The night my parents brought me up, I hadn't told anyone that I'd be coming. I'd spoken once on the phone with Alana and since I was paying good money and since I have those developmentally delayed social skills, I didn't think about calling to tell them that I'd be coming into my apartment that night. When we opened the door with the first armful of my things, I don't remember any particular sight. What I do remember was the sound of bunches of kids drawing in a collective breath, a quietly whispered, "Oh, shit! Parents!", followed by melodious chiming as many liquor bottles were gathered together as quickly as possible and moved into the kitchen away from parental eyes.
Alana came forward to introduce herself and to guide my parents and me away from the party zone until the evidence could be better hidden. Alana was quite the adept with social skills and had had many years of practice on the party scene.
My other two new roommates followed her up the stairs to introduce themselves. I don't remember Heather's introduction very well because the poor thing was quite forgettable. I have a couple of memories of her, but nothing long-lasting, sad to say. Christie, on the other hand, permanently engraved herself on my brain with a "Hello. I'm Christie. I'm drunk!" She punctuated her introduction with a hand stuck out for a shake and the very first inebriated hiccup I ever heard.
My father was delighted. I could tell he hoped I'd finally loosen up with this crew and have a little fun. My mother was less enthusiastic and frowned pretty much the rest of the night. Her Southern grace took over and she was polite to the girls, but she wasn't happy that this was where I'd be.
We did have some good times there. They continued to live the college life and party and I continued to maintain my anti-social behavior, enjoying the solitude that I found in my bedroom. We had diners together and occasional fun.
I remember distinctly one night being awakened by the three of them coming home from some party and hearing Christie and Heather get a drunk Alana up the stairs and into the bathroom for what must have been a truly horrendous puke session. I know it was horrendous because when I got up several hours later to use the restroom, my sleepy self woke up when my butt stuck to the toilet. Apparently, two drunk girls don't do a very good job of wiping up after a third drunk girl in the middle of the night.
I'm not sure when it happened, but the three of us slowly drew apart. Eventually, Christie became my best friend. I think it was because she was the most like me. We each came from conventional homes with two married parents and siblings. Heather's mom had divorced from her cheating father and remarried a sap. Her mom hated all men, including her pushover husband, and Heather learned her bitterness. I'm not sure what Alana's background was, but she alluded to living on the streets at one point and there were never any parents in evidence while I knew her. There were guys and long conversations about how big her mouth was, in more ways than one.
Living with vet techs meant our apartment was filled with animals. Alana had Jerry, a cat spawned from a demon. Heather had a huge Persian whose name I forget, and I ended up with a cat who ran in off the street during a party they were throwing. I was in my room getting drunk for the first time on a juice glass of vodka because one of the women I considered a mother had just died. I was having so much trouble stopping crying that Alana gave me a full 10 oz. of vodka and made me drink it. When that only worked a little, Christie got me to come in her room where this little gray ball of fluff was backed into a corner with its fur sticking out all over. The cat was muttering these little growls and warning us t0 back off. She was so adorable that I picked her up and called her Merlin. The grief combined with the exhaustion and the alcohol to make me bring her into my room and claim her for my own. Christie borrowed Heather's litter box for the night and caring for the little cat calmed me enough to let me sleep.
Christie felt left out with all the rest of us having pets, I think, and she decided to get herself a pet. In an apartment full of cats, she decided on a bird. A cockatiel, to be exact. I helped her name him.
"I don't know what to call him," she said. "I really like that yellow crest he has, though. What can I do with that."
"I would call him Ajax," I replied.
Christie looked at me with a weird expression.
"You know. Ajax. The hero of the Trojan War?" I explained.
Still with the blank face.
"The Trojans wore helmets with a crest on them," I continued, but Christie had stopped listening.
"Trojan," she muttered, half to herself. "I like that."
She turned to me. "I'm calling him Trojan."
After a lengthy conversation on the merits, or lack thereof, of naming her bird after a condom, the name stuck. Trojan became part of the happy family.
To pay for her vet tech program at BRCC, Christie worked at a local vet's office on the weekends, getting paid peanuts and experience. The only problem was that the rest of us were typical college students who slept in until after noon on weekends. Christie's alarm would go off at 5:00 and she'd hit the snooze until the last possible minute to make it out the door for work. When I would wake up at around 1:00, her alarm would have been beeping for hours since it didn't have an auto-off. I'd go in and turn it off, then proceed with my day.
That summer, Christie gave Trojan to me as a wedding present. She had advanced to dog ownership and knew how much I liked him.
My new husband and I lived in the apartment until the lease was up. The other girls were gone home for the summer and Christie let us turn her bedroom into our bedroom. My room was converted into a study of sorts for the furniture my uncle gave us.
Since Christie brought him down to us on a Friday, our first morning as bird owners was a Saturday. Still college-aged, we planned to sleep late. However, our alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. My husband rolled over, still more asleep than not, and smacked the snooze button.
The alarm continued.
He smacked it again.
It continued.
He reached down, picked up the clock, and looked carefully before firmly pushing the snooze button.
The alarm continued.
He ripped the cord out of the wall and flung the alarm clock across the room.
The alarm continued.
At this point, we were both wide awake and I will admit to being a little freaked out because the alarm was still going off and I knew that there was no battery backup in that clock. Christie hadn't mentioned that her room was haunted, but my fuzzed brain leaped to that conclusion and started pumping adrenaline.
My husband and I sat there staring at the clock on the floor. Gradually, I realized that the sound was further left than the clock. As I turned my eyes, my husband flipped back the covers to go get it and perform an exorcism, I assume.
As soon as my eyes hit the bird cage in the corner, the alarm stopped.
"Pretty bird!" replaced it.
After all those weekends and all those hours of alarm sounds, Trojan could perfectly imitate the sound the clock made. He had also learned that the sound began about the same time that the sun came up. I started to laugh hysterically and then set about covering him to go back to sleep once the adrenaline wore off.
My husband never did see the humor in having to buy a new clock.
