Our First Date

The Spaniards on our floor liked to party. You could tell by the end of the year where Spaniards had lived, by the ring of dirt, cigarette ash, and spilled fluids of all sorts outside the doors. Gorka lived on our floor, and was quick to point out he was Basque, not Spanish, but he partied with the lot of them anyhow. We never knew how old he was but guessed mid-twenties. Grown up alcohol, grown up girlfriends. Parties.

They were fond, not just on our floor, but throughout our cinderblock dormitory, of taking a cigarette lighter to the smoke detectors in the hallway. To pull a fire alarm meant breaking glass and making a scene. But flames up by the wired system of fire detection did the trick just as well. My freshman year had many nights spent waiting in the parking lot with friends and disgruntled non-Spaniards, waiting to be let back into our rooms. During these alarms, the party continued outside with more participants than ever.

One night in late April, there were three fire alarms. It was 5th floor, not 4th, where they kept happening, and yet the party wasn't shut down entirely. We all could have told Jeanette, the official in charge of our dorm, exactly who was responsible. But she wasn't listening. In fact, she rarely did, and that year was spent in frustration of not being listened to. Not being listened to about Tino at the end of the hall probably date-raping the young high school girls he brought up every weekend. Every weekend a new girl. Not being listened to about depressed floormates. Not being listened to about living conditions, about the trash not going out, about the rings of dirt and ash and alcohol on the carpet outside the party rooms.

But that night, the fourth fire alarm, I found myself outside with Jake. His roommate had left after the second alarm, took his girlfriend and found friends in another dormitory where they could crash for the rest of the night. Jake and I had had a big fight earlier that spring and I'd written off the potential of even being friends. The fight had been all my fault and I was having a hard time living up, owning up, moving on. That night, coming on to morning, just the bits of twilight appearing in the east, I stood out there next to him for just a few seconds. He swung his keys around in a figure 8, catching them in his hand, walking to his car. I followed, knowing wherever he was going would be better than the night had been thus far.

We drove down Kingshighway and found a McDonalds that was open for business. Fries and milkshakes. His was vanilla but tasted like strawberry. He left it on the curb and shared mine. We headed back to the dorm. He was still dating the tall mysterious Vanessa. I had Troy in my back pocket, although if I were honest for a moment, I knew it wasn't going to last. I wasn't looking for a boyfriend; Jake has infinitely more integrity than I do and he certainly wasn't looking for a girlfriend. Back home, the 8 story 1960s era grim beige brick facade loomed. Morning was upon us and the first few early birds were leaving for their day in classrooms to the east. My first class wasn't until 10--I could catch a 4 hour nap and drag myself over to Ethics, easy.

I met Jake for lunch after, in the cafeteria, but with several other folks. It wasn't until much much later that I realized this was our first date. There are other contenders--ice cream on my last day of freshman year before my dad and I drove home to Texas; the balloon glow the following September; the first official date of "Much Ado About Nothing" on September 20, 1993. But really, if I'm honest, it was the middle of the night drive down an empty thoroughfare and bad fast food. Thank you Spaniards, thank you Gorka.