Moving On: I’m 18 (& I Don’t Know What I Want)

Library of Congress

I showed up drunk for my first day of college.

I know. I know. Who didn’t, right?

Only I showed up barely coherent, waving back and forth like a buoy, reeking like a bad sock bathed in turpentine.

Looking back, I realize the timing was anything but coincidental. Orientation was the beginning of a new chapter in my life – Bob Hill, the college years, if you will. The primary issue being my college years were off to an inauspicious start.

After 18 years spent sweating it out in Delaware County – just waiting for the moment when I could bust out, break out, let loose with my barbaric yawp – there I sat, half-baked on a set of pull-out bleachers, hunkered deep inside a low-budget gymnasium, watching some dude named Bird lead a “WE ARE …” chant as he charged across mid-court, unfurling an industrial-sized banner.

I was there to be acclimated, indoctrinated, to pledge allegiance to the drag. Only I had no interest in being acclimated, or indoctrinated, or even cheering on some dude named Bird. In fact, the only thing I did have interest in at that particular moment in time was sleep … sleep, and the fleeting, desperate hope that when I awoke, all of this would somehow vanish, clearing a path for me to continue not-so-confidently in the direction of my dreams.

Those dreams had nothing to do with wasting the next two years idly holed up in my parents’ basement, commuting two hours to school via bus ride both ways. Those dreams had nothing to do with remaining in Delaware County, marrying my high school sweetheart, charging head-first into a career in middle management.

Delaware County, by and large, is not a place where fertile dreams are given to seed.

All of which explains why I’d spent the bulk of that past summer running …running as fast and as far as I could, praying that something – anything, really – might come along and lift me out of said funk. Only I was young, and poor, and devoid of any means or transportation, which meant the furthest I could conceivably go was a close friend’s house in Ocean City, New Jersey, where there was more than enough free liquor and vibes to see me through until September.

Eventually, the summer of 1991 came to end, and when it did, I found myself faced with the reality that there would be no high-seas adventure, no riverboat excursion, no last-minute stay-of-execution for me. On the contrary, the only thing autumn held in store was a 15-credit course load and a plastic bag full of swag.

The night before orientation I wound up at a friend’s house well past 2 o’clock in the morning, drunkenly begging his older sister to give me a ride out to the turnpike, where I planned on hitchhiking directly across the Pennsylvania line. Was I a bit over the moon with drama? Yes, I was a bit over the moon with drama. But I was also deadly serious. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I was about as serious as any 17-year old with a belly full of Johnnie Black is capable of being.

In the end, my midnight ride to freedom never happened. Instead, I simply drank my way straight through till morning, at which point I wandered over to my parent’s house, where my mother stood in wait to drop me off at the local university campus. I hadn’t slept, or shaved, or showered in two days. I had an orange film smeared all over my jeans. I was the walking embodiment of every emotion that I felt.

How vile.


Within weeks of orientation, I fell in with a small group of burnouts whose apparent lack of interest was similar to mine. Every morning, the lot of us would make our way out to the campus, ditch class, wander over to the Commons Building, and bounce back and forth between the cafeteria and the gym, panhandling loose change until we’d accumulated enough to afford a case of beer.

The defining moment of my freshman year occurred during the ice-white height of February. Driving cold had forced the student body indoors, and a small group of us spent our afternoons watching movies in the library.

One morning, I arrived on campus earlier than usual, hungover and unkempt. I headed to the library, commandeered the audio-visual room, where I decided to lay down for a nap. Penn State’s audio-visual rooms ran uncharacteristically warm back in those days, warm and quiet to the extent one could drift into a Snow-White sleep with subtle regard for the surroundings. And so I drifted, drifted deep into a Snow-White sleep.

I cannot tell you how long I slept, nor can I explain why none of my friends came by to wake me. I can only verify that when I did come to – face down in a pile of denim – I could hear voices, rhetorical voices, the kind of voices that are generally associated with long speeches. My eyes were shut, but my bearings were intact, which is how I knew I was still lying on that carpet. I rolled over, a tangled mess, interrupting the progress of an assembly – students huddled round me in a horseshoe curve, lone moderator at the fore. I sat up, gathered my belongings. I made a beeline for the door.

The second I departed, the entire audio-visual room exploded in laughter.


A week after the spring semester ended, the long-standing battle between my father and I reached a crescendo. We were fighting almost daily – loud and vile, tooth and bone. It was during one of these arguments, at a point when the two of us very nearly came to blows, that my father opened the front door and invited me to leave. And so I did … just not until the following morning.

I left a long, rambling letter in my bedroom, placing the brunt of the ordeal on me. This was my father’s roof, I reasoned. And so long as I was living under it, I had no jurisdiction to dispute what he was saying. Only I did dispute it, almost all of it, actually, even those few, spare points on which I knew he was correct. I disputed those points on principle, you see, because – at the time – it felt like my parents were robbing me of any opportunity to make decisions.

So I struck out, skipped town, decided to make a go of it on my own. This was a good move, the right move, a move I should have made after I graduated high school. The only thing that held me back was fear – fear of failure, fear of my father, fear of ignorance, fear of working papers, fear of being out there, on the road, alone, without proper means or understanding, fear of all the cautionary tales I’d been fed over the years, fear of how cold and cruel and stark-raving mad the world at large was. It was a fear that had been instilled in me since birth, reinforced by my parents and peers and teachers and priests, all of whom assumed it was their duty to protect me.

Protect me by projecting all their bullshit down the line.


One night in May of 1992, I wound up sleeping alongside a set of railroad tracks, using an Acme bag as my bedroll. I remember lying there in the brush, stubborn weeds poking my side. I remember thinking if I could just lay low until the break of day, I might be able to keep walking without substantial risk of being arrested, molested or robbed. I also remember looking up into the stars, thinking I was about to enter yet another weird life stage – the first in which I might be able to dictate my own choices. I remember thinking that the most liberating thing about entering any new stage in life, whether it be a new relationship, a new job, a change of address, or even school transfer, is that one has the opportunity to start over; wipe the board clean, erase all of the tags people have forced down over the years.

The goal, so far as I could tell, was to gather momentum, not moss.

For 18 years I had been doing things the opposite way around.

Day 91

(Moving On is a regular feature on IFB.)

©Copyright Bob Hill