On the way to Lions World, we knew the trip would take a couple of days. During that first day, I spent most of my time on my Game Boy. By then, I had a GBA, and Pokémon Ruby and Sapphire had just come out. I sat there with both Game Boys in my lap, carefully transferring any Gen 2 Pokémon back to my copy of Pokémon Gold and any first-generation Pokémon back to Pokémon Blue. Meanwhile, I was sending others forward that were already in the Pokédex.
Grandma leaned over and said, “Bud, now you’re not going to get all gamified and end up not worth anything at Lions World, are ya?”
I grinned. “No, probably the first two days will just be easy stuff.”
“That’s true,” she said. Then, with a little nod, I added, “Just to be safe, I’ll let you take my GBA, Game Boy, and GBC back home so I don’t get tempted to play 8-bit.”
Grandma smiled. “That’s a good idea.”
The next morning, we continued on our journey. We didn’t talk much — Grandma was reading, Grandpa listening to whatever was on the radio, usually the Statler Brothers. That night, we stopped at Pizza Hut — our last pizza together until the holidays. We ate, laughed a little, and indulged in desserts at the lagoon, then all went to bed together.
The next morning, I went to their bed to say goodbye. We sat there, holding each other, and bawled our eyes out. It was a raw, honest moment — saying farewell to home, to family, and to that chapter of my life.
Grandma and Grandpa said, “Bud, this will be the longest time we’ve ever been apart since you were at Riley Hospital as a three-year-old.”
I nodded. “I know.”
We sat there for a while longer, crying some more — bawling our eyes out.
Grandma asked, “Bud, are you sure you wanna do this?”
I looked at her and said, “Grandma, I’ve come this far. I gotta risk it for the biscuit.”
She smiled through her tears. “You’re right. This has been your dream, your life to steer.”
We got up, ate breakfast at Cracker Barrel, and then headed to Lions World. When we arrived, I met the receptionist, a very sweet lady.
“Oh, you’re Jeremy! You’re coming from Indiana?” she said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Oh, we’ve been waiting for you. We heard this has been your dream for a while,” she said.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
She looked at me thoughtfully. “Now, you do have your two years of college?”
I grinned. “Better than that — I have an associate’s degree in computers.”
She smiled. “Nice. Overkill, but good.”
I shrugged. “I figured if two years was the minimum, and assuming a full load for two years — which actually took me five — I might as well get my associate’s.”
“Smart move,” she said.
She led me to Beth Buroice’s office, my assigned counselor. From the start, she and Grandma did not get along, but Grandma knew this was exactly what I wanted.
Beth then showed me to a room in the boys’ dorm. Lions World was a lot different than I had imagined. I had pictured it like the blind school, with a quad and single dorms. Instead, it was just one dorm for guys and one for ladies. They frowned on any hanky-panky — understandable, considering it was a Lions Club-owned organization run under Christian ethics.
Grandma, being the clean police, knew the dorm wouldn’t meet her standards, so she brought her own cleaning supplies from home. She scoured the tub and every surface in my room until it was just right.
I didn’t start classes until the next day, because they gave me time to get everything straightened out. We unpacked, I made my bed, and Grandma and Grandpa both hugged me tightly and said goodbye.
A week later, they sent my old house phone along with my new cell phone. The first cell phone didn’t work, so they sent a different model. Over the next few days, they even got my house phone hooked up in my room.
In Arkansas, Verizon didn’t have coverage, so I had to rely on Altel towers, which meant roaming for me — not ideal. That’s part of why Grandma and Grandpa made sure the house phone was set up. They also figured out our ISP, Net USA, which back then was still dial-up. With a Little Rock phone number, I was able to get online and install my Windows updates.
That night, I didn’t sleep a wink. The bed was saggy, the mattress lumpy, and it reminded me of the beds at ISB. Of course, unfamiliar location syndrome set in — you know the one: first night in a new place, can’t sleep, just toss and turn all night.
The next morning, Fredric was up before me. He looked around and said, “Whoa… who scoured the tub and sink?”
“My grandma did,” I said. “Because of my health, she cleaned every surface in the room.”
He laughed. “Oh my… what do you mean, because of your health?”
“Can’t fight disease,” I said. “My body doesn’t produce enough antibodies. I could go down in minutes.”
Fredric’s eyes widened. “Ooh… shoot!”
We headed to breakfast, and before my first class, they handed me a paper with my schedule. I thanked them and went to my first class: Basic Math.
Basic Math was exactly that — basic. Mainly, it was to gauge our skills. Every Friday we had a math test, and if you passed, you could move on to a different class.
I remember one week in first-period math — oh, that poor girl with a rough name. Nowadays, people would know how to pronounce it correctly, but back then, people said Shih-theed. Poor Miss Wice tried her best: “Excuse me, Miss Shithead Martin?” The girl corrected her, mortified: “It’s pronounced Shethead.”
Over the next few weeks, things picked up. They had morning and afternoon breaks. During the afternoon breaks, the recreation leader sold drinks and snacks out of the snackbar, and I’d always get an IBC cream soda or sarsaparilla.
After hours, we’d go out to places like Cece’s Pizza — which was a blast. That was the first time I’d ever been to a pizza buffet, and it blew my mind.
Then I met a friend of Fredric’s who became my friend too: Ron Daniels. Ron was cool — he used to work at a casino in Atlantic City. This dude introduced me to something I had never seen before: an immersion heater. Cool, but also painful if used as a weapon. Trust me, you don’t want to miss that story — I’ll get to it later.
They also introduced me to Barry’s Gold Blend — pronounced “Bari’s,” because it’s Irish, and the Irish have their own way of saying things. Well, this tea was more like coffee — highly caffeinated. I remember saying, “Hey, I like tea.” And Fredric goes, “Now have you heard of Barry’s Gold Blend, laddybuck?” I said, “No.” He laughed. “Then you know nothing of Irish tea.”
We sat there talking, and Ron eyed my computer setup. “Is this your setup, or are you borrowing this?”
“Nope, this is mine,” I said. “My grandparents asked me to do a favor for them and they paid for part of the PC, but it’s all mine now since I did the favor.”
“What favor was that?” he asked.
“My cousin Jessie graduated last year,” I said, “and they wanted me to help make a video for her. I did it — a video of pictures of her through childhood set to the song ‘Jessica’ by the Allman Brothers.”
“Nice,” he said. “So they just bought you the part you needed for that, and now the computer’s yours free and clear?”
“Yep,” I said. “Watch this.” I plugged in an antenna and pulled out the TV remote.
Fredric’s eyes went wide. “What the heck? It’s got a TV tuner card?”
“Yep,” I said.
One Saturday morning, I was laying on my bed being lazy, watching Saturday-morning cartoons people had uploaded online, and using JAWS as a screen reader while typing web addresses with the remote. They both laughed — they thought that was the craziest thing they’d ever heard.
And just like that, we enjoyed our Barry’s Gold Blend, sipping tea and sharing laughs.
If it wasn’t for basic training—and yes, that’s what I called it—none of us would’ve made it through the first stretch. They made sure everyone knew the essentials: reading, typing, math, cooking (a.k.a. TDL—Techniques of Daily Living), and mobility.
But the real kicker? We also had an IRS interview preparedness class. Yep, you heard that right — we were training to talk to the Internal Revenue Service.
That class was taught by Will Stevens, a sharp and well-kept gentleman with an unmistakable Army background. Will was the kind of guy who could probably make a mop stand at attention if he barked an order at it.
He didn’t just teach the IRS course, though. He also had single periods with each of us clients — and yes, we were called clients, not students. The program treated us like adults in training, not kids in class.
One day, during one of those one-on-one sessions, Will looked straight at me and said,
“Jeremy, you’ve been coddled by your family. It’s time for you to enter the real world. You’re gonna have to do what we called in the military—cowboy the fuck up.”
That was the first time I ever heard him swear.
“Sir,” I said, blinking, “that’s a bit harsh. I get that you want me to man up, and I will—but was that really necessary?”
He didn’t flinch. “Yes, it is, Jeremy. You’re still mentally a teenager. You need to grow up if you’re gonna make it in the real world.”
I nodded slowly. “I get that, sir.”
Then he said, “Okay, I heard you’ve got some computer knowledge.”
“I do,” I said.
“Do you know how to upgrade Windows?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “What’s the deal?”
“I want you to install Windows XP on my machine.”
“Okay,” I said, “but I can’t use my copy. You’ll have to buy your own.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because it’s my copy,” I said, “and you’d need your own CD key. Otherwise, that’s pirating.”
He nodded, impressed. “Good point. I didn’t expect you to have such a strong moral compass, Jeremy.”
I laughed. “It’s not about moral compass—it’s about how Windows works. The second you try to register it, Microsoft will flag it, and I’ll be the one in trouble.”
He smiled. “Fair point.”
I added, “Now, if you wanted to use any of my other apps or games, that’d be fine—but not Windows. The other programs don’t auto-register like that.”
He nodded again. “Fair enough.”
“I draw the line at adaptive software, though,” I said.
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“Because, sir,” I grinned, “that stuff’s bookoo bucks.”
Will and I talked about everything. He didn’t sugarcoat anything either. If he thought I was slipping, he’d pull me aside and say,
“C’mon, Jeremy, cowboy the fuck up.”
I hated that phrase.
A few weeks later, they moved me into the Independent Living apartment on campus. And let me tell you—it was a nightmare.
The mattress next to mine had a damn hole in it, and in the middle of the night, I heard squeaking—like a rat or a mouse trying to claw its way out. I didn’t sleep a wink.
Next morning, I dragged myself to class late. Will walked in, arms crossed, and said,
“Jeremy, you missed first period.”
I snapped, “I don’t care! This place is a nightmare.”
He blinked. “What do you mean, son?”
“The couch has burn holes in it from cigarettes, and that bed—God help me—has a crater in it! I heard squeaking and something scurrying around all night. My first night there was not a pleasant one.”
He looked me over, saw the bags under my eyes, and just said, “Damn.”
I added, “And I’ve got a fear of holes in furniture.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re trypophobic, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said, shuddering, “and this place is filthy. It hasn’t been cleaned in forever. I saw a damn cockroach the size of a penny!”
Will sighed and said, “All right, Jeremy… I’ll see what I can do.”
A few days later, my counselor, Bet Burgois, said, “Jeremy, we are not moving that couch.”
I said, “You must! I am tripophobic.”
She shrugged. “You’re just going to have to deal with it.”
I said, “We’ll see about that.”
“If you go over me,” she warned, “I will kick you out of this program.”
And right then, I decided I would never use the living room couch.
You see, folks, I don’t know why I have this unhealthy fear of furniture with holes in it. Ever since I was little, I had this overwhelming fear that spiders—or some kind of insect—would burrow into the holes and try to bite me. I don’t know why. It bothers me today, but I’m grateful I don’t have to deal with it on a daily basis like I did at Lions World.
So, I moved the couch over and used one of the table chairs whenever I wanted to watch TV. Those chairs were pristine, not messed up.
Meanwhile, I went through class as usual. My first bedroom at Lions World had a window, but the window didn’t even look outside. It looked straight into a brick wall.
For one month, they sent us home in November. We were supposed to return ready to do the interview with the IRS service center managers.
ns216.73.216.243da2
and then Add to home screen.