Because of my surgery I missed Providence College’s freshman orientation weekend at which I would’ve mined pre-friendships and had the pre-time of my life. I was relegated to the late orientation, two days before all students arrived on campus. My dorm room had a single bed and not a bunkbed like every other room on my floor. My roommate-to-be got off the waiting list at some better school over the summer, so now I had my own room. I would be a freshman without a roommate, no instant companion with whom to share the joys and dramas of living away from home for the first time. A considerable social setback, one that might’ve overwhelmed me a few short months prior. But I was different now. I wasn’t Renfield or Igor anymore (straightened spine!) and I refused to sulk alone in my bell tower, or dorm room. At the sight of the dreary, cramped space with the lonely, single bed, Mom wept and repeatedly said she couldn’t believe she was leaving her baby. Dad peppered some proud-of-you-buddy’s within his questioning if it was a good idea to wear my black leather jacket to college, where it could easily be stolen or ruined by beer and hijinks. Translation: he thought I looked ridiculous wearing it and he hoped his continued questioning would lead to saving me from myself. When I’d bought the black moto-style jacket with shiny chrome buttons and more zippers than were functionally necessary with my graduation money, it was a commitment to not saving me from myself, to making college and the years after that different from my high school existence. If I did in fact (probably) look (more than) kind of ridiculous, I didn’t care. And that was me growing into the new, bold Art. If my first night in the dorm was the maiden voyage of new-bold-Art, there was no conclusion to be drawn regarding his success, as there were only two other students in my late-orientation group. Both of whom were friendly enough insofar as they held eye contact when spoken to, but they didn’t talk much. Were they intimidated by my rough leather look, or did they wonder why a pale, acned, pipe cleaner of a young man who still didn’t need to shave and looked all of thirteen years old would dress like Johnny Ramone (put a long, black-hair wig on me, I bear more than a passing resemblance to Johnny; I have better teeth, but worse skin) while attending the decidedly not-edgy Catholic school Providence College? At the end of our second day and night together, however, I had won the late orienteers over. Louis and Mark. The latter would come to be known as Metal Mark because, obviously, he loved heavy metal. And I was Punk Art. That nickname would stick throughout my three years in college, goosed into its longer life with deft self-promotion.