My relationship with Robert, a third-year computer science major, began as a conversation just outside the Cloyne dining hall in late spring of my senior year. I’d often seen him around the house, though he always seemed to fade like a fallen leaf around more gregarious co-opers. But as soon as he told me about the Grateful Dead concert that was coming to the Berkeley Greek Theatre, he piqued my interest.
“I have an extra ticket,” he said. “Want to come?”
Lured by the prospect of being around crazy stoned hippies who worshipped lead guitarist Jerry Garcia, I said yes. Hanging around someone as ordinary as Robert at the manic free-for-all that was a Dead concert would be nothing if not a novel experience.
A week later, I met him in the same hallway dressed in a faded blue dashiki and torn Levis. Robert, who had moved out for the summer and was staying at a friend’s apartment, showed up in jeans that, unlike the threadbare pair I was wearing, looked as though they’d been ironed just for the occasion.
Swaying around him like some kind of exotic longhaired tree, I said, “Let’s go get some Jerrycise!”
“Jerrycise?”
“It’s the dancing Deadheads do at concerts.” I explained, trying not to laugh at the puzzled look that had suddenly appeared on Robert’s long and serious face.
The first thing I noticed when we found our seats at the Greek was a group of students near the stage. Sporting black Wayfarer sunglasses and neon-colored polo shirts, they waved signs that read, “Stanford Dead.”
“What are those guys doing here?”
“They’re not that much different from me,” Robert murmured, sounding almost apologetic.
I danced and whooped from the opening chord to the end. Robert, however, stood planted by my side, his arms folded over his chest. Only gradually, and with the look of someone with something to prove did he finally begin to flail and totter in place. Watching him from the corner of my eye, it occurred to me that he looked like a marionette trying to break free of the invisible strings that controlled him. When the concert was over, I asked Robert why had asked me to come along.
He grinned shyly through his beard. “I don’t know anyone in my department who likes the same kind of music I do.”
A few weeks later, Robert turned up at my door. Though I refused to admit it, I had been wondering what was next…if anything.
Then Robert said, “Would you like to go to dinner this week?” It was as if he had read my thoughts.
The answer came out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Sure.” Oh my God, I thought to myself later on. What am I getting myself into?