Great. Well, hes about to come up that elevator any minute now, and when he does, I have to be the first to greet him, so I cant really waste my time talking to someone like you right now. Come find me in an hour or so and Ill give you a couple of quotes. Someone like me? I thought about that for a moment and what that meant. It was probably something he has said a number of times,

considering the career path I had chosen as a low form of life. Is this what I wanted, to be a professional pest, to annoy people who are doing real work just so I can benefit from their story? This type of journalism was turning into something I hated. I reviled what I had become in that room as I looked around and saw the beautiful people enjoying their beautiful lives. They didnt want me there, and more importantly, I was beginning to realize that I didnt want to be there either. I grabbed a drink off the tray from a waiter who was passing by without taking notice of what it was and downed it. I had suddenly become so apathetic toward my presence there that I had no desire to stick around to try and have a conversation with this man who had no desire to waste his time talking to me. I snapped a few pictures of the different installations, which were essentially just projectors showing movies such as Gandhi and The Darjeeling Limited on the wall. I thought about home, about my friends there. I made my way toward the elevator, looking for an escape. Just a second, sir, the elevator attendant said. Sir Ben Kingsley is on his way up. Youll have to wait until he clears the lift. Of course he was. As the elevator reached the floor I was on, photographers started to crowd around in anticipation. The steel doors spread open, and out came the featured guest of the night. I slipped into the elevator, heading straight for the back. Few others were on board as the party had just officially started. Once the elevator touched down on the ground floor, I stepped outside into the humid New York City air, feeling suffocated not only by my suit but also by the lifestyle I was living. I was spending my days talking to people about what they were passionate about, all the while growing more and more dispassionate about what I was doing. I was hundreds of miles away from my family and friends and had no one that I could share everything I wanted to with. On my path to try and achieve my dreams, I had left everyone I cared about behind. I had to do something about it. Instead of taking the subway home, I decided to walk, exercising my emotions and trying to get a grip on the situation. I loosened my tie and unbuttoned my shirt as I started to sweat. I reached for my phone and called Ryan, my longtime friend who was living in West Lafayette. This internship is making me realize being a journalist isnt all its

cracked up to be, I said. I feel like I will just be making a living by professionally annoying people. I hate it. Yeah, but youre in New York City. Its like the center of the world! Ryan said. You must see so much cool stuff every day. He had a point. I was getting the opportunity to go to some of the best art museums in the world, for free no less. Few people would ever get to do that. Thats true, man. I mean, Ive seen some cool shit, but I dont know. Its not the same when Im just going by myself. I dont really have anyone here that I would want to hang out with and do stuff with. Isnt that what makes the experiences matter -- the people that you share them with? Yeah, I think thats probably true. All the stuff weve done together wouldnt have been the same if we did it alone. I know, man. Thats it. Why be out here doing this stuff if Im all alone? I think Im ready to get back home. Im looking forward to it actually. It was such a relief to say that. For the first time in a long time, I was looking forward to going home and being able to share time with those I loved. I wanted to connect with someone on the most basic level. I was tired of talking about myself with Ryan. I wanted to hear what contentment sounded like. Whats going on with you? Anything new? Well, yeah, actually, I bought a house this week. His tone couldnt have been more casual. What? Thats amazing. How did you do that? I dont know the first thing about buying a house. I was stunned. At the age of 21, Ryan owned land. That was fascinating to me. Much like him being the first of my friends to shave, he had reached another pivotal point on the road to manhood. The shape of our lives had become drastically different. According to my mother and a lot of the world, I was still considered to be on the right track, getting the unpaid internship and staying in school. These things didnt add up. Why was this path leaving me so alone and unhappy? I knew I wouldnt be able to find happiness here. Thats insane! I said. Good for you, man. Things must be going really well. Yeah, they really are. I broke up with my old girlfriend. She was kind of crazy, he said. Everyone in our group had agreed on this for sometime, but it was good to hear he had finally come to the same realization. Im

dating a new girl now. Shes smart, motivated, and pretty good looking to boot. A new girlfriend and a house of his own. Ryan was slowly creating the life he wanted to live the way he wanted to do it. I was stuck trying to conform to the path everyone says leads to success. I realized success isnt about the size of the house or the address; its about the people inside it. The next day, I woke up with a new outlook, excited about the realization I had made. I had three weeks left in my internship, and I was looking forward to getting it done and heading home. I called my mom, excited to tell her how I felt. Hows big city life this week? It seemed like everyone started off conversations with me like this. Well, its okay. I think Im ready to come home though. Im starting to realize this isnt really for me. Is everything okay? Do you want to come early? Im sure your dad will arrange that. No, I definitely want to stay and finish my internship. Its just getting a little lonely not being able to hang out with the people I want to hang out with. Well, what do you think about your brother coming to visit? Brian was talking about how bored he is at home, and I thought maybe this would be a good way to get him out of the house. That would be awesome! There are so many cool places that I could show him. Id love to have someone to hang out with in the city before I come home. The perfect ending to my New York experience, being able to spend time with my brother and discover things together, the way they were meant to be discovered. * * *

The last weekend of July had arrived, and I was waiting in the lobby of University Hall waiting for Brian. He was 20 years old and a student at Purdue, majoring in business because it seemed like a pretty good idea. At 63, he stood a few inches taller than me and was much more filled out physically, thanks to an intense workout regimen he began his senior year of high school. He started to let his dirty blond hair grow out, mostly out of curiosity, letting it reached well past his ears. Like everyone else in my

immediate family, we looked nothing alike. The revolving door came to life, and Brian stumbled in, struggling to lug his duffel bag through the door. He had been working for a landscape company, and his skin was hardened and bronzed. He looked older. Dude, whats up? How was your flight? We locked hands and embraced. After going so long without being with people I cared about, it felt good to be physically comfortable with someone. It was good, man. This city is huge! The biggest city he had been to was Chicago I know, man. Just wait. Were going to see some cool shit. There was something exciting about making an itinerary for my brother. Id always enjoyed sharing my interests with him, playing my favorite songs for him, and showing him new clothes that I got. Now I had the chance to show him all the things in the city that I had fantasized about visiting but never had anyone to go with. As a security measure, the residence hall required that I register all guests ahead of time. I had told the woman at the front desk how excited I was that my brother was coming to stay with me. This is your brother? she asked with an inquisitive look. Yep, this is him! Just got in. So are you guys like adopted or something? This wasnt the first time wed been asked that. I had gotten used to answering it. Not to my knowledge, I said as I laughed. I swiped my ID card, and we made our way to the elevator, catching each other up on our lives. So hows New York? Hows your internship? Its okay. I dont know. Im kind of ready to be home. Really? Home is boring as shit, man. I havent done anything all summer. I knew where he was going before hed even finished his first sentence. I was the exact same kid one summer ago, and here I was in New York City counting down the days until I could return to West Lafayette. Yeah, I know, but I miss you guys. Its tough being out here without people I care about. How are the girls? Brian was noticeably better looking, and because of that inherently more confident with women. Its a strange phenomenon to serve as wingman for your younger brother. Theyre unbelievable. Theres more variety here in terms of people here

than Ive ever seen. When people say America is like a melting pot, this is what they mean. So like a melting pot of hotness? Yeah, something like that. * * *

That night, we put on our best shirts and sprayed our best colognes, getting ready for a night out on the town. We started drinking as we got ready. I had always been bothered by older siblings who were overprotective, not letting their younger siblings do the things they had done. I had made mistakes and misbehaved growing up, and that taught me a lot. Why should Brians experience be any different? I reached inside my refrigerator and pulled out two large, brightly colored aluminum cans. What are those? Brian asked with a smirk on his face. As we got older, the Holden clan started to develop a capacity for sin, something that kept us close and made it easy for us to run in the same social circles. Theyre called Four Lokos. Its like an energy drink mixed with alcohol. Theyll give us lots of energy for tonight. I had bought two tickets to Webster Hall, a club on NYUs campus that claimed it was the first nightclub in New York and had become a tourist attraction. New York locals looked down on it due to its lack of exclusivity, but I didnt care. There was nothing back home that would compare to this. We were going to see a set by Miike Snow, a band Brian and I both liked. Oh, Ive heard of those. Werent they on the news because kids were having heart attacks? I had a feeling this was a conversation he had with my mom. Brian was in a fraternity at Purdue, and my mom was convinced they were the source of all overdose-related incidents. Yeah, but I mean, thats only if you drink too many. You can die from drinking too much of anything, Im pretty sure. It wasnt the soundest logic, but it was good enough. We finished our drinks as I introduced him to the show Louie, one of my favorites because it tackled real issues and didnt sugarcoat anything. I always wanted my brothers to think for themselves and develop their own opinions. Being the oldest, this was a process I had grown accustomed to. We finished our drinks and felt the warm, energetic buzz course through

our veins. Damn, dude, that thing got me pretty fucked up, Brian said. Im ready to go. Yeah, this place is going to be sick, dude. Theres nothing like this at home. We made our way to the venue, where a line was forming. We were grinning with drunken excitement, hearing the muffled sounds from inside. We got to the front of line, where the bouncers checked our IDs and marked two giant Xs on Brians hands, indicating that he was underage. When we get in there, make sure you keep your sleeves down so no one sees your hands. Ill pass you drinks when I order at the bar. Dude, Im not retarded. Just make sure no one sees you handing me drinks; otherwise well both get caught. Maybe he was the one looking out for me. I bought a couple drinks from the bar and handed one to him when the coast was clear. We were hanging out in one of the lounges before the show started in the main hall. As we were talking, we noticed a couple girls standing a few feet away, laughing and looking at us. Brian and I made eye contact. You see those girls over there looking at us, right? he asked, anticipating the moment he would turn on his charm. Yeah, I definitely do. Which one do you want? The girls were both taller than average, wearing dresses and sipping colorful drinks. The girl on the left had fair skin and brown hair. The one on the right was tan with blond hair. Her eyes were fixated on her cell phone, which was a few inches from her face. Ill talk to the one on the left, Brian said. I bet the girl on the right has a boyfriend if shes that concerned about her phone in a place like this. He made a good point, and since he was there as a visit, I wasnt going to argue. We walked over to the girls, and they suddenly became rigid, turning their heads as if they werent just looking at us. Brian took the lead. Whats up? Do you guys come here a lot? This is our first time, he said with genuine curiosity, something his Midwestern roots surely helped him develop. No, actually this is our first time too, the brown-haired girl said. Were visiting the city for the week. Were actually from Ontario. The brunette was soft spoken and nervous. The blonde never looked up

from her illuminated phone screen. Ontario? Thats tight. Were from Ind- Were from Chicago, I said, cutting Brian off. The thing about knowing youre never going to see someone again is knowing that you can be whoever you want to be. Yeah, were from Chicago, Brian echoed, looking at me with confusion. Im Brian. This is my brother Matt. Im Lauren, said the brunette, locking eyes with Brian. This is my friend Ashley. Ashley still didnt look up. The show was getting ready to start, and the four of us made our way inside the main hall. The room was the size of a high school gymnasium, with dirty black walls and an even dirtier black floor. We entered from the back to see the bright lights staring back at us from the front of the stage. As we walked toward the front, looking for a good spot to camp out for the show, I saw Brians face light up. Dude, this place is insane. My friends are going to be so jealous. The lights dimmed, and the two members of Miike Snow made their way to the stage as the crowd erupted. Fog filled the air, which I could smell it as it crept over the crowd, filling us with anticipation. Without any introduction, the room was engulfed with sound. I understood the bare black walls as they trapped in the bass, causing my organs to rattle around in my rib cage like a game of Yahtzee. I looked over at Brian, who was looking over at Lauren, who was looking back at him. Seeing him enjoy this moment was the happiest I had been in a long time. Being able to share an experience like this and know we would be able to tell the story together. I felt peace of mind in a room swirling with chaos. The crowd was reacting in unison to the sonic attack, and I lost myself in the music, enjoying the experience. Brian slid his way over a few feet. I could spot him out by the Xs on his hands. Im going to get a drink, I mouthed to him. It was too loud for him to hear anything. I thought about making him come with me but decided against it. I didnt want to be overly protective at a time where he was hitting it off with a girl. I weaved through the sea of people and posted up at the bar, once again overpaying for a drink that underperformed. I turned around and made my way back in search of the Xs on Brians hands. Looking through the crowd, I couldnt seem to find him anywhere. I

made my way perpendicular to the stage. After 15 minutes, he was nowhere to be found. I thought maybe he could have gone to the bathroom. I pulled out my phone to see I had received a text from him. Got kicked out. Dont worry though. Lauren invited me back to her place. See you tomorrow. Suddenly, I had gone from trying to be the cool older brother to one incapable of making sure we stuck together. I had failed, and I wasnt sure how I felt about leaving him for the night. All right. Well, are you cool with that? Does she know where shes going? Take a cab, and be careful. At least with a cab I knew he was somewhat safe. The subway had unlimited potential for bad scenarios. Yeah, man, dont worry about me. Im just trying to get lucky. Ill call you when I wake up and stuff. I left the club before the show ended, feeling a mix of emotions. I was glad Brian had enjoyed himself and hit it off with a girl, but I couldnt hide the fact that I was worried about him. I walked to my apartment and tried to get some sleep, knowing Id be restless all night hoping he was all right. At 5:45 a.m., my phone rang. It was Brian. Uh, hey, dude, whats up? Are you awake? I mean, sort of. Its pretty early for you to be leaving her place. Howd it go? There was a silence on the other line. Well, not so great. Turns out she just wanted to talk all night, so needless to say I left. Ive kind of got a problem, though. Shit. Are you all right? Well, yeah, but Im a little lost. Im on a ferry. ON A FERRY? What the fuck are you doing on a ferry at 5:45 in the morning? I couldnt believe it. He had managed to get himself lost, and I was nowhere near him to help. I felt like I had let him and myself down. Listen, man, you have my address saved. Go ask someone for help as to how to get here. Yeah, I did that already. I went down into a subway station, and the guy told me to go fuck myself. New York had reared its ugly head once again -- unforgiving and relentless at all hours. Listen, man. This city will eat you up. As soon as you get off that ferry, take a cab and come straight here. This isnt a good time to be out in the

city. I will, man. I will. Im sorry that I put you through this. I wouldnt have gone with her if I had known this was going to happen. Its all right, man. Just get here soon. We have to stick together in a place like this. The sun was going to rise soon, and it would be a new day in the city. But in that moment, all I could think about was home. * * *

My final week in New York, I had set up a lunch date with James Stewart, easily the most respected writer I knew. He was a columnist for The New York Times, regularly contributed to The New Yorker, taught classes at Columbia, and had written a number of books, including DisneyWar, which was a best-selling book. Essentially he was the epitome of success as a writer, and as a New Yorker. Possibly more important than that, we had family ties that allowed this meeting to happen. He was my aunts brother. I had met him once before at my cousins wedding when I was in high school. At the time, I couldnt fully appreciate the magnitude of his success. My dad suggested I meet with him before I leave, given his accomplishments and the fact that it could happen. He wanted me to sit with him and talk about what I had done and about my rsum, to gauge what he thought I could do after school. On the Tuesday of the final week of my internship, I made my way to the offices of The New York Times, where I would get a tour and eat lunch in the cafeteria. I walked inside the newly designed building, which was lined with security guards. I was nervous about talking with him, nervous about what he would think of me as a professional given the fact that we were related in a roundabout way. As I walked in, I spotted him waiting for me by the check-in desk. He was tall and slender, well-dressed with a pair of glasses that gave off the impression of New York cool. Nervously, I waved and greeted him. Hey, Mr. Stewart, thanks for taking the time to show me around. I really appreciate it, I couldnt fathom what he must have sacrificed to have lunch with some kid he barely knew yet had to sit with because his sister would bust his balls about it.

Please, call me James. After all were family, right? Its sort of a strange connection, isnt it? Ive been thinking about what the proper term is for our relation -- maybe second uncle? Who knows. He was sincere when he spoke, and so at ease. My view of the people writing for the Times had been people constantly sweating and pulling their hair out, all while struggling to meet impossible deadlines. And he addressed my concerns about our relation immediately, finding the humor in how our stories were tied together. Yeah, that sounds about right to me, I guess. Im not really sure either. This place is huge. I never thought a newspaper could have a building this big. Yeah, its pretty unbelievable. I just switched over from working for The Wall Street Journal. Their offices werent nearly as good as this, although the food was a little better. What a life. He had essentially been traded from the Celtics to the Lakers and gotten a pay increase in the process. I was tempted to record everything he said just so I could have his advice forever. We spent 20 minutes walking around the offices, looking at the different departments. James talked about how he didnt like the lighting in the building and how quiet the place seemed because everyone was always gone covering stories all over the city. We got lunch and grabbed a table in the corner, with the city of Manhattan serving as the backdrop behind James. I had so many questions, but I wasnt sure where to start. So do you enjoy being a columnist? I mean, is it hard to come up with a different thing to talk about every week, especially since youre the business columnist? Your options must feel pretty limited. Not really. Ive gotten better at coming up with ideas over the years. This week, Chrysler is going to let me test out their latest edition of, whats it called, the Crossfire, I think. I always like the opportunity to drive a car. I never drive in the city. I can imagine. Theres no point with so much congestion. How do you like living in the city? I love it. Ive been here for quite a while now. That being said, I also have a home away from the city. I take every chance I get to go stay there. My sister tells me you were very excited to live here this summer. How has it been? I didnt know what to say. I had a couple of nightmarish experiences

that made me miss home. I was also questioning my decision to become a journalist. Its been an experience. Ive had a lot of things that Ive learned from. Im certainly more prepared for the real world than I was three months ago. Well, thats what its all about, isnt it? These internships. Theyre meant to be a teaching tool. Thats great you were able to experience life here in the city for a while. Do you think youll come back when you graduate? I took a moment to think about it. Three months ago, there wasnt anything in the world I wanted more than to live and work in New York City, to achieve the kinds of things he achieved. Yet as we sat there eating lunch, he was happiest when talking about everything except work. Im not sure to be honest. Im ready to go home and finish up my last year of college. Im kind of sad its ending to be frank. Good for you. Thats absolutely the mentality to have. So many people get caught up in looking toward the future that they dont stick around and enjoy college. Its one of the best times of your life. With that, I knew I was ready to go home, ready to embrace my Midwestern roots, ready to surround myself with the people I loved. * * *

On Aug. 5, a flight from LaGuardia Airport touched down in Indianapolis. As the wheels hit the crowd and the cabin rattled around trying to establish its presence, I exhaled in a way that I had never exhaled before -- the sigh of relief knowing I was back in a place where I was welcome, where I belonged. I took comfort in the fact that I would be able to sleep in my own bed that night and would be with those I loved the most. The plane pulled up to the gate. In a moment that is typically uncomfortable, I felt at ease. Everyone around me shuffled to get their bags from overhead and under their seats. I sat in peace, waiting for everyone else to get off the plane. People in the Midwest move at such a different pace than those in New York. In the city, everyone has somewhere to go, all the time. Always in a rush, its less of a walk and more of a jog. In Indiana, everyone takes their time, knowing that whenever they get to their destination is exactly when they needed to get there. Those jogging in the city hope to find their

happiness in wherever theyre going; those in the Midwest carry their happiness with them. Outside the baggage claim, my parents were waiting for me in my moms SUV. Its not going to save the planet, but its comfortable. Its safe. As I approached the black vehicle, I saw her waving furiously from the passenger seat, waving as if she had just gotten the feeling back in her limbs after lifelong paralysis. Hey! How was the flight? she asked, full of excitement. It was good! I responded with an equal amount of enthusiasm, knowing full well what it meant to both of us for me to be back. I figured we could go out to eat tonight and celebrate, she said. I know there arent as many great spots to eat in West Lafayette as there are in New York City but- Actually, would it be okay if we just stayed in and did dinner at home? I dont really feel like going out. My mom loved every opportunity she got to cook for us, and I was looking forward to spending my first night at home. As we made our way home, I got a phone call from my friend Brandan, who was looking forward to my return, like most of my friends. Dude, whats up? Welcome back to Indiana! Are you ready to rage tonight? Weve got to go out on the town and celebrate! No thanks, man, I told him as I laughed. Ive got everything I need at home.

Gently Used by The Invictus Writers is licensed under a Creative Commons-AtrributionNonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco,California, 94105, USA. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.thedudeman.net. Photo by Simon Pix , available through the Creative Commons License. See the original picture: http://www.flickr.com/photos/photobysimon/3096023252