By The Way
copyright 2006 by Mark Logan
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter 20
Sit back, kids. It's time for a little bit of
Atlanta history.
Peachtree Street. For those of you who live in Atlanta, you know all of the
incarnations that this name has. First we have the original: Peachtree
Street; then we have West Peachtree, Peachtree Way, Peachtree Ave, Peachtree
Battle, Peachtree Circle, and Peachtree Industrial Blvd. In Atlanta many of
the early roads were named after the locations or cities that the roads to
you to, or the destination city. Two legends surround the name "peachtree"
in our fair city. The first is that the native Indians took pitch from a
certain type of tree in order to help build their dwellings. It was called
"the pitch tree" and supposedly its name was mispronounced "peach tree" by
the early white settlers. The other legend is that the road leading north
out of what was once called Marthasville (before its name was changed to
Terminus, and then later Atlanta) took you through the "tight squeeze" to a
postal stop called Standing Peachtree. This postal stop was supposedly
named for a huge peach tree that grew near its location in what is now the
Peachtree Battle area of the city. The "tight squeeze" was aptly named
because during pre- and post-Civil War times, one was considered to be
putting one's life in a tight squeeze getting through an area of that road
which was frequented by thieves and highwaymen. The "tight squeeze", as it
were, is located near Peachtree and 10th Streets.
Once Peachtree Street crosses West Paces Ferry in Buckhead it turns into
Roswell Road, and takes you to the city bearing the same name.
Incidentally, "Buckhead" received its name from an ante-bellum tavern whose
owner hung the head of a prized buck above the front door. He named it The
Buck Head Tavern. How original. I really do feel sorry for anyone visiting
Atlanta, what with all of the Peachtrees. And when the Olympics were in
town? Forget it! There's no telling how many people got lost trying to
find their way around town.
There are many streets in the city whose names change at various points
along their courses. Five Points, in downtown Atlanta, is one of those
places. Remembering your history lesson from the beach chapter, this was
the terminating point of the three main railroads into the city. Decatur
Street takes you to.....Decatur. But once it crossed Five Points it becomes
Marietta Street, which takes you to....you guessed it. Marietta! South of
Marietta is Alabama Street. You get the picture. And for those of you out
in Stone Mountain, you'll know how Redan Road turns into Hairston Road, then
Mountain Industrial Blvd., then Jimmy Carter Blvd., then Holcomb Bridge Road
(after it crosses the river), only to become something else once you hit
north Roswell. Good times!
So Atlanta's burgeoning growth was centered around the railroads. Then some
guy up in Michigan figured out a way to make building automobiles
inexpensive and soon everyone had to have one. Atlantans, too. There was
one big problem, though. With all of the trains running into and out of the
city, automobile traffic in that area was a constant mishigas (craziness),
but a solution was inevitable. The city would elevate the roads so that all
major vehicular traffic on the four or five streets nearest Five Points
would pass over the trains. It was a brilliant idea. Sort of. All of the
buildings on these streets (Courtland, Piedmont, Peachtree, Alabama and
Pryor to name several), well, they sort of had a problem. You see, their
customers had pretty much become accustomed to entering the buildings and
shops on the first floor. I know - a minor thing. To fix this problem,
everyone in the area had to raise their shops, offices, etc. to the second
floor or higher in order to be at the level of the new streets. The
original street levels eventually earned the moniker Underground Atlanta.
Cool, huh?
Hmmm. Not really. The original street levels, which were now covered by
the viaducts above, became a haven to bums, hobos and criminals. At some
point in history (possibly before many major cities experienced the
spectacular doom known as "urban renewal", possibly after), it was deemed a
good idea to make the area that had become known as Underground Atlanta into
a tourist attraction. It worked for a while but from what I understand
crime sucked the lifeblood from it. So they tried it again, some time
later. Same result. People love cities; they love downtown life, and
Underground was definitely downtown in Atlanta. But people also hate to be
mugged and raped so they opted for other, safer locations in the city to
hang out.
In the mid-80's another effort was spearheaded by the city to sell bonds for
the total renovation of Underground. A development firm called Rouse and
Co. had been successful redeveloping Jax Brewery in New Orleans, The Union
Station in St. Louis, Union Station in Washington D.C. (or maybe it was the
Old Post Office) and several other major urban renovation/redevelopment
projects had been selected to rebuild Underground Atlanta. And a spectacular
job they did! For quite some time they kept solid, plywood fencing around
the perimeter of the site and to the people who worked downtown it was like
walking past a giant gift beneath the Christmas tree. You had no idea what
it was going to look like, and that was part of the excitement. It was a
major project that enveloped at least a half dozen city blocks in an area
that was economically decimated. Sometimes if you were on the east- or
west-bound Marta train you could catch glimpses of the construction, because
the MARTA tracks are at downtown's original ground level, and therefore at
the same level as Underground.
So around Labor Day in 1989 the entire project was unveiled, and it was one
of the best attractions the city had to offer. Nearly 100% of the stores on
the upper and lower levels were leased to every kind of store that you'd see
at a really nice shopping mall. Several parking garages were built, and all
were very well lighted at night. The Five Points Marta station was across
Peachtree Street and a walkway connecting the station to U.A. was
constructed at the lower level (again, the original pre-viaduct level). At
the corner of Peachtree and Alabama Streets (upper of both) a hotel whose
construction had begun before World War One and ceased in 1917 had finally
been finished; it was originally designed to have sixteen floors but only
the fist six stories had been finished. By 1989 the rest of the 16 floors
were finished, and it became one of the only luxury hotels in downtown
Atlanta. I should say, in that part of downtown Atlanta.
I always vow never to go to a major event such as the opening of Underground
Atlanta, but I always break that vow. On opening day I was down there with
Glen and a couple of people from the theater. There were tons of
restaurants, both fast food and sit-down, most of which were located in
Kenny's Alley. The main entrance into U.A. was entered from a huge plaza at
Peachtree and Alabama, and, with all of its benches, steps, plant ledges and
founain walls, it was perfect for people watching. The plaza, upper and
lower Alabama Streets (which were the main concourses), the Alley, the whole
damn place was jam-packed with people, and the city got a major economic
boost. It was also a morale booster, because so much of that area was still
facing economic decay.
The reason U.A. was important to me was because I started working at a
restaurant there called Buck's. The main part of the place was located on
Lower Alabama behind an original 19th century facade. Again, Lower Alabama
is so named not because it's south of Upper Alabama, but because it's
directly below the Alabama Street viaduct. The dining room of Buck's was
furnished in black, red and white. A raised part of the dining room allowed
people to pass through the original front facade and eat on an "outdoor"
porch which overlooked Lower Alabama and all of the passersby. There was a
small service bar that also provided drinks for patrons waiting in the
lounge for dining room seating. At the back of the building was the
kitchen. If you punched a hole in the rear kitchen wall you'd be able to
see all of the freight trains (and MARTA trains) passing by which caused
Underground to exist in the first place. Every time a freight train came
by, the kitchen would rumble and shake. Upstairs had a full service bar
that had a smaller kitchen. There was bar seating at tables, and then
another large lounge area, both of which opened onto Upper Alabama Street.
Two sides of the lounge overlooked the huge entrance plaza to U.A, and the
third side overlooked Upper Alabama Street, the fourth side overlooking
Upper Pryor Street. There was also a cafe' that was set up on one of the
original lower streets, as the restaurant itself was located at the
intersection of Alabama and Pryor Streets.
Lots of changes in my life. Alan—well, he ended up making first string at
UGA about half-way through the season. That guy was like a monster out on
the field. He even earned the nickname "Diesel" because of his ability to
plow through anyone. Don was still at Georgia State and bouncing at that
bar in Buckhead. What I call my "cancer hair" started to grow back, at the
base of my neck. Normally, my hair is thick and wavy; this new hair came in
thin and straight. After all of the radiation treatments were over and I'd
given my piano recital, I started taking some classes at Southern Tech in
January of '90. I was able to get a couple of history classes, a course
where they taught basic construction document reading, and calculus out of
the way. If I never have to perform another function or look at another
matrix, I'll be just fine.
After two and a half years of working at the theater it was time to go. My
cancer was treated and behind me and I needed to start making decent money
again. Plus most of my friends had gone to greener pastures, and the
manager pissed me off by not giving me a well-deserved raise. Buck's fit
the bill because I was able to make around $6.50 an hour as a cashier, which
was pretty good for a college student in those days. The restaurant itself
was going through some management changes at the same time, and our new
manager was the same one I'd trained under at the Lennox Square Mall
location. It was generally an American grill-type place, with pastas,
salads, typical stuff you'd see at a joint where a hamburger cost six
dollars. The waitrons (excuse me, servers) wore khaki pants, white shirts
with red aprons and real bow ties that were also red.
Day one for me was pretty hectic. The cashier's position was a new one at
the restaurant, and so all four of us were hired at the same time. Lucky
for me I still had to work out my notice at the theater, which gave the
restaurant some time to work out the kinks. The other cashiers were
Victoria, CJ and Trent. Our general manager, Monica, had also trained them
at the Lennox location. We had a desk set up between the doors leading into
and out of the kitchen from the main dining room. We had an iron rack/shelf
between our station and the "in" door where the waiters would roll
silverware into the white cloth napkins - or we would between cashing out
tables. Monica ran a pretty tight ship and you never had time or a reason
to be standing still.
With the exception of Victoria, the managers had somehow managed (ahem) to
hire all gay cashiers. I was the only fun one, though. Seriously. Ask any
of the people that worked there. CJ was quiet and snippy, Victoria was the
biggest bitch to hit this earth, and Trent was a thin-skinned, eye-rolling
gay guy. Bastard rolled his eyes at everything. Me, I loved the fast pace
of the restaurant, the cooks shouting orders for this and that, how problems
would be fixed with orders during the busiest of times, the expo woman
hollering out "runners!" if the plates would back up waiting to go to a
table. There were quite a few people that I didn't see all that much
because of the layout of the kitchen, like the people who'd cut up lettuce,
prepare meat or all of the other ancillary jobs. Our desk was directly
across from the expo line, which was opposite the cooks and their grills.
The grills backed up to the train tracks on the other side of the wall.
Many of the employees were gay; I'd say probably 40% were. Gay, lesbian,
whatever. One guy's only requirement to have sex with you was whether or
not you had a pulse. Makes choosing easier, I guess. But the place was a
trip. Everyone working there was a college student, so we were all
basically the same age, in our early twenties. The managers were all
older, and most of them were gay too. A very gay restaurant. Oh my!
The woman who worked expo was LaSonya, and her mother worked the dessert
line. LaSonya had to be loud because you had to be heard over all of the
kitchen noises, and the servers had to be sure to hear what was being called
out to them. That chick took shit from no one. Because she was right
across from me, the two of us were always yelling stuff back and forth to
each other, kidding around. The kitchen staff was a blast and I got pretty
"in" with them, most likely because I was around them all of the time. The
servers could sometimes be prima donnas but it was not uncommon for me to
give them their comeuppance if they smarted off to me about something or
other.
One of my favorite servers was Arlene. She was a student at Georgia State
(as were the majority of the wait staff--Georgia State campus was adjacent
to Underground) and working part time at the restaurant. She had a raucous
sense of humor and invariably would have me laughing out loud whenever she
worked. Sometimes she'd just come into the kitchen, smackin' her gum like a
cow, and start clapping her hands singing some Gospel song; or she'd come in
saying something that made no sense to anyone at all, but it was always
funny how she said it.
Patty was our leather lesbian. I'm not kidding when I say that. She was
not attractive at all and could probably throw you across the room, but she
had a great sense of humor and loved to kid around. Rodney was a tall gay
guy who thought he had bedroom eyes. Please. Anyway, the guy was a bit of
a loon, in a funny way, and he was always friendly to me. Will was a
country boy who also happened to be gay. In his case, his mannerisms were
such that you'd never guess that he was into guys. Don't get all
"thin-skinned" on me now. Many of the gay guys at the restaurant had a
pretty good flame goin' on. And the drama -- Christ on a bike! Every day
could've turned into an episode of "Dynasty" if things got out of hand. But
back to the players. I really dug Will. Normally I'm not into red heads,
but his hair was fairly dark, almost brown, and he kept it pretty high and
tight. At first I didn't pay all that much attention to him, but he was
such a goof ball that I couldn't help but be attracted to him. He was about
an inch shorter than me and had hazel eyes. A stocky build, but not exactly
a beer keg with arms.
Stan. Oh God, Stan! Hotter than hot, and he knew it, but he was so damn
nice. It was obvious his looks had no affect on him as it did the rest of
the (gay) staff. He and his partner celebrated their seventh year together,
and I think he may have been around twenty-five or -six. He easily could've
been a model. Again, one of the classiest guys in the joint. Another guy,
named Jack, also could've been a model. But he wasn't what I'd call "gay
friendly" by any stretch of the imagination. He'd talk to ya, but would
never be friends with anyone outside of his own jockdom. He actually played
football for Georgia Tech. I'm not sure which position, but it wouldn't
have mattered to me anyway. The only position I cared about was up in
Athens nine months out of the year.
I could go over the rest of the people I worked with but my memory isn't
that great. Typically I wanted to work the afternoon shift (there were two
shifts) and was pretty adamant about not working at nights. On the weekends
the restaurant closed at one in the morning, which meant the cashier's
station was open until around two, and that would put me going home around
three. Nope. Not interested. The dining room opened at eleven, but we all
had to be there by ten. Actually, I didn't, but I really enjoyed hanging
out with everyone as they reviewed the specials of the day and were quizzed
on various recipes. Because I got there earlier than I was supposed to, I
always started picking up some menial tasks around the kitchen, usually to
help the wait staff.
Back then I could do a really good falsetto impression of Aretha Franklin,
so whenever Arlene would come into the kitchen we'd start singing to each
other, mainly just being goofy. From time to time the waiters would come in
and laugh as they ran around, filling drink orders or running food out to
the dining room. Luckily for our patrons, our kitchen was fairly loud and
so I could get really loud sometimes without disturbing them. Monica would
usually just walk by and shake her head. She knew I was the entertainment,
if you will, and would only tell me to pipe down if I was getting out of
control. But goofy singing is infectious, and there were always two or
three other people who'd scurry into the kitchen imitating one of the songs
that was piped into the dining room over our p.a. system.
One day one of the kitchen managers, Kylie, was working the grill. He
hollered over to me, "Hey Lyons, what's the song of the day." That cracked
me up because by then I felt like a human jukebox. People would come to me
and either hum a few bars or say the lyrics of a song that they couldn't
quite place the melody, and I'd pick up on it for them, or tell them the
title they were looking for.
"How about Dancing Queen?" I hollered back.
Just then Danny, one of the bartenders, came around the corner singing, "You
can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life." Everyone there at
the expo line and the grill started laughing. "Queens. How appropriate,"
Danny said, then flitted back out of the kitchen. We all laughed at that,
as well.
I worked a lot and the summer just few by. I never had so much fun in my
life. Some times were busier than others. Lucky for me, I had the day off
when the Olympic Organizing Committee announced that the 1996 Summer
Olympics were awarded "to...the city of...At-lan-ta." A crowd had gathered
at Underground, in the plaza, and several large screen televisions were set
up. Buck's was jam-packed the rest of the day and didn't close until three
hours after its normal 11:00 time. I'd heard that the bartenders made a
bunch of money in tips that night.
Summer was coming to a close, and unfortunately I didn't get to spend a
whole lot of time Alan, Don or Glen. All of our schedules were really
crazy. Don always worked at night at the club in Buckhead. Alan was
working during the break for a couple of months until practice resumed at
the end of July. Glen had decided not to return to Georgia State, and
instead started focusing on a psychology degree at a small school in
southeastern Tennessee. It wasn't too far from Chattanooga and was
literally up the road (Interstate 75) from where I'd be living at school in
Marietta, come the fall.
It was sad because the three most important friends in my life at that time
were leading such disparate lives from myself. I guess that's to be
expected, in a way. It was hard to believe that I'd only been out of high
school for three years. It felt more like a hundred and three. I used to
be able to sense when life changes would bring in a new era--now, I found
myself so far into a new phase of life that I'd failed to recognize the
signs on the wall. Perhaps that happened as a result of my illness, I'm not
sure.
All I know is that by the end of summer I was really looking forward to
moving into the dorms, and living on campus full time. The previous two
quarters that I'd attended Southern Tech, I drove from Stone Mountain to
Marietta every day. All of that was fine since I wasn't taking any studio
classes yet, but the amount of time that you spend on campus, and as late as
I knew the hours would require me to stay in studio, pretty much demanded
that I live as close to the architecture building as possible.
Just before my last week at Buck's, I was approached by one of the kitchen
managers, Kylie. He was always asking the song of the day, or putting in a
request, just to see if I could fill it. Almost always I'd sing whatever
request in an over-the-top version of the original, mainly to hide the
disdain I had for my own voice. Kylie was going to be leaving the
restaurant to join a couple of other guys in opening up a club of some kind
in Midtown.
"Hey Paul," he said one day, "you ever think about singing for real?"
I laughed out loud in response. He and I were in the manager's office—he
filling out an inventory report, me counting down my cash till.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
I turned and looked at him. "Why do you ask?" I couldn't quite tell if he
was being serious or not.
" 'Cause you're pretty good. At least I think you are, beneath all of the
joking around, and all."
I looked at him again for a second. "Kylie, either you're runnin' for
office, or lyin' just...runs in your family." I turned back to my cash
drawer.
"Look, dude, I'm serious. This club I'm leavin' here to open up, well,
we're tryin' to do somethin' a little different."
"Like what. Hire no-talents?" I snorted.
I could feel him looking at me for a moment. "Anyway," he continued,
"myself and two other guys are plannin' on doin' things a bit different with
this club."
Okay, so I was curious. "Like what?"
"Well, we want to have a karaoke contest now and then-"
I interrupted him. "Big deal. Everyone has karaoke."
"Will you shut up for a second?" He had no problem saying that to me, which
was cool because that's pretty much how I was with some people too.
"Sorry."
"We want to have some times during the weekends where we feature different
singers, each one singing a different style of song."
"Okay."
"Well, I was wonderin' if you'd be interested."
"In?"
"Singing, dumb ass." He rolled his eyes and shook his head.
I sat back in my chair. "Wait a minute. You're serious, ain't'cha."
Kylie nodded.
"Kylie, I'm not a singer."
"We can have you trained--yo could take voice lessons."
"Kylie, I hate my voice."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Shit, who likes to hear the sound of their own voice? And
mine's well..."
"It's different, and that's what we want--different people to sing different
types of stuff."
"Ha! And what kind of songs would I sing. My voice is 'different'."
"It's unique."
I looked at him. "I'm not sure if that's all that good, dude."
"What, with some training and practice, I think you'd be up to it by next
spring."
"Say what? Next spring!"
"Hey, I said I thought you'd need some training."
"What are you," I laughed, "a friggin' talent scout?" I turned back to
counting the money.
"Actually, I'm in charge of finding all of the talent."
"Have you found anybody else?" I admit, at this point I was somewhat
intrigued.
"We have a few other people that we want to audition, and I thought I'd ask
you as well."
I snorted as I counted the change in the drawer. "Craziest thing I've ever
heard," I muttered.
"Look, Paul, if you don't wanna do it, that's cool. I just thought I'd
ask." He went back to his inventory count.
After a few minutes of silence I piped up. "When does the club open up?"
"We're planning on opening up New Year's Eve. Figured we'd get a pretty big
crowd, and that'd help get a lot of people into the place to check it out."
"Would you pay for the voice lessons?" I asked.
I heard him take a breath. "I guess," he sounded kinda tentative.
"It's just that I won't be working during school because of all the time
I'll be spending in studio, so I'll have practically no money to speak of."
"Hmmm. Let me talk to the other guys about that."
"I mean, hey, you approached me, right?" I was getting more and more
interested.
"True," Kylie said.
"And you suggested, what, six months of voice lessons. That's a lot of
moolah, hoss."
"Yeah. I'll bet we could swing something. You're not the only person who,
if the other two guys like what they hear, may have to take some coaching
classes. I guess we should spring for them, too, if they're going to be
working for us." He said this more to himself than to me.
"Shit. Audition. When do I need to do that?" I was starting to lose
interest. It was hard enough singing for my friends back at the cabin, let
alone singing seriously for three strangers. Well, Kylie wasn't a complete
stranger, but it's not like we were close or anything.
"I dunno. We can figure that all out as we need to."
"Well, if I need coaching, shouldn't we have me audition soon, so I'll know
whether or not I'll be singing there?"
Kylie turned and looked at me. "You mean you'll do it."
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. "Probably against my better judgment,
but yeah, I'll audition for you. But if I make it, y'all have to pay for
the voice lessons."
Kylie smiled a bit. "Not a problem. I'll find out when everyone can get
together, hopefully in the next couple of weeks. Then we can audition
everybody at once."
* * * *
My parents thought that it sounded like a good way to make money over the
next summer, but were cautious about the time I might spend on lessons as
opposed to my studies. Don thought it was awesome and reminded me that he
always thought I should do something with my singing. Because he's a goof
ball, Glen just laughed when he heard the news, and wished me luck. He
didn't laugh, like "ha-ha you're nuts," more like "holy shit, that's
unbelievable." Alan thought it was pretty cool that I'd be asked, and was
pretty impressed when I decided to go along with the audition.
The week before the actual audition I kept telling myself, "Paul, you're not
nervous, you're not nervous." I just wish that somebody would've told my
bowels that. Damn, that was a rough week. I was told to prepare three to
four different types of songs, and provide the sheet music for the pianist,
if possible. That wasn't quite as easy to do. I picked Gershwin's "I've
Got Rhythm" because there was a part where I could sing some scat, Etta
James' version of "At Last", Patsy Cline's version of a song called "Crazy
Arms", Kay Starr's version of "Singin' The Blues", none of which I had a
problem finding the sheet music for. It was the fifth song, "Smile One More
Time" by Toni Tennille, that was impossible to find the chart for. That
meant I'd have to sing it a cappella.
By the time the actual audition day had arrived I had about chewed the skin
off the sides of my finger nails, a horrible habit I'd started back in grade
school. There were six of us auditioning, myself, another two guys, and
three gals. I was set to audition last, and the wait was really getting to
me. After hearing them sing I wondered what in the hell I was doing there
in the first place. I paced around the back of the room, which at this
point was almost completely vacant, save for some chairs and a couple of
tables. The contractors were set to begin construction the following week,
and the place was to be part bar, part night club, part dinner theater. But
at this point the place was only decorated on paper.
Finally it was my turn to sing. I wanted to puke my guts out as I handed
the charts to the accompanist. I picked "I've Got Rhythm" to sing first
because I could really swing into that song and relieve a lot of the stress
and nervousness of the audition. "At Last" turned sort of bittersweet,
because out of the blue I started thinking about Alan, and how much things
had changed for us. I'd instructed the pianist to give "Crazy Arms" sort of
a calypso beat. He thought I was nuts at first but it really worked out. I
had to stop him on "Singin' The Blues" and tell him to slow down a bit. Guy
Mitchell and Bobby Hinton had sung that song, but I always thought their
versions too peppy to sound like you were actually singing the blues.
Finally, I sang "Smile One More Time." I was really nervous again and kept
my eyes shut for nearly half of the song. It has sort of a bluesy-pleading-belty
sound to it. Not sure how to describe it, but it's a far cry different from
"Muskrat Love," if that's how you remember Toni Tennille. When I finished,
Kylie and his partners, Jim and Rob, all leaned in to discuss the
auditions. After a few minutes of whispered discussion they all looked up
at the same time and said, "Torch."
My eyes looked from side to side, then back at them. "Excuse me?"
"Torch songs," Kylie said. "You'll be our torch song/blues song guy."
"You mean...I'm...hired?"
"Actually," Rob said, " you all are." The six of us looked at each other.
I couldn't believe it. About myself, I mean. The other people were pretty
good singers. I was just some shmoe who was trying out at Kylie's request.
I know I should have felt elated or happy, but suddenly I felt quite the
opposite. Much like Stephen King's Carrie when the bucket of pigs blood was
tumped (that's Southern for "tipped") over on her, I expected someone to
holler "NOT!" at me. But Rob continued. "We originally only wanted to hire
four, but thought it'd be a good idea to rotate y'all's singing schedules
throughout the week, keep everyone fresh. So we actually could use all six
of you."
Okay. I guess. I approached Kylie after the announcement was made and
asked him when I should start the voice lessons. He gave me two cards and
told me to set up appointments with each one to see who I'd be more
comfortable with. I was still a bit stunned. Never in a million fuckin'
years would I have guessed that I'd be singing in front of a crowd of
people. But the money was good, right? Wait. I had no idea how much it
all paid.
"Um...Kylie?"
"Yeah, bub."
"Um...how much...what do we get paid?" I asked.
"Each gig that you sing at pays fifty bucks."
Wow! Not bad for twenty minutes of singing. But it wouldn't pay the
bills. Oh well, I'd just get a second job, no big whup. That wasn't
exactly uncommon for college kids. Shit. I was still dumbfounded at the
idea of singing for people. Well, I had plenty of time before I'd have to
start singing--plenty of time to take voice lessons. Surely, that would
help alleviate any bit of nervousness and increase my comfort level. Right?
"Oh, and Kylie..." I said.
"Yeah, man."
"What's the name of this place gonna be?"
"Rhett's," he replied.
* * * *
"Everyone take a second and look at the people around you. Statistically,
two people on each side of you will not graduate with you." Damn! That's
one helluva a way to introduce yourself to the next class of freshman
architecture students. I checked out the rest of the class. One hundred
and sixty-three students in all. A few people I recognized from a couple of
my classes earlier in the year, but most were complete strangers to me. I
was twenty—soon to be twenty-one—and among the older people in the class.
The vast majority had just graduated from high school.
After he finished describing, briefly, the curriculum for myself and my
fellow architecture students, the lot of us were dismissed by the dean of
architecture to go to either our perspective studios or our core classes.
Each studio course was filled to capacity and lasted three hours each
meeting, three days per week. I think that there were a total of nine or
twelve sections, beginning at 9:00 in the morning, and the final one ending
at 6:00 in the evening. The bitch of it was that until you were a second
year student or higher, you had to share the studios with other classes. So
if my studio was from twelve until three and I wanted to stick around to do
some drawing afterward, I had to make sure there were plenty of seats for
the three to six class before I could claim a table. After the last section
ended it was pretty much a free-for-all for the freshmen students to claim a
drafting table.
And how I felt bad for those freshmen. By this point I had been in college
for three years, and the majority of my core classes were already
completed. These other poor saps had to take their algebras, English,
history, poly-sci’s and whatever else. Technically, with all of the hours
of coursework I'd already taken, I was somewhere in my junior year.
Architecture school had just added five more years of college to my life!
But, all I had to take that quarter was studio, a history and a literature
class. Not too bad, and it gave me plenty of time to study, when I wasn't
working on a studio project.
For those of you not familiar with architectural education, here's a brief
synopsis: it can sometimes be a living hell. In fact, at Georgia Tech one
year, some enterprising student changed the name "architecture" on the
building to "architorture." The architecture building never, ever, closes.
There are always lights on in studio. The only exception is between
quarters/semesters or maybe during the first day when the professors seldom
dive head first into a project.
The first few weeks the professors start gearing up by taking their classes
around campus and having us draw whatever in the hell we can find, whether
it be a sewer grate or a dogwood tree. They really wanted you to focus and
try to get that inanimate object to look right. Telling your hand to follow
your brain isn't really easy. Every studio we'd practice sketching some
sort of still life, or maybe a person from class, until we went nuts. In
the evenings our homework would usually be something along the lines of
drawing twenty or thirty sketches of objects either as you're viewing them
or as you remember them. Sketch, sketch, sketch! Charcoal sucks and it's
messy. Pencils, or lead, can be a bit of a pain in the ass unless you use
the correct softness of lead. Ink? Don't even go there.
And speaking of ink, get this. Every week we had to take a twelve inch by
eighteen inch sheet of vellum (fancy word for strong paper) and fill it with
lettering. Architects don't write, they letter. It didn't matter if you
wrote the alphabet or copied "Gone With The Wind," the profs wanted to see
that you'd filled the page each week, until the end of the quarter. I've
still never perfected it. Some schools require that you turn in lettering
sheets until you have perfected the style, regardless of how many quarters
it may take you. Good times!
If you see a zombie, or a group of zombies, walking aimlessly about a
college campus, chances are you've identified a first-year architecture
student. The projects always increase in their level of difficulty, and
during the final two to three days of the project you seldom get much sleep,
if any. At first it's kind of exciting, because almost your entire class is
in there with you, three radios are blaring three different stations, people
are bitching about being cold or hot and nobody can get truly comfortable.
Then at about four in the morning, six or seven of you head out to IHOP or
Waffle House or Steak 'n Shake for a food break. Most people are broke and
artsy - some guys would be wired on enough drugs to jump start the 60's.
And that's just in the first quarter.
By the second quarter staying up all night becomes a bit of an annoyance,
but by then you're working on actual building projects—party cabańas, bus
stops, whatever. Also, a few people have dropped the program so it's easier
to find an empty studio table. But you can't wait until the second year,
when you don't have to lug your projects around with you in a cheap-ass
plastic art bag, your supplies in a tackle box, between the dorms and the
studio building.
Third quarter of first year finally comes and staying up two to three days
in a row without sleep is becoming old hat, and your body gets used to the
deprivation. More students have dropped the program and it becomes like one
enormous family. Now you're designing projects like recycling centers and
public libraries. At my school we were fortunate in that the professors
always picked an actual site within an hour of the campus before handing out
the design program to us. This way we could always design a project knowing
the context which would be surrounding it.
I'll get more detailed with the studio stuff later. Back to the second week
of studio.
I'd had my professor earlier in the winter--he was the one who taught the
course on reading blueprints. I think there were around fourteen students
in my class, so it was pretty full. The prof would often pick something in
the room and have us all sketch it for ten to fifteen minutes. Sometimes we
were not allowed to look at what it was we were sketching. Yeah - that's
easy! Anyway, I was sitting at my table sketching some object or person,
minding my own business. I would usually sit at the back of the room if I
could because I'm the consummate people-watcher. How this guy escaped my
notice is beyond me, but I was into the second week before I really saw
him. So as I'm sitting there sketching a live model I happen to glance down
towards the right of the model.
That's when I saw this...dude. He was looking up at the model and I
couldn't take my eyes away. From him. I finally forced myself to focus on
the model but since this other guy was in my periphery, I couldn't ignore
him. In my gut I had a feeling so strong telling me that I needed to meet
this guy. Not necessarily to jump his bones, but to meet him. The feeling
was so damn strong that I grabbed my sketch pad and charcoals (I was still
using those) and headed over to his table. I placed them a couple of feet
from where he was drawing and said, "How ya doin'? Just comin' over to get
a better angle to sketch from."
"Hey. Sure, just...help yourself."
"By the way, my name's Paul," I said, still focusing on the model.
"I'm Greg. Nice to meet you."
"Same here."
We chatted just a little bit and before long it was three o'clock. Time to
go. I decided to force the issue and see if he wanted to go grab a bite to
eat, if he didn't have any other class. He said he didn't have anything
else that day and I gave him my phone number. Apparently it was up in the
air where he worked whether or not he'd have to work that evening, and he
needed to go home and check. He didn't live in the dorms as I did.
About a half an hour later he called. "Um...hey. It's Greg." I could tell
instantly that he'd forgotten my name, and laughed inwardly.
"Hey man, how's it goin'?" I asked.
"Alright. You still wanna grab a bite?"
"Yeah, man. How about American Pie? That sound good?"
"Sounds great. Do you wanna drive, or meet me there?"
American Pie was on Roswell Road just north of the perimeter (I-285), but
still about thirty minutes away.
"How about I come get'cha."
"Sounds good. Lemme give you directions..."
And boys and girls, that is how I met Greg.
* * * * * * * *