There were screams. That's all there really were--just people screaming when there was no other way to express it. I walked into the pink house on North Winooski with a driveway unplowed and treaturously coverred in snow. I walked into that new legend of Burlington that they call "the Noosk," that place the cops slow down for when they drive by, where beers are always in an overabundance until they're substituted by sheer drunkenness. I walked into that place and there were only screams.
Every room I went into, there were more screams. Nobody was really saying anything at the sight of me, just screaming, which I considered a perfect 802 way of saying "Wow, Hug Me!" so loud that it's inconceivable. So they'd scream and I'd wrap my arms around them, linking my fingers around the other side and feeling the cold of their winter beer cans on the back of my neck. I'd link those fingers and feel these memories starting exactly where they'd left off; as if I'd never left and this was just the nightly welcome for someone they loved this much. I had been away, but like I had promised each and every one of them, I'd come back, and I was ready to stir, ready to grab everyone's volume knob in the depths of their throats and crank it so high the knob would break before the speakers even had a chance to blow. I was ready to pound and ready to fist and ready to scream like them, ready to make these weeks just a momentous as the last, ripping apart my insides with a mentality that more than made up for the hangover.
I walked into the Noosk and there were only screams. That's when I knew I could take Burlington's bookmark and rip it to shreds; these boys would always be here to lead me right back to where I'd left off. That's when I knew it was time to crack a beer, admire its sounds, smells, and tastes, and redirect all my energy and focus from finals stress to having some fucking fun.
Welcome home, Rachel Styles.