By Graham von Carlowitz, Opinion Editor
"Herumph," I pondered to myself. "Charles Manson or Jeffrey Dahmer?" Those were the names I landed on when I told myself it was a good -- no, a hysterical idea to scribe some serial killer names onto any of the dozens of dry-erase white boards that flooded my freshman year dorm hallway.
"Dahmer, of course," I concluded, nervously scribbling the toddler-quality letters barely visible to even the most well-trained eyes. But the deed was done, and back to my room I scampered, closing the door behind me and shaking in a guilt-ridden fit for the next 30-some minutes.
The goal wasn't to frighten anyone, just to instill enough curiosity to get people talking, which, well, was my goal that year. They would see the name and wonder if this would be the room's weekly gift to the dorm -- that is, a "Whacko of the Week" set-up. Of course, the room's inhabitants would see the peculiar graffiti and immediately erase it, offering a suspicious -- albeit necessary -- message in its stead. "We do NOT approve of Dahmer's work and furthermore abhor anyone who does." If they were talented enough, an angry "smiley" face with a disapproving finger wag would accompany the memo and that would be that.
The next day, though, the board had returned to its natural marshmallow hue with no rebuttal in sight. I originally intended to prey upon the next message board en route to inciting a dorm-wide detective game. "Who's the psycho behind this all?" people would ask during those brutally honest toilet talks in the community bathrooms.
Instead, my natural reaction was to scribble a name yet again -- Charles Manson -- before anyone else tried to steal my thunder. In the three seconds it took to uncap the marker and start writing, a short, hobbit-like, yellow-haired kid approached my work and approved.
"Pretty funny, dude," he said. Then, without waiting for any follow up from me, he tilted his gaze up at mine and dropped the act.
"I think you should stop writing on other people's boards," he said coldly. Before I could think of a rebuttal, Chris took his dry erase marker from my hand and slammed his door. His sentiment, though terse and straightforward, sounded prophetic, as if he knew that the second I stopped the serial killer scrawls, we would become friends.
This is what I have come to take as the norm with Chris throughout the few years I've known him -- that is, to expect the unexpected. I understand this sounds dangerously close to a surprise, which infers at least an ounce of unforeseen material, but a surprise is one event, like learning for the first time that you aren't the only one who conceals an ever-growing affinity for the smell of gasoline. Or accidentally baiting your mom into telling you that no, she did not do cocaine back in the day because something called "714" was all the noise she cared to listen to (and because cocaine "can do some serious damage to your sinus cavity!").
To expect the unexpected, on the other hand, infers a habitual reliance on surprises. Once I became Chris's roommate the following year, this reliance surpassed even my unabashed addiction to coffee. As roommates, it was generally understood that we did three things together: complain about our neighbors' loud, weirdly sexual curses; complain about our neighbors that smoked and therefore tainted all our clothing with a tobacco-laden scent unbearable to the nose; and eat, especially dinner, since neither of us knew what breakfast really was and lunch just happened to be a funny word to rhyme with munch.
So one day, when Chris said he had to drive an hour away for a family dinner at his grandparents' house, I really had no say in the matter, though free food was a comforting perk. As it turned out, the extended family had gathered for an uncandid stock photo with a red barn and woods backdrop. For some reason, the zany 60-year-old photographer, complete with goose egg eyes and an outstretched smile, had me help out with the lighting. After using her "lighting equalizer" -- what I determined to be an old-fashioned mirror -- to brighten the family's pictures for a strenuous half-hour, zany lady turned to me, her eyes pulsing and aimed at me.
"Hey you, yeah you, get on in there! Come on, what the hell!" she said, quite unexpectedly, I might add.
For some reason, no one in the family protested her executive decision and, looking like a crazy person who wondered out from the woods, I successfully marred the Keck family photo with my patented smile, both wide and creepy as zany lady's smile.
Not two weeks later, I truly did find myself out in the woods, this time a few miles outside of my campus in southwest Ohio, what some designate as "nowhere." It was in this area of "nowhere" that I expected to find a bookstore, as promised to me by my phone's map. Instead, after trekking past a few unexciting corn fields and fleeing over a one-lane bridge, I was led to a forsaken brick house and what I'm pretty sure was the home for two packs of raccoons.
Sunken into a sullen daze, I smacked myself in the face for being so foolish as to believe DuBois Bookstore would have an auxiliary branch 3 miles away from its home base. On my way back, to no one's surprise yet still to the surprise of both of us, I came across Chris, only the fourth person (cars included) to have crossed my path for the past two hours.
As he approached me, he removed his raisin-sized earbuds and shook his head. "Why are you out here?" he wanted to know.
"Oh, yeah...well I thought there was a bookstore back there. Turns out, there isn't." I said.
As if to say, "Of course that's why you came out here," Chris nodded his head and continued his weekly run, knowing to expect nothing but what he cannot expect.
Chris is now undergoing basic training for the army, but before he left, his parents threw a going away party for him. As was par for the course, the event showcased a life-sized Connect Four, Jenga played with 2x4's and, as unexpected, a deck of playing cards the size of a toddler.
"Is this deck for old people with decaying vision?" I said as I scanned the party scene in Chris's backyard. Sitting behind me was his grandmother, the only person to laugh at my bad joke. I turned to her to show my appreciation for the pity-laugh and engaged in conversation. As it turns out, she has a son whose aunt is younger than him and somehow considered his sister. The son -- another Chris -- raised his beer bottle on cue and added, "Now tell me that's not messed up."
Actually, considering how unexpected the story was, I don't think it was messed up. It was strangely normal.
voncargh@miamioh.edu