Congratulations on Entering Graduate School!

Briefly after returning to Madison you’ll be reminded of why you left when Gary, your best friend from high school, taps the window of your car with the barrel of a revolver. You’ll sigh and roll your window down to avoid being shot in the face.

“Hey Gary,” you’ll say, exhaustion from driving for eighteen hours overshadowed by the dead tired feeling you get just seeing Gary here on the same street corner you left him on eight years ago.

“Hey shitbird,” he’ll say, eyes flitting nervously. He’ll barely seem to know he’s holding the gun, his wrist slack and tired. When he holds it pointed towards you it’ll seem almost accidental. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

You’ll shrug. Time won’t have been kind to Gary, his eyes hollowed out, his arms too thin and his beard a bit too unkempt, even by the standard of the hipsters you’ll just have abandoned.

He won’t be happy with that.

“Open the door,” he’ll say, and you’lll comply, letting him twitch into the passenger seat. He’ll smell like an exhausted animal, like a man on the verge of a seizure. His twitching won’t help, but it will give him a touch of madness that makes him seem capable of anything. When he finishes settling in and says “Drive” you’ll drive.

He’ll guide you through familiar streets filled with landmarks that, for all your time away, haven’t changed much. It’s like everything in Madison was locked in time just for you. Everything except Gary, who will gingerly and considerately point for you to turn well in advance until the two of you reach a bar on the edge of the warehouse district.

Then Gary will give you directions on exiting your vehicle, turning off the engine, opening your door and handing him the keys. Then he’ll put his gun right against your spine and push you towards the bar’s waiting door.

Inside Gary will calm down a little, sitting at the bar with you, still at gunpoint, by his side and ordering a drink, making sure that the bartender knows to tell Julio that he’s found you and has you here.

Gary will go through three more scotches while the two of you wait. The place will be like a rogue’s gallery of people from your high school. Mary Keating, the girl you lost your virginity to, will be sitting on a man’s lap in a corner. Max Fairingway, your math tutor, will be nervously selling coke to Farah Thomson né Franks, the lead cheerleader who ended up pregnant towards the end of senior year and married her sweetheart of the time who, rumor had it, was not the father of her child.

It’ll be almost exactly like what you expected your high school reunion to be like, but two years before you expected it. When Julio steps in the front door the gathering will be complete.

“What the fuck are you doing back here, you fucking snitch?” he’ll ask before he even sits down, advancing towards the bar with violent intent.

You’ll explain that you are starting graduate school tomorrow at the U of W in Madison and that you will hopefully have a degree in music theory completed in around two years time. He’ll shake his head.

“Maybe that shit will help you get out of loans to the federal government, but it won’t help you with me.” He’ll nod to Gary, who will pull his gun out again and cock it.

You’ll ask him, puzzled, what he’s talking about. He’ll answer by detailing a scenario, almost a decade ago now, where he covered your ticket to the last Lord of the Rings movie for which you still “owe” him. You’ll ask if you can treat him to a movie and call it all Even Steven, but he’ll shake his head mournfully.

“It’s too late for that now,” he’ll say. Then he’ll nod to Gary, who will be shaking a little bit again. His grip won’t be too steady on that pistol and you’ll notice but you won’t think about it. You’ll just move.

You’ll grab the pistol by the barrel and jerk it forward, smashing your fist into Gary’s face. Then you’ll toss the pistol into your free hand in and endless heartbeat and point it at Julio. He’ll have begun to speak but the words won’t have left his mouth before the revolver interrupts, leaping in your hand and leaving your wrist with a broken feeling.

The shaped .357 won’t so much hit him as it will leave him, a hole the size of a quarter just to the left of his heart. You won’t see the exit wound, but you’ll know what it looks like: torn flesh and jagged bone pushing through meat decorating a fist sized hole. He’ll be on the ground in a few seconds, in shock before Gary even has senses back.

You’ll mutter at Gary before you pull the trigger again.

“Sorry,” you’ll tell him. You won’t be sure what you mean exactly.

As you leave the bar and re-enter the car you’ll feel strangely calm. Tomorrow’s a big day for you. Everything’s going to change, and today was, in a sick way, the perfect prelude to it. You’ll put the car into first, start the engine and drive to your parent’s house from muscle memory. It’s going to be weird to sleep in the same bed you grew up in after all that’s happened.

Congratulations on Entering Graduate School!

Congratulations on Finding a New Place to Live!

Pitchfork writers are a homogenous bunch. They’re white, educated, unmotivated and perceive themselves as being better than the people around them for no apparent reason. They also only wear clothing “ironically,” smoke clove cigarettes and they live exclusively in Brooklyn, where they attend shows and have “other interests” aside from music which seem to exist constantly in theoretical space.

As such you should’ve known you wouldn’t fit in with you genuine passion for music and subculture, your journalism degree and your apartment in the Bronx. You even spent time volunteering at local soup kitchens. How could you possibly think this would work?!

So today, when your boss calls you into his office, you’ll feel a twinge of surprise and a strong undercurrent of dread. When he says your name like he’s your dad you know what’s coming next and you won’t even hear him talk about synergizing brand image and ensuring consistent quality of work without sacrificing journalistic integrity.

All you’ll be able to do is stare at his cochney cap and think “what a fucking douche.” You’ll be on your feet by the time he finishes, staring at him like all you want him to do is shut the fuck up. He’ll pause briefly in his speech and give you a look like “could you please sit back down and let me finish?” but you’ll just take the pause to walk calmly out of his office, knowing that the uncoolness of shouting or chasing after you would keep him glued to his chair, twitching and sputtering in impotent suburban rage.

You’ll emerge from his office and grab your laptop from your desk and a handful of pens and notepads, ignoring your hanging cat picture and your bobble head doll. You’ll even leave your Pitchfork mug, depicting a young man with an apathetic expression on his face wearing a shirt one size to small for him.

You’ll stuff the milieu of useful shit you scavenged from your desk into your laptop bag and step briskly out of the office to the bafflement of your co-workers, as going outside during the day is shamefully un-hip, leading to such uncool activities as sweating and meeting foreigners who haven’t had the benefit of an American college education.

Out on the street you’ll hop from train to train to get from Bushwick to your shitty, un-air conditioned rent controlled apartment. There you’ll think about went wrong. You wrote intelligent commentary about music, assessing it not objectively but with a transparent means of interpretation which any of your readership could comprehend. You had an excellent rapport with the bands you interviewed, but you never became friendly with them or perceived them as friends. You were a perfect music journalist. There were only two problems.

You never grew an absurd moustache and you lived in the Bronx.

You’ll smack your forehead and make an exasperated groan. You know it’s too late for you and Pitchfork now but you’ll flip open your laptop and start cruising through Craigslist to see if you can find something in Bushwick in your price range anyway. Even if Pitchfork has rejected you Vice might still have room for someone too “edgy” for Pitchfork.

After twenty minutes of looking, however, you’ll realize that all of these places are too expensive for you to afford without assistance from a large financial institution or wealthy parents. You’ll look out your window at the ruin of your street, your local crackhead trembling with arms stretched towards God, muttering to himself.

You’ll wonder how people like that come to be. They must have been sane at one point, but something must have happened to make their minds break that way. Perhaps it’s something within themselves. Or perhaps it’s the city.

With this thought in your head you’ll dial your mother on your cell phone. After a three minute conversation you’ll have made arrangements to stay with her back in Wisconsin until you can get into grad school in Madison. She’ll sound happy that you’re coming back and you’ll just feel relieved, even as you inventory your apartment deciding just what can fit into your Tercel and what you’ll leave behind in New York.

In the end you’ll find there’s very little you want to bring with you.

Congratulations on Finding a New Place to Live!