No, there’s nothing cooler than
going to college.
Except adopting a cat.
***
One weekend in April of my senior
year in high school, I found myself standing awkwardly in the lobby of a hotel
in Denver. I casually would pull out my phone and check the time, or simply
examine details in the lobby: the heavy velvet drapes, which were actually
really ugly; the cream tiled flooring, which was actually really ugly; and the
Check-In Here sign beside the reception desk, which I was indifferent towards.
It probably would’ve looked suspicious, this eighteen-year-old kid staring at
inanimate objects in the lobby, nervously checking his phone, had it not been
for the two dozen other eighteen-year-olds and their parents scattered around the
large room in little cliques.
 |
| Go Wildcats! |
I
don’t normally spend my weekends in hotel lobbies, but that weekend was an exception
to the normal routine of working at a retirement home and doing homework. Being
a good student had granted me an invitation to Johnson and Wales University’s
Wildcat Honors Weekend, where new smarty pants students spent the weekend
getting to know the campus and one another. Activities included an elegant
dinner at a top restaurant in Denver, campus tours, a cooking demonstration,
and a scavenger hunt around the Mile High City. I had already toured the campus
multiple time with my parents, and I didn’t really need to see Denver, since I
lived in one of its suburbs, but the idea of getting to meet others interested
in cooking and academics made me decide to go. Though, it was the free hotel
room really helped sway me. I wish I wasn’t so easily lured with pretty lobbies
and mini fridges, because my Wildcat Weekend was more like a Fraidy-Cat Weekend.
I’m an introverted person. Sometimes
I get more joy out of being by myself than being with lots of people I don’t
know. During high school, I was hyper-shy. I couldn’t even call myself a
wallflower, because to be a wallflower meant you actually had to go to things like
parties and high school sporting events and dances, where you’d stand at the
punch bowl or lean against the wall and do nothing. Nope, you can’t call
yourself a wallflower if you’re at home doing nothing.
Thus my predicament: I believed, in
some idyllic fantasy world, that I could go to Wildcat Weekend and meet people,
despite my social anxieties. I could be
brave, couldn’t I? My mom was shy in high school, and now she’s friends with
everyone and talks to random people at the grocery store. I could be brave like
my mom, right?
Nope.
The charter bus pulled up to take us
to dinner. I sat by myself and spent the fifteen minute drive listening to
other kids talk with their parents and friends. They talked about how excited
they were to start school, how excited they were to cook, how excited they were
to be on their own, and how excited they were to be the next celebrity chef to
have a show on the Food Network. Get real, I thought. I’m going to be the next celebrity chef on Food Network, not you.
These
conversations went on and on. I got bored of listening to everyone have fun, so
I stared out the window and looked at details of Denver: the Qwest building,
whose blue sign wrecked the skyline at night, according to my grandfather; the
bear statue leaning against the Denver Convention Center. I stared at these inanimate objects, all the while
wondering why my parents couldn’t have just taken the time off of work and come
along with me. It would’ve been more fun, I thought, having someone there I
knew.
“We can’t leave your brother and
sister alone for the weekend,” they said. “They’re younger than you.”
Siblings ruin everything sometimes.
“Plus, we’d have to pay for our room
and dinner.”
Money ruins everything sometimes.
We got to the Moroccan restaurant,
whose name I can’t recall, since it’s hard to remember the name of something
you never knew in the first place. I took a seat next to a guy with messy brown
hair and his mother. Instead of introducing myself, I reached for a glass of
water, realizing that the best way to avoid being awkward was to keep occupied
by drinking so much water your bladder had the potential to rupture. This, for
those unclear, is actually more anomalous than just introducing yourself and shaking
hands.
The dinner was table d’hôte, meaning
we ate what the university thought was least expensive to serve to sixty
people. I took small bites of my dinner, keeping my head down and taking a sip
of water every so often. Forty minutes into the meal I learned the name of the
guy with messy brown hair, as well as the kid next to me, who had messy blond
hair. It was evident I was the only guy who had access to a comb, since my hair
was not messy.
 |
| This is not a photograph of the meal at the restaurant. I made this salad. |
Being skilled at small talk, I started
the conversation with messy brown-haired guy by mentioning how nice the food
tasted.
“Yeah, it’s good,” he said.
End of conversation.
This happened before I developed
tinnitus in my ears, so my hearing was extra-sharp, so sharp, I could hear
messy brown-haired guy’s mom mutter to him that he needed to be social and talk
to me because I was lonely and had no friends here. But at that point the
tuxedo-wearing waiters came by and cleared the table. It was time to go.
Thank God.
I thanked the messy haired guys and
their moms for sitting with me, and then bolted to the bus, where I sat by
myself and watched the same inanimate objects pass by on our way back to the hotel,
listening to everyone talk about how excited they were to have eaten at such an
exciting restaurant and how excited they were to have met their new best
friends forever and how excited they were about life.
Shut up, all of you.
The charter bus dropped us off at
the hotel about five-thirty. Everyone started mingling in the hotel lobby. I
ditched them and went up to my hotel room to call my mom. I paced the room
while the phone rang. My sister answered it.
“Hey, sis!” I said. “How are you?”
“I’m great! We’re getting a cat!”
I stopped pacing.
“What?”
“We’re getting a cat! Her name is
Quinn.”
“Put mom on the phone, please.”
My mom has an affinity for cats. I
do too. I just wasn’t aware she wanted to add a third cat to our family. I
assumed Homer and Lily were enough.
They weren’t for my humanitarian
mother.
“Hello?” my mom said.
“You’re adopting a cat?”
“Yeah! Your sister and I went to
PetSmart to get cat food. We went and pet the cats in the shelter and I saw one
that I fell in love with.”
“What does dad say?” I asked,
knowing he didn’t love cats as much as my mom and I.
“He’s fine with it. We’re going to
get her now.”
“Wait for me,” I said.
“Wait, what?” She sounded surprised.
“Don’t you have activities planned tonight?”
I looked at the itinerary on the
desk. “It’s a scavenger hunt at seven. I already know Denver, so I don’t need
to go. I want to see this cat.”
“Okay, we’ll see you soon.”
I hung up the phone and hurried out
of the hotel room. I passed several kids through the lobby, including messy
brown-haired guy, hanging out with some other kids. I smiled at him. He looked
away. Later, I would find out that he was a chronic pot-head. Who’d want to be friends
with him anyways?
My family, sans my father, who was
still working, met up at our house. The cat carrier was already set in the car,
and one of the litter boxes had been brought up to my room with a bowl of water
and food.
“She’s going to stay in your room
for a few weeks,” my mom explained. “That way Homer and Lily can get used to her
scent before we let them meet.”
“Works for me!” Having a cat as a
roommate was much cooler than having some strange guy as a roommate in one of
the closets the university called dormitories.
My mom drove us to PetSmart. We
unloaded the carrier and headed into the building. While walking towards the
cat adoption side, my mom pulled me aside.
“There’s something you need to know about
this kitten,” she said. “She’s deaf.”
I couldn’t care in the least bit. I
was adopting a cat!
“She also has a misaligned jaw. They’re
thinking she was abused.”
My mom had a love for cats,
especially cats that needed extra attention or had hard lives. Our cat Homer,
for example, was abused as a kitten by having his tail broken in a door. Lily,
our second cat, had a growth deformity on her head that made her look like
alfalfa from The Little Rascals. None
of those attributes mattered to my mom, or myself. My cats were awesome members
of the family, and I thought Quinn would be an excellent addition as well.
“Misaligned jaw or not, if you like
her, I’m sure I’ll like her too.”
We met up with my brother and
sister, who were in the cat room petting a small kitten as pure white as one
could get. I observed this animate object: a sleeping kitten, curled in a
little ball, one of her teeth sticking out of her closed mouth. She had back
feet the size of a rabbit’s foot— large—just like mine.
“Meet Quinn,” my sister whispered,
patting her on the head.
I fell in love with her immediately.
I’d seen her but a few seconds and knew that one day, this cat would be a part
of my world. I had no idea that when she’d grow up she’d head-bunt me, sit on
my shoulder like a parrot, spaz around the house like a neurotic robot, or get
the name Biscuit Head. All I knew was she had saved me from a dull and awkward
weekend, and I was grateful to that sleeping ball of fur for doing so.
My mom signed the adoption papers
and my brother and sister, wanting to be part of the adoption process, helped
pay a part of her adoption fees. I was soon to owe $20,000 dollars in tuition
and could not pay-in to the adoption.
“I bought her,” my sister would remind
us, “so she has to love me.” On the contrary, my poor sister is Quinn’s least favorite
person. It’s true what they say, you can’t buy your friends, I guess.
Quinn was silent on our way home,
content sitting on a toy mouse in her cat carrier. We brought her into the
house and snuck her up to my room, avoiding Homer and Lily. I spent a bit of
time with my brother and sister petting her and laughing when she’d hop from
the desk to the window sill, her bell clinking with every head shake. Then it
was time to return to the hotel room.
“I guess I’ll go now,” I told my
mom.
“I hope you have a great day
tomorrow. What do you get to do?”
“They’re going to do a cooking
demonstration for us.” I shrugged. “There’s also a campus tour. Hopefully I’ll
be done soon and can come home. It’s boring not knowing anyone.”
She hugged me. “Just be yourself and
go get to know people.”
Yeah, right. The only way I would
meet people was if I wasn’t myself.
The lobby was deserted by the time I
arrived at the hotel. I made my way back up to my room, laughter and heavy
breathing emanating from the rooms I passed. Whatever, I thought to myself. I
just adopted a cat, which is much cooler than talking about how excited you
were to be dropping your pants for the first girl you met on the trip, or how
excited you were to stay up late and watch television.
The rest of the night I spent in my
hotel room, hanging out in a towel watching the news— I was eighteen and in a
hotel room by myself, after all. What else was I going to do? Loiter in the lobby
some more? No thanks. I could do whatever I wanted.
Eventually
I got bored of being in just a towel and watching television, so I went to bed,
occasionally woken up by the sound of kids talking loudly outside or in the
hotel rooms adjacent to me.
I woke up early the next morning and
had a bagel and banana for breakfast in the hotel reception. Of course, I sat
by myself and ate quickly enough to go back up to my room before everyone else
woke up. That’s where I paced the floor talking to my mom about Quinn’s first
night, which she spent with my sister.
“She even slept on her feet,” my mom
said.
I wanted a kitten to sleep on my
feet. I hoped it would happen that night when I was finished with the Wildcat
Weekend.
Around nine it was time to charter
the bus once more, this time to campus. We unloaded near the modern culinary
building. Standing outside was the JWU mascot, Wildcat Willie. He clapped and
waved and jumped up and down, high-fiving us on our way into the school.
“How
exciting!” one mother said.
Thrills
a minute, I thought.
We
headed into the kitchens. Normally, seeing Viking ranges and all the expensive
cooking equipment would make me happy, but at that moment I really couldn’t
care. I wanted to turn to my parents and say, “How cool is that six burner gas
range?” I didn’t want to say it to some kid with messy hair standing next to
me. It just wasn’t the same.
 |
| Dang, I look young. |
A chef instructor walked in after we’d
settled around several metal prep tables. He would soon be my advisor, and
least favorite teacher. Why? During orientation, he didn’t discuss the mandatory
book in our small group (George Orwell’s Down
and Out in London and Paris) because “No one really reads books.” He also
disliked my paper I wrote for his class because I focused more on word choice
than on ingredient yields. But it was really the comment about reading that
made me resent him from the start.
“Welcome to Johnson and Wales! We’re
so excited to have you all here,” the chef said.
I’d heard the word “excited” so many
times that weekend, I wanted to hit myself with a thesaurus.
The chef then went on to prepare
some simple meal I can’t remember. We got to sample a bit of it and then we
were given a choice: go on a campus tour or go back to the hotel.
That
decision wasn’t hard.
I found myself checking out at the
hotel’s reception thirty minutes later, homeward bound. I made it home before
too long. Quinn helped me unload my overnight bag, jumping into it and rubbing
herself against my legs. When I leaned down to open a drawer, she jumped up and
bopped her head against mine, rubbing her body against my forehead during her
ascent. I laughed, picking her up. Looking into the vanity mirror, I pet her,
cooing, “Look at us, Quinny. We’re made for each other.”
Boy was that true.
 |
| I love this cat. |
***
My culinary career at Johnson and
Wales was short lived. Many—and I mean many—students
dropped out or transferred majors within the first semester or two. I lasted a
year before I came to my senses and realized that words were my ingredients and
stories were my favorite dish to prepare. Despite my shyness, I even made
several close friends. My friends were phenomenal, and one I ended up dating
after I’d left school. Even though I commuted to campus, I felt included. Now,
we’re all Facebook friends, scattered across the country, communicating with “likes”
and “shares” instead of actual words and meaningful interactions. Oh well.
Now,
all that remains of my time at Johnson and Wales are some dulled knives,
stained chef whites, and the ambitious memories of one day opening a catering
business like my grandparents. The ability to flip an omelet also stayed with
me. But what I value most about that transition year wasn’t the school and wasn’t
the miserable Wildcat Honors Weekend. No, it was a little fluffy kitten named
Quindolyn.
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