I was in 10th grade when I met Crack Hedger. It was the first day of school, and he was one of the incoming 7th graders riding my bus for the first time. My friend John and I were trying to talk to the new kids, and giving a couple of them new names. Most of the kids were obnoxious smartasses, but Crack seemed like a cool guy. His name was Joe, but we decided it would be Crack. Our logic was that Joe was white, and crack was white, and crack was also hilarious, so it was a good name.
I turned 16 that year, and my grandpa gave me my first car, a beat-up 1988 Dodge Colt, nicknamed the Chudmobile. The car was white, chud was white, and chud was also hilarious, so it was a good name. Crack offered to fix up my car stereo, for free, so I started going over to his house and letting him work on it. He put a new tape deck in, and installed an amp and some big speakers. He even built me a big speaker box to sit in the back of the car so I could drive around, bassing people out with a deep, low-end sound that made all the loose bits in my car rattle. All the parts came from a junkyard down the road from where he lived, and he said the guy who owned all the junk cars there told him he could take whatever he wanted.
Crack lived a few minutes away from me, in a house along a gravel road, with no other houses nearby. His place had an old bomb shelter and a lot of animals. As we started hanging out more, I got used to his dogs chasing my car as I drove away. I was scared of hitting them at first, but Crack told me just to drive and they would get out of the way. With time, my fear of running over one of his dogs subsided.
One summer afternoon, my friends and I decided to take a trip to the mall. There wasn't really any reason for it, but it was something to do. Living out in the middle of nowhere, the mall was a 40 minute drive away. I picked up John, and then went to go pick up Crack, the plan being to pick up my friend Sean next.
As we pulled away from Crack's house, his dogs started chasing my car, as they usually did. Like always, I just drove as if they weren't there, knowing they would get out of the way.
And then one of Crack's dogs ran right in front of my car.
"Fuck! No!" I yelled as my car drove over the dog. There were two sickening thumps as each tire on the passenger side squished the dog.
We stopped the car and got out. The dog lay in a heap, twisted and whimpering.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, man," I said. As an animal-loving vegetarian kid, I was a bit freaked-the-fuck out.
"It's alright, man," Crack told me. He calmly scooped up the dog, a decently-sized Australian Shepard, and got back in the car. As we drove back to his house, the dog bit him and then puked on him.
We got back to his house and got out of the car. His dad and his grandpa came out of the house as Crack set the dog on the ground. I saw that it was dead, and started crying.
"It's alright, man," he told me. He didn't seem to care at all.
"I killed your fucking dog, man!" I said, wiping tears from my face.
"Shhh!" he whispered, not wanting the adults to hear me say "fuck."
His grandpa grabbed a shovel, and started walking out somewhere to dig a hole to bury the dog in. As he walked, a poodle started yapping at him and following close behind.
"Shut up, you son of a bitch!" the old man yelled, causing me to stop crying and start laughing.
Crack's sister came outside and saw my wet face.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"I've never seen a punk cry," she said.
We left again, picked up Sean, and went to the mall. I didn't really feel like going anymore, but we went, anyway.
I felt like shit for a week or so. My dad told me to get Crack a new dog, so I offered to do so. Crack declined, saying, "Don't worry about it, man. That dog was stupid as hell, anyway. Nobody cares."
Crack Hedger died four years ago today in a car crash. He was 19 years old.
Showing posts with label profanity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label profanity. Show all posts
19.4.07
27.3.07
Another racist tough guy.
In 4th grade, I took a 6th grade math class and a 6th grade science class. I spent most of the rest of the day in a room full of social retards who required extra supervision, lest we destroy something or cause a scene. As a class, supervised by our teacher, we also attended a 7th grade gym class, and also ate lunch with the seventh graders. We had to get our food and then sit with the rest of the class at a table with our teacher, who would shoo away the normal kids who tried to sit too close. It was during our lunch periods that I first noticed the racist tough guy.
I encountered lots of racist tough guys when I lived in Indiana. This guy was notable only in the fact that he was the first of his variety of people I ever encountered. I never had any direct interactions with him, but I learned through casual observation that he was, in fact, a racist tough guy.
When I'd sit at our guarded table in the cafeteria, I'd sometimes notice the racist tough guy. He had a mullet, and looked bigger and older than most of the other kids. He acted like a loud, obnoxious jerk, and the ladies seemed to love him. They giggled as he made fun of smaller students. I feared him, but I also got the feeling that he was cool as hell. He seemed awesome, and he commanded respect.
In 5th grade, our class got a different teacher, one who would let us go to lunch by ourselves. We still ate with the seventh graders. My friend Mike and I relished the freedom, though we never really interacted with any of the normal kids. I noticed that the racist tough guy was still in seventh grade, and I tried to stay away from him while I was in the cafeteria, because though I would have loved to be his friend due to his level of coolness, I was also pretty sure that, given the chance, he would fuck with me.
One day there was a loud rumor that a fight was taking place outside. We went outside, where most of the seventh graders had congregated, somehow without attracting the attention of any authority figures. There was an island of grass and two trees, surrounded by an easily-overstepped chain and pillar fence, in the middle of the sidewalk leading out to the parking lot. Kids circled the island and whispered about the two kids inside of the chain fence, who were moments away from extremely brutal 7th grade violence. One of the kids on the island was the racist tough guy.
Supposedly, at least one punch had been thrown before Mike and I arrived. Supposedly, it was a very loud punch. All we could see, though, were two kids standing around and not fighting. They weren't even doing the standard adolescent boy fighting dance, where two participants puff up their chests and try to intimidate each other by looking tough. Instead, one nerdy looking guy with glasses stood spitting on the ground, while the racist tough guy gestured wildly and swore loudly to his friends on the sidelines.
"Fucking motherfucker wants to fucking fuck some shit! Who does this motherfucker fucking think he is? I'm going to fucking kick his motherfucking ass!"
The swearing and the standing went on for a few minutes while we waited for violence, and then whispers of authority figures spread through the crowd and everybody dispersed.
There was a public pool in the same town where they bussed me to school. It was half an hour away, but it was the only public place to swim that we knew about, so my mom took my siblings and I there a few times. The racist tough guy was there one time.
I never saw the racist tough guy swim. He sat on the side of the pool, stretched out on a beach chair and surrounded by girls, and ranted loudly about the Mexicans who were at the pool that day.
"Fucking spicks! They need to put up fucking barricades to keep these fucking spicks out of here! I'm sick of the fucking spicks coming in here and fucking getting everything fucking dirty! Where are my motherfucking barricades?"
The girls surrounding him laughed at his racist tirade. At some point, they looked at my mom, who is Filipino, and the racist tough guy whispered something to the girls. They snickered, not really trying to hide the fact that they were obviously making some ignorant joke at her expense.
When we went home, my mom couldn't stop telling my dad about how horrible it was, and how she had never experienced anything like that in her life. It's not something that happens in California, where my mom had spent her entire life until moving to Indiana about a year before the incident. My dad just told her that people are ignorant assholes, and not to worry so much about those kind of people.
We saw the racist tough guy in public one more time, when I was in 6th or 7th grade. Our car had broken down at a gas station, and we were sitting in it and waiting for my dad. While we waited, the racist tough guy pulled up in his car. He was with a girl I recognized, and who I always thought seemed like a nice girl. The racist tough guy got out of the car and made a phone call on the payphone. He was loud enough that we could hear him in our car.
"I don't fucking give a fuck!" he yelled into the phone. "Motherfucking cocksuckers need to fucking learn what the fuck they're fucking doing!"
"Oh my god," my mom said, "What an absolute creep!"
"Don't you remember him?" I asked. "That's the racist guy from the pool."
My mom didn't remember his face, but it was definitely him. When he was done yelling obscenities at whoever he was talking to, he smashed the receiver on the phone a few times, and walked back to his car, where he continued to yell obscenities at the girl as he pulled away. She looked really passive, just blankly staring forward as he yelled. I felt bad for her.
I encountered lots of racist tough guys when I lived in Indiana. This guy was notable only in the fact that he was the first of his variety of people I ever encountered. I never had any direct interactions with him, but I learned through casual observation that he was, in fact, a racist tough guy.
When I'd sit at our guarded table in the cafeteria, I'd sometimes notice the racist tough guy. He had a mullet, and looked bigger and older than most of the other kids. He acted like a loud, obnoxious jerk, and the ladies seemed to love him. They giggled as he made fun of smaller students. I feared him, but I also got the feeling that he was cool as hell. He seemed awesome, and he commanded respect.
In 5th grade, our class got a different teacher, one who would let us go to lunch by ourselves. We still ate with the seventh graders. My friend Mike and I relished the freedom, though we never really interacted with any of the normal kids. I noticed that the racist tough guy was still in seventh grade, and I tried to stay away from him while I was in the cafeteria, because though I would have loved to be his friend due to his level of coolness, I was also pretty sure that, given the chance, he would fuck with me.
One day there was a loud rumor that a fight was taking place outside. We went outside, where most of the seventh graders had congregated, somehow without attracting the attention of any authority figures. There was an island of grass and two trees, surrounded by an easily-overstepped chain and pillar fence, in the middle of the sidewalk leading out to the parking lot. Kids circled the island and whispered about the two kids inside of the chain fence, who were moments away from extremely brutal 7th grade violence. One of the kids on the island was the racist tough guy.
Supposedly, at least one punch had been thrown before Mike and I arrived. Supposedly, it was a very loud punch. All we could see, though, were two kids standing around and not fighting. They weren't even doing the standard adolescent boy fighting dance, where two participants puff up their chests and try to intimidate each other by looking tough. Instead, one nerdy looking guy with glasses stood spitting on the ground, while the racist tough guy gestured wildly and swore loudly to his friends on the sidelines.
"Fucking motherfucker wants to fucking fuck some shit! Who does this motherfucker fucking think he is? I'm going to fucking kick his motherfucking ass!"
The swearing and the standing went on for a few minutes while we waited for violence, and then whispers of authority figures spread through the crowd and everybody dispersed.
There was a public pool in the same town where they bussed me to school. It was half an hour away, but it was the only public place to swim that we knew about, so my mom took my siblings and I there a few times. The racist tough guy was there one time.
I never saw the racist tough guy swim. He sat on the side of the pool, stretched out on a beach chair and surrounded by girls, and ranted loudly about the Mexicans who were at the pool that day.
"Fucking spicks! They need to put up fucking barricades to keep these fucking spicks out of here! I'm sick of the fucking spicks coming in here and fucking getting everything fucking dirty! Where are my motherfucking barricades?"
The girls surrounding him laughed at his racist tirade. At some point, they looked at my mom, who is Filipino, and the racist tough guy whispered something to the girls. They snickered, not really trying to hide the fact that they were obviously making some ignorant joke at her expense.
When we went home, my mom couldn't stop telling my dad about how horrible it was, and how she had never experienced anything like that in her life. It's not something that happens in California, where my mom had spent her entire life until moving to Indiana about a year before the incident. My dad just told her that people are ignorant assholes, and not to worry so much about those kind of people.
We saw the racist tough guy in public one more time, when I was in 6th or 7th grade. Our car had broken down at a gas station, and we were sitting in it and waiting for my dad. While we waited, the racist tough guy pulled up in his car. He was with a girl I recognized, and who I always thought seemed like a nice girl. The racist tough guy got out of the car and made a phone call on the payphone. He was loud enough that we could hear him in our car.
"I don't fucking give a fuck!" he yelled into the phone. "Motherfucking cocksuckers need to fucking learn what the fuck they're fucking doing!"
"Oh my god," my mom said, "What an absolute creep!"
"Don't you remember him?" I asked. "That's the racist guy from the pool."
My mom didn't remember his face, but it was definitely him. When he was done yelling obscenities at whoever he was talking to, he smashed the receiver on the phone a few times, and walked back to his car, where he continued to yell obscenities at the girl as he pulled away. She looked really passive, just blankly staring forward as he yelled. I felt bad for her.
18.1.07
Password reminder.
My job requires me to access various database systems via the computer on my desk. One of these systems I had to access once a week for a few months, and then not at all for a few months. When I needed to use it again, I found I had forgotten my password. I tried a few different things I thought might be my password, but after a few tries my account was locked, and I was given a message with an 800 number to call to regain my access. Unfortunately, the phone on my desk can't call outside lines. It was no big deal, since I only needed access for one small thing, and I was able to pass it on to somebody who remembered their password.
It's been months since I've needed to use that system for anything, but today we had a meeting about a new task we were going to be doing, and it required access to the system in question. I told my boss what had happened with my password, and he had me reset it from his computer. When I went back to my computer, though, I was still locked out. He said he'd look into it, and hopefully have my password ready by next week.
A few minutes later, my boss came to my desk with my username and a temporary password written on a piece of paper, and said he thought he figured it out. I was able to log in this time, and was greeted with a message saying that I had to change my password. On the screen was all the user information I had entered previously, including my name, department, and my forgotten password reminder. When I had entered my password reminder, I must have been wrongly certain that I would never forget my password, because it wasn't really much of a reminder. I scrolled the screen, pretending I was looking for the box to enter my new password, but actually just trying to prevent my boss from seeing my password reminder.
In the middle of the screen was a box that read "PASSWORD REMINDER".
And underneath that, right where I had left it so long ago, it said "FUCK YOU".
It's been months since I've needed to use that system for anything, but today we had a meeting about a new task we were going to be doing, and it required access to the system in question. I told my boss what had happened with my password, and he had me reset it from his computer. When I went back to my computer, though, I was still locked out. He said he'd look into it, and hopefully have my password ready by next week.
A few minutes later, my boss came to my desk with my username and a temporary password written on a piece of paper, and said he thought he figured it out. I was able to log in this time, and was greeted with a message saying that I had to change my password. On the screen was all the user information I had entered previously, including my name, department, and my forgotten password reminder. When I had entered my password reminder, I must have been wrongly certain that I would never forget my password, because it wasn't really much of a reminder. I scrolled the screen, pretending I was looking for the box to enter my new password, but actually just trying to prevent my boss from seeing my password reminder.
In the middle of the screen was a box that read "PASSWORD REMINDER".
And underneath that, right where I had left it so long ago, it said "FUCK YOU".
30.10.06
"That's a nice shirt!"
I sometimes wear my internet nerdism on my chest in the form of a shirt with the word GOATSE printed on it, with little hands on each side of the word stretching it across the shirt. For any readers fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with the term, goatse was one of the original internet shock sites. I first experienced goatse in high school, when one of my friends sent me a link and told me it was completely awesome. Unaware of what I was in for, I clicked the link and was confronted with an image of a man bending over and stretching his anus to legendary proportions. Shocking, indeed.
I was visiting my mom and brother not too long ago, and I was wearing the shirt.
"Ooh, that's a nice shirt!" my mom said when I came downstairs after taking a shower in the morning. My brother looked at the shirt and shook his head, and I just started laughing.
"That's gross," my brother said.
"What? What is it?" my mom asked.
I kept laughing as my brother explained to her what goatse was.
"That is gross!" she said.
I was visiting my mom and brother not too long ago, and I was wearing the shirt.
"Ooh, that's a nice shirt!" my mom said when I came downstairs after taking a shower in the morning. My brother looked at the shirt and shook his head, and I just started laughing.
"That's gross," my brother said.
"What? What is it?" my mom asked.
I kept laughing as my brother explained to her what goatse was.
"That is gross!" she said.
16.7.06
Ricky bleeds to death.
When I was in seventh grade, I had my first experience with a friend abruptly ceasing to exist.
Ricky Duncan was the first friend I made when I had moved from a big city to a tiny, middle-of-fucking-nowhere podunk town in fourth grade. I was riding my bike around and ran into Ricky, who was also riding his bike around. He was a year younger than I was, and we hit it off and began hanging out all the time. Nearly every day, I'd ride my bike to his house, where we'd usually sit in the basement playing Nintendo for hours. Our favorite game was a two-player co-op game where both players had a little army guy at the bottom of the screen, blasting away waves and waves of enemies. The game would only let you continue so many times after dying, but I think we were able to finish the whole thing at least once.
I've never been religous, but I once went to church with Ricky and his family for some reason. I think that they didn't normally attend, but a relative was in town visiting them and he wanted to go, so they all went. I had spent the night at Ricky's, so I was already there. I rode my bike home and asked if it was alright, and then came back and we all went to church. Even as a little kid, I thought it was stupid. I remember there was a lot of singing, but I'd make up my own words or just pretend to sing when everybody else was getting into the spirit of the Lord. I don't think Ricky was very excited to be there, as he had made some negative remarks about seeing the elementary school principal there. At some point, they called all the kids to sit in the front and talk about good uses for the Bible. A few kids talked about how it was great for learning lessons about life and God. Ricky and I just sat there.
One time Ricky told me I needed to stop swearing around him, because he was finding himself swearing more and more. I asked him what was wrong with that, and he told me he thought it was wrong. I told him words weren't harmful, but he disagreed. On at least one occassion after that, he told me I had to leave his house for the rest of the day because of my foul mouth.
I can only assume it was mainly Ricky's parents that had given him the impression swearing was wrong. My parents didn't allow it, but their attitude only taught me that swearing was something you shouldn't do in front of authority figures. Swearing hurts nobody. I tried to convince Ricky of this, but he wouldn't believe me. To him, swearing was always wrong. Perhaps it was because I had always questioned authority, and maybe Ricky was one of the ones who never did. It's a trait that I notice in people now that I'm older, but probably didn't when I was ten years old.
Thinking back about Ricky, I find his attitude on swearing to be completely bizarre when contrasted to other things his parents instilled in him. Mainly, I find it mind boggling that they convinced him that swearing was always wrong, but they gave him guns. Guns kill things. What does swearing do again?
Ricky had a B.B. gun when I first met him, but my parents wouldn't let me play with it. Later, Ricky's parents bought him real guns.
In 5th grade, I moved across town, and rarely saw Ricky after that. The last time I saw him was when I was in seventh grade, during some kind of school event where they invite all the parents to come to the elementary school in the evening and watch the kids sing or some such.
"Hey, Paul," he said, passing me as everyone was leaving.
"Ricky, hey!"
After that, I kept thinking I should give him a call. He was, after all, the first friend I had made when I moved. I thought it would be nice to hang out again.
One day, I arrived home from school to find myself greeted by bad news.
"Hey, remember the first friend you made when we moved here?" my sister asked as I walked in the door.
"Yeah," I said, "Ricky."
"He's dead."
Ricky, while home alone, had accidentally shot himself. He bled to death. He was in sixth grade.
Ricky Duncan was the first friend I made when I had moved from a big city to a tiny, middle-of-fucking-nowhere podunk town in fourth grade. I was riding my bike around and ran into Ricky, who was also riding his bike around. He was a year younger than I was, and we hit it off and began hanging out all the time. Nearly every day, I'd ride my bike to his house, where we'd usually sit in the basement playing Nintendo for hours. Our favorite game was a two-player co-op game where both players had a little army guy at the bottom of the screen, blasting away waves and waves of enemies. The game would only let you continue so many times after dying, but I think we were able to finish the whole thing at least once.
I've never been religous, but I once went to church with Ricky and his family for some reason. I think that they didn't normally attend, but a relative was in town visiting them and he wanted to go, so they all went. I had spent the night at Ricky's, so I was already there. I rode my bike home and asked if it was alright, and then came back and we all went to church. Even as a little kid, I thought it was stupid. I remember there was a lot of singing, but I'd make up my own words or just pretend to sing when everybody else was getting into the spirit of the Lord. I don't think Ricky was very excited to be there, as he had made some negative remarks about seeing the elementary school principal there. At some point, they called all the kids to sit in the front and talk about good uses for the Bible. A few kids talked about how it was great for learning lessons about life and God. Ricky and I just sat there.
One time Ricky told me I needed to stop swearing around him, because he was finding himself swearing more and more. I asked him what was wrong with that, and he told me he thought it was wrong. I told him words weren't harmful, but he disagreed. On at least one occassion after that, he told me I had to leave his house for the rest of the day because of my foul mouth.
I can only assume it was mainly Ricky's parents that had given him the impression swearing was wrong. My parents didn't allow it, but their attitude only taught me that swearing was something you shouldn't do in front of authority figures. Swearing hurts nobody. I tried to convince Ricky of this, but he wouldn't believe me. To him, swearing was always wrong. Perhaps it was because I had always questioned authority, and maybe Ricky was one of the ones who never did. It's a trait that I notice in people now that I'm older, but probably didn't when I was ten years old.
Thinking back about Ricky, I find his attitude on swearing to be completely bizarre when contrasted to other things his parents instilled in him. Mainly, I find it mind boggling that they convinced him that swearing was always wrong, but they gave him guns. Guns kill things. What does swearing do again?
Ricky had a B.B. gun when I first met him, but my parents wouldn't let me play with it. Later, Ricky's parents bought him real guns.
In 5th grade, I moved across town, and rarely saw Ricky after that. The last time I saw him was when I was in seventh grade, during some kind of school event where they invite all the parents to come to the elementary school in the evening and watch the kids sing or some such.
"Hey, Paul," he said, passing me as everyone was leaving.
"Ricky, hey!"
After that, I kept thinking I should give him a call. He was, after all, the first friend I had made when I moved. I thought it would be nice to hang out again.
One day, I arrived home from school to find myself greeted by bad news.
"Hey, remember the first friend you made when we moved here?" my sister asked as I walked in the door.
"Yeah," I said, "Ricky."
"He's dead."
Ricky, while home alone, had accidentally shot himself. He bled to death. He was in sixth grade.
2.7.06
The failed classroom riot.
My eighth grade math teacher was this little old lady who was putting in her last year before her retirement. My friends and I were needlessly mean to her, probably only because we were assholes and we figured out that we could get away with all kinds of tomfoolery in her class.
One of my staple gimmicks for her class was to swear loudly, but leave out the last consonant of a word so that I could get laughs without getting in trouble. I usually did this when she gave an assignment, indicating my displeasure with the work load.
"The assignment for tomorrow is page 42, problems 12-36."
"Shiiiiiiiiiiihh! What the fuuuuuuuuuuhh? Motherfuuuuuuh! Shiiiiiiiih!"
Some of my friends were in her class earlier in the day, and would always ask for blow jobs in class.
"Whoever solves this extra credit puzzle first will get a prize."
"What is it? A blow job?"
The kids would all laugh, and she would laugh, too. She must have asked somebody what it meant, though, because one day they said it and she started yelling at them never to use language like that again. This was one of only two times I had ever heard of her yelling at somebody, and yelling was the worst punishment she ever gave out
The other time I remember her yelling was when my friends came up with a way to make fun of her name in a particularly juvenile way. Her name was Mrs. Berenda, and somebody figured out that you could say "Mrs. Bare-end-a" for a cheap laugh. As soon I heard that, I had to go to class and say it to her. She started yelling at me and threatening to write me up, but I don't think she ever sent anybody to the office.
I had been obsessed with the idea of a schoolhouse riot, and one day when she stepped out of the room for a moment, I figured I'd give it a shot. The room was quiet immediately after she stepped out, because we were supposed to be working on an assignment. I got up from my desk.
"Riot!" I yelled, and flipped the desk in front of mine. Everybody just looked at me for a few seconds, and then the door opened. I sat down quickly as Mrs. Berenda came back into the classroom. She saw me sitting down, and knew I had flipped the desk.
"Paul, what happened to the desk?" she asked.
"I don't know," I told her, "It was like that when I got here."
She asked me politely to put it right side up, which I did. I was really disappointed, though, because I had envisioned everybody going crazy and smashing things up, but instead I had just gotten crazy looks from the entire class.
One of my staple gimmicks for her class was to swear loudly, but leave out the last consonant of a word so that I could get laughs without getting in trouble. I usually did this when she gave an assignment, indicating my displeasure with the work load.
"The assignment for tomorrow is page 42, problems 12-36."
"Shiiiiiiiiiiihh! What the fuuuuuuuuuuhh? Motherfuuuuuuh! Shiiiiiiiih!"
Some of my friends were in her class earlier in the day, and would always ask for blow jobs in class.
"Whoever solves this extra credit puzzle first will get a prize."
"What is it? A blow job?"
The kids would all laugh, and she would laugh, too. She must have asked somebody what it meant, though, because one day they said it and she started yelling at them never to use language like that again. This was one of only two times I had ever heard of her yelling at somebody, and yelling was the worst punishment she ever gave out
The other time I remember her yelling was when my friends came up with a way to make fun of her name in a particularly juvenile way. Her name was Mrs. Berenda, and somebody figured out that you could say "Mrs. Bare-end-a" for a cheap laugh. As soon I heard that, I had to go to class and say it to her. She started yelling at me and threatening to write me up, but I don't think she ever sent anybody to the office.
I had been obsessed with the idea of a schoolhouse riot, and one day when she stepped out of the room for a moment, I figured I'd give it a shot. The room was quiet immediately after she stepped out, because we were supposed to be working on an assignment. I got up from my desk.
"Riot!" I yelled, and flipped the desk in front of mine. Everybody just looked at me for a few seconds, and then the door opened. I sat down quickly as Mrs. Berenda came back into the classroom. She saw me sitting down, and knew I had flipped the desk.
"Paul, what happened to the desk?" she asked.
"I don't know," I told her, "It was like that when I got here."
She asked me politely to put it right side up, which I did. I was really disappointed, though, because I had envisioned everybody going crazy and smashing things up, but instead I had just gotten crazy looks from the entire class.
21.6.06
Learning to swear.
My preschool had a massive playground behind it. Along one side of it, a tall fence separated the playground from an alley, where classfulls of older kids could regularly be seen being escorted somewhere by their teacher.
I had been hanging out with this kid who was bigger and older than I was. He always had a thick trail of snot leading from his nostrils to his gap-toothed mouth.
"Come on," he told me one day, "Let me show you something!"
He brought me to the fence, where we could see a class of students moving through the alley. He put his face up to the fence.
"Fucking assholes! You fucking assholes!" he yelled. I had never heard the term, but I started shouting it with him.
A few weeks later, I was hanging out with a different kid.
"Come on," I told him, "Let me show you something!"
Wanting my turn to be the cool kid, I lead him to the fence and started calling all the kids fucking assholes. He looked at me like I was crazy and refused to partake in the exercise.
At the end of the procession of kids, their teacher scolded me.
"That's not nice," she said.
I honestly didn't realize I wasn't supposed to yell "You fucking assholes!" at a bunch of older kids. The look on her face when she told me it wasn't nice made me feel bad, and I slunk away from the fence. I never did that again.
I had been hanging out with this kid who was bigger and older than I was. He always had a thick trail of snot leading from his nostrils to his gap-toothed mouth.
"Come on," he told me one day, "Let me show you something!"
He brought me to the fence, where we could see a class of students moving through the alley. He put his face up to the fence.
"Fucking assholes! You fucking assholes!" he yelled. I had never heard the term, but I started shouting it with him.
A few weeks later, I was hanging out with a different kid.
"Come on," I told him, "Let me show you something!"
Wanting my turn to be the cool kid, I lead him to the fence and started calling all the kids fucking assholes. He looked at me like I was crazy and refused to partake in the exercise.
At the end of the procession of kids, their teacher scolded me.
"That's not nice," she said.
I honestly didn't realize I wasn't supposed to yell "You fucking assholes!" at a bunch of older kids. The look on her face when she told me it wasn't nice made me feel bad, and I slunk away from the fence. I never did that again.
6.6.06
Matt, his Nintendo, and my rage.
In the beginning of third grade, my best friend was this kid on my bus named Matthew Woods. I don't actually remember talking to him about anything other than the most important thing in the world at the time: the Nintendo Entertainment System. I only had a few games, and my mom limited the amount of time I could spend playing to basically nothing, but Matt, man, Matt was the guy who was so completely awesome because he was so enviable. He had every single game for the Nintendo ever (or at least claimed to have all the cool ones I could think of), and his mom let him play whenever he wanted, sometimes eating up entire days numbing his fingers on the sweaty plastic edges of his controller. Matt had my dream life, and thus I considered him my best and most awesome friend.
Until the bus broke down in front of his house.
There was another kid on the bus, Mike, who was a pretty cool guy, but not nearly as cool as Matt. We'd talk to him about Nintendo occasionally, but he didn't seem as interested, and certainly hadn't
played or owned as many of the games as Matt, so he was obviously inferior. Matt was friends with him, but I always assumed that I was Matt's better friend because we were the ones who were always hanging out and talking on the bus and at school. One key difference about the Mike and I surfaced when the bus broke down and we had to wait at Matt's house for a while. It turned out that while I had never seen Matt's house from anywhere but the bus window, Mike had actually been inside before. This fact played a critical role in what turned out to be the downfall of our friendship.
There were only a small handful of kids on the bus when it broke down, so it was decided that we would wait inside Matt's house while the adults involved took care of the bus situation. Matt immediately ran through a door at the end of the living room, into a smaller room where he had his Nintendo. Mike followed, and I tried to follow, but Matt's mom stopped me.
"I know Mike. I don't know you. You have to sit on the couch."
Mike seemed to feel bad for me being in such a predicament, but not Matt. Matt found it absolutely fucking hilarious that his mom was a crazy bitch. His chair was situated near the door to his Nintendo room, and while I sat there, he would periodically turn around, controller in hand, and point and laugh at me for not being allowed to play. I didn't understand how my best friend could be such a dickhead.
At some point I tried to get up and make a move for the Nintendo room, but his mom grabbed me by the arm. I tried to tell her she couldn't tell me what to do, but she raised her other hand like she was going to slap me. I cringed, she didn't slap me, and I spent the rest of the time waiting on the living room couch, enduring Matt's laughter while my rage grew.
By the time we were able to leave, I absolutely despised Matt.
Following this incident, I would harass Matt whenever possible. I learned that while I was friends with him, a crucial fact about his personality had escaped me: the child was prone to angry outbursts and temper tantrums for damn near no reason. I soon began to delight in tormenting him, as the slightest insult would send him into a violent rage. He was bigger than me, but he was never able to hurt me when he'd attack. He fought like a girl, and would scratch me and try to pull my hair.
I had always known that he had a huge crush on this girl at our school who had downs syndrome. Even as a third grader, I found that completely bizarre. I tried to tease him about it on the playground, calling out in a taunting voice, "Yoooooouuu'rreee iiinnn looooovveee wwiiitthh Saaaarrraaahhhh!!"
"Yes, I am!" he proudly confirmed, foiling my plan to provoke a temper tantrum.
So I punched him in the neck.
His face immediately turned bright red and he started screaming that he was going to kill me. He flailed his arms and kicked the air while I ran from him, laughing maniacally. Some teachers saw what was going on and took us both inside to miss the rest of recess.
While I sat at my desk while the rest of my classmates played outside, I fumed. Why should I be in trouble? All I did was make fun of some jerk and then punched him in the neck to make him go crazy. I racked my brain trying to think of the best way to get back at him.
And then it hit me.
The next day I came to school prepared for delivering the ultimate payback. I waited all day for the right moment, and I was excited as hell at the end of the day when I asked my teacher if I could go to the bathroom. She escorted me down the hall, but not before letting me get my coat from it's cubby-hole. I had told her I was cold.
I went into the bathroom stall and reached into my jacket pocket for my weapon of choice: a thick, green magic marker. I went to work and scrawled by revenge in foot-high letters on the wall of the stall.
MATTHEW WOODS IS A FUCKING ASSHOLE!
I pocketed my marker and left the bathroom, satisfied about my job well done. School let out shortly afterwards, and I went home, happy enough that I didn't even have to try to get Matt to throw a screaming fit on the bus.
The next day, when I got to school but before it was time to go to class, I brought my friend Jeremy into the bathroom.
"Check this out," I told him, leading him to the stall where I had left my bulletin to the world.
I was shocked to see that somebody had cleaned my message from the wall, but luckily I was still prepared. I took out my marker and left another one. This was a message that had to be heard.
MATT WOODS EATS FUCKING SHIT!
"Cool," Jeremy told me, and we went to class.
As soon as I sat down in my desk, my teacher came up to me.
"Paul, we have a problem. A message was found in the bathroom."
"How do you know it was me?" I asked, trying to seem incredulous but not realizing that I was admitting I knew what she was talking about.
"Well, we know you and Matt don't get along, and you put your jacket on before going to the bathroom yesterday afternoon."
"It wasn't me."
At that moment, another teacher came in and said that I had done it again.
They made me clean up the bathroom as punishment for my behavior. I maintained my innocence, even as I was scrubbing the walls down with a sponge. I don't even know if Matt ever heard about my attempt to defame his character, rendering the whole thing a failure.
Until the bus broke down in front of his house.
There was another kid on the bus, Mike, who was a pretty cool guy, but not nearly as cool as Matt. We'd talk to him about Nintendo occasionally, but he didn't seem as interested, and certainly hadn't
played or owned as many of the games as Matt, so he was obviously inferior. Matt was friends with him, but I always assumed that I was Matt's better friend because we were the ones who were always hanging out and talking on the bus and at school. One key difference about the Mike and I surfaced when the bus broke down and we had to wait at Matt's house for a while. It turned out that while I had never seen Matt's house from anywhere but the bus window, Mike had actually been inside before. This fact played a critical role in what turned out to be the downfall of our friendship.
There were only a small handful of kids on the bus when it broke down, so it was decided that we would wait inside Matt's house while the adults involved took care of the bus situation. Matt immediately ran through a door at the end of the living room, into a smaller room where he had his Nintendo. Mike followed, and I tried to follow, but Matt's mom stopped me.
"I know Mike. I don't know you. You have to sit on the couch."
Mike seemed to feel bad for me being in such a predicament, but not Matt. Matt found it absolutely fucking hilarious that his mom was a crazy bitch. His chair was situated near the door to his Nintendo room, and while I sat there, he would periodically turn around, controller in hand, and point and laugh at me for not being allowed to play. I didn't understand how my best friend could be such a dickhead.
At some point I tried to get up and make a move for the Nintendo room, but his mom grabbed me by the arm. I tried to tell her she couldn't tell me what to do, but she raised her other hand like she was going to slap me. I cringed, she didn't slap me, and I spent the rest of the time waiting on the living room couch, enduring Matt's laughter while my rage grew.
By the time we were able to leave, I absolutely despised Matt.
Following this incident, I would harass Matt whenever possible. I learned that while I was friends with him, a crucial fact about his personality had escaped me: the child was prone to angry outbursts and temper tantrums for damn near no reason. I soon began to delight in tormenting him, as the slightest insult would send him into a violent rage. He was bigger than me, but he was never able to hurt me when he'd attack. He fought like a girl, and would scratch me and try to pull my hair.
I had always known that he had a huge crush on this girl at our school who had downs syndrome. Even as a third grader, I found that completely bizarre. I tried to tease him about it on the playground, calling out in a taunting voice, "Yoooooouuu'rreee iiinnn looooovveee wwiiitthh Saaaarrraaahhhh!!"
"Yes, I am!" he proudly confirmed, foiling my plan to provoke a temper tantrum.
So I punched him in the neck.
His face immediately turned bright red and he started screaming that he was going to kill me. He flailed his arms and kicked the air while I ran from him, laughing maniacally. Some teachers saw what was going on and took us both inside to miss the rest of recess.
While I sat at my desk while the rest of my classmates played outside, I fumed. Why should I be in trouble? All I did was make fun of some jerk and then punched him in the neck to make him go crazy. I racked my brain trying to think of the best way to get back at him.
And then it hit me.
The next day I came to school prepared for delivering the ultimate payback. I waited all day for the right moment, and I was excited as hell at the end of the day when I asked my teacher if I could go to the bathroom. She escorted me down the hall, but not before letting me get my coat from it's cubby-hole. I had told her I was cold.
I went into the bathroom stall and reached into my jacket pocket for my weapon of choice: a thick, green magic marker. I went to work and scrawled by revenge in foot-high letters on the wall of the stall.
MATTHEW WOODS IS A FUCKING ASSHOLE!
I pocketed my marker and left the bathroom, satisfied about my job well done. School let out shortly afterwards, and I went home, happy enough that I didn't even have to try to get Matt to throw a screaming fit on the bus.
The next day, when I got to school but before it was time to go to class, I brought my friend Jeremy into the bathroom.
"Check this out," I told him, leading him to the stall where I had left my bulletin to the world.
I was shocked to see that somebody had cleaned my message from the wall, but luckily I was still prepared. I took out my marker and left another one. This was a message that had to be heard.
MATT WOODS EATS FUCKING SHIT!
"Cool," Jeremy told me, and we went to class.
As soon as I sat down in my desk, my teacher came up to me.
"Paul, we have a problem. A message was found in the bathroom."
"How do you know it was me?" I asked, trying to seem incredulous but not realizing that I was admitting I knew what she was talking about.
"Well, we know you and Matt don't get along, and you put your jacket on before going to the bathroom yesterday afternoon."
"It wasn't me."
At that moment, another teacher came in and said that I had done it again.
They made me clean up the bathroom as punishment for my behavior. I maintained my innocence, even as I was scrubbing the walls down with a sponge. I don't even know if Matt ever heard about my attempt to defame his character, rendering the whole thing a failure.
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