On Dec. 18, I pulled into a tight spot at the vast, cluttered parking lot of The Meadowlands in New Jersey. The sun was beaming in December, yet my friend Dan and I were still head to toe in Under Armour and thick, double-layered socks, even though the temperature paled in comparison to the past week in Ithaca. The heat and the smell of barbeque that hung in the air from throngs of drunken tailgaters helped lessen the bite of the cold. The weather could not stop us, though. That day, the Giants were playing the Steelers, and my father was able to get us permission to stand on the field before the game, side by side with Tiki Barber, Eli Manning and Jerome Bettis.
The game was amazing. The Giants were able to shut up the large crowds of yellow-towel-whirling Pittsburghians, as their practically undefeated team was forced into a back-and-forth match-up that only came to an end during the last minutes of the fourth quarter. Unfortunately, the Giants lost. But we knew they were going to lose anyway, since they had sucked all year.
And then, as we were walking up the stairs to leave the stadium, I stopped. "What's wrong?" my friend asked me. I reached into my right pocket, then my left pocket, then my back pocket, then all of my jacket pockets. "Turn around," I said, "go back to the seat, I must have dropped my car keys." Dan looked at me, shook his head disapprovingly, and started walking. After five minutes of a panicked rummaging through the seats, I had a flashback.
About four hours earlier I had parked my car. Dan had said to me, "You should probably call him [the Giant Harry Carson] right now, so he knows we're here." I nodded and gave Carson a call. When he picked up, I had become completely caught up in the fact that I was actually on the phone with a famous Giant, and burped out an "OK" when he told me to meet him at the Bubble. Not to keep Mr. Carson waiting, we jumped quickly out of the car and rushed toward the Bubble where he later gave us the field tickets.
Four hours later I was cursing up a storm in the stands of Giant Stadium. "Oh my God, I left the keys in the running car."
Dan just looked at me for a second like he wasn't surprised and smirked: "I hate you."
As we ran down the escalator my heart was thumping like a drum. For four hours my car had been sitting like a bag of gold coins on a New York street corner. The car was fair game: unlocked, running, a wrapped gift.
Once we finally got to the car and saw the beautiful dark blue paint glimmering in the sun, I finally exhaled, looked to my friend and said, "You tell nobody."
Well, he told his mom. He slipped, allegedly. And two weeks later, his mom slipped to my mom, allegedly. The moral of this story is this: this semester I am living by myself, and I have a history of being absent-minded. One time I left the sunroof open to my car, and two hours later there was a huge rainstorm, leaving me with a very wet car. Another time, in Curacao, I left my exit pass in the hotel comment box, a situation that potentially could have stranded me in a foreign country. Another time, I bought 48 Swiffer pads at Target not realizing we didn't have a Swiffer mop. Meanwhile, both my toilets overflowed this morning. Those who know me say that by all rights I should be dead right now.
Almost immediately after my mom found out what I had done that infamous day at Giant Stadium, she made me a list -- a checklist if you will. The list had about a page worth of things that I must do before I go to sleep each night so I survive. The list ranges from, "Make sure the stove is off" to "Check the Carbon Monoxide detectors" to "Don't put metal in the microwave." I would say it is a bit excessive, but then again, I've done some excessively dumb things.
Operation Survive Living on My Own started off with a blast this semester. For the first week my apartment was freezing; I mean, like, "I can't believe I'm wearing a scarf to bed" freezing. I did my job. I called people, expressed my discontent. Usually I was greeted with the responses, "Are the windows closed," and "Put towels by the doors and windows" and "You know, it is really cold outside and the heater is doing its best."
So finally my mom called the super and asked him to come over. "I found the problem," he said. "Your radiator is closed." He took a butter knife, and flipped open the heating vents.
Apartment one, Josh nothing. I have confidence in myself, though. Things will work out for the better, and sooner or later I will progress into self-sufficient mode. I have another year and a half before I graduate. So, here I am, writing this column on my friend's computer because I forgot to set up the internet at my apartment. Eventually I'll evolve for survival; mankind has been doing that for some time now. Until then, I gotta check all eight carbon monoxide detectors.
Josh Katz is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. He can be reached at jdk45@cornell.edu. Talking In My Sleep appears Mondays.
Archived article by Josh Katz