How a Mackintosh Became a Gregson - Part 2: The Canadian Roommate

{Just tuning in?  Be sure to read Part 1 first.}

After Christmas break of my Freshman year, I headed back down to the Y and was greeted by a new roommate.  Her name was Marianne Dixey.  She was a Canadian.  She was fun and easy going and looked like she could be related to Michelle Pfeiffer.  She was also very adventurous - I didn't realize that people actually bought those Clairol hair coloring kits.  She did.  She wanted her hair to be red.  She let us watch.  It was awesome. 

Several weeks into our friendship, some of her fellow Canucks stopped by to say "Eh".  She introduced us and I immediately recognized one of them.  He was the guy with the Syracuse University jacket that I had seen at the football games.  His name was Brent.  Now I had a name to go with the funny persona and hilarious demeanor.

Donning my black hat, Brent was holding onto any glimmer of hope that the Boy George look would resurface in the 90's.

Brent and I became fast friends.  He was a great guy.  The thing I liked most about him was his ability to make me laugh to the point of tears.  He had a repertoire of characters and voices that he could pull out in an instant and he was a walking comedic spectacle.  He was slightly off kilter and deviated from the norm and I loved it.  We were best buds.

Things were never dull when Brent was around.  Sometimes he pulled pranks and jokes on us that were real zingers.  One instance that I vividly recall was when he had one of his roommates call, posing as our Bishop, to say that he needed to meet with us at the Standard's Office because he knew that we had had a guy in our apartment after hours (which was true).  I remember feeling like the blood had been drained out of my body.  Breaking curfew with a guy in your apartment, while living on campus, is a BIG no-no at BYU.  We all immediately went into panic mode because we weren't sure what the consequences would be.  We were all sick about it until we received another phone call, this time from a snickering Brent, informing us that he got us good. At this point, I probably said a few choice words that definitely would have scarred my yearly ecclesiastical endorsement, but it was true - he got us good.  

I also remember baking a boxed lemon cake (those were my pre-"homemade is better" days), letting it cool while I headed to the library to study, and returning to an almost empty cake pan.  I was furious.  "WHO ATE MY CAKE?", I barked.  They told me Brent had stopped by and had helped himself to some.  "SOME?" I fumed.  "HE ATE THE WHOLE STINKIN' THING!"  

{Let me mention here that I really like lemon cake.  Even from a box.}

I called Brent to chew him out and let him know what I thought of his uninvited, overindulgence in consuming my Betty Crocker masterpiece.  He told me to look in the cupboard where he had carefully cut and plated the cake and hidden for safe keeping.  It was all there, minus the pieces that were the bait for his joke that had remained in the pan.

I returned the favor by decorating his backpack and books with a potpourri of feminine hygiene products.  Bookmarks were replaced with "thin reminders" that I was getting the last laugh. "Tassels" (of sorts) were hung from the pack's zippers to dangle for all the world to see and to show Brent, that what comes around goes around.  His backpack was stuffed and stuck with enough feminine contraband that I'm sure it smelled powdery fresh for days.

I think his practical jokes were more infrequent after that.

I'm sure you're wondering if there was any romance brewing at this point.  The answer to that question is no.  We were just really close friends.  I loved him like a zany, slightly odd, goofball of a brother.  Through the roommate grapevine, I was given information that his feelings ran more deeply, but it was never discussed between the two of us so it was never awkward.  

Freshman year ended.  I said teary good-byes to my roommates and friends and headed home to Bountiful to work for the summer.  Marianne and Brent headed back to Alberta.  I kept in touch with Brent and found out that he received his mission call to Geneva, Switzerland.  His farewell would be in August.  I begged and pleaded with my parents to let me go to Canada to bid him adieu.  I told them it would be good for international relations.

They decided that I could go.  And they would escort me.

To be continued...