I was on my lunch break, sitting at a table in one of the quieter lobbies where I worked. I had already eaten, and was using the rest of my free time to read some comic books that I had just picked up.
"Can I sit here?"
I looked up. It was my boss's daughter, Sheena, holding a plastic container with food in it. It was lunch break time for her, too, though I was never sure why she was ever there. As far as I knew, she was either a teacher or becoming one, but I would see her around quite frequently.
"Sure," I said. There were plenty of free tables, and I felt like I would prefer to just read my comic books, but I thought she was cute and didn't really mind a chance to sit and talk to her for a while. I had never had a chance to talk to her without her mom, my boss, being there.
She sat down and we started talking. She was happy and friendly, and didn't immediately bore me to tears like most people, though I may have found her purple eyes more interesting than anything she had to say. The conversation was upbeat for the first few minutes, but then I asked the wrong question.
"Do you like The Ramones?" I asked.
"Well," she said, "I am a child of the 80's, so... yes."
"Have you ever heard 'Sheena is a punk rocker'?"
Her smile immediately disappeared. The happy look on her face was immediately replaced by a cold stare. She looked like I had just asked her if she had ever heard a song called "Sheena is a huge filthy whore who stinks."
"No," she said flatly, "No, I haven't."
"Well," I said, "you should check it out. It's a fucking great song! I think of it every time I hear your name."
She seemed to sense from my tone of voice that perhaps "punk rocker" didn't mean "huge filthy whore who stinks", and the conversation once again became upbeat. It was too late, though, because I had decided in the previous few seconds that I didn't want to talk to her anymore. I made small talk for a few minutes before I told her I had to go back to work.
"Oh, OK. I'll see you later. It was nice talking to you," she said.
I found a quiet spot and went back to reading my comic books until it actually was time to go back to work.
Showing posts with label punk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label punk. Show all posts
12.2.08
19.4.07
Crack Hedger's dog.
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.
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.
28.2.07
Mike's reflective shoes.
Right after I graduated high school, I started spending a lot of time with my friend Mike. Mostly, we'd play punk rock in his basement, with Mike on a drum set that came out of a dumpster, and myself banging out power chords on my guitar. When we got bored with that, we'd drive around, digging in dumpsters and getting harassed by rednecks. Mike was probably the punkest guy I ever knew. He wasn't some dumb rich kid who shopped at Hot Topic and secretly aspired to be a successful rich guy. No, Mike was a high school dropout who dug in the trash, made his own clothes, and aspired to be punk as fuck forever.
Mike was the only person who I ever actually saw smoking crack. We were sitting in his bedroom one night before going out for a night of dumpster diving, and had just finished smoking some weed. Mike dumped the ash out of the pipe, and then popped in a crack rock.
"What the fuck, man?" I asked, concerned that my good friend was about to smoke crack.
"Don't worry, man," he said, "I can't afford to smoke this shit. This is just something my brother stole from some guy."
I'd always wondered if crack instantly turned a person into a crazy person, or if it took a lot of smoking to get them to the point where they wandered the streets talking to themselves. Mike didn't seem any different after he smoked his rock. He just seemed like Mike.
As far as I knew, he never became a crackhead. He came from a family of potheads, and I never knew any of them to be too interested in anything else. When his brother was in a serious car accident and was prescribed a bunch of powerful pain killers, he sold them all for weed money.
Mike loved to make and modify his own clothes. While most of my clothes-modification experiments consisted of me safety-pinning things to other things, Mike learned to sew. A routine dumpster-diving expedition once landed us a fine bounty of brand new clothes intended for obese women with preferences for extremely loud clothing. For a while after that, our clothes were often lined with pieces of that bounty: leopard prints, plaids, and plastic imitation snake skin. In addition to lining things with other things, Mike would paint his clothes, add spikes or straps or zippers, and sometimes briefly set his clothes on fire because he liked how it looked afterwards.
Another time, he glued bike reflectors to the bottom of his combat boots.
Mike was a young guy, several years younger than myself, but he had already had a number of run ins with the police. It seemed to be common in his family. One day, Mike was walking around outside when he saw the police driving nearby. He wasn't carrying any contraband, and he hadn't done anything wrong, but the sight of the cops scared him. He started running, and when the police got too close, he jumped into a ditch so they wouldn't see him.
They didn't see him, but they did see the reflectors on his shoes shining in their headlights. They arrested him for resisting arrest, since he was evidently trying to hide from them.
I haven't seen Mike in a few years, but when I did, he still had his mohawk and leather jacket. Everybody else I knew had gotten rid of them long ago. Punk as fuck, I tell you.
Mike was the only person who I ever actually saw smoking crack. We were sitting in his bedroom one night before going out for a night of dumpster diving, and had just finished smoking some weed. Mike dumped the ash out of the pipe, and then popped in a crack rock.
"What the fuck, man?" I asked, concerned that my good friend was about to smoke crack.
"Don't worry, man," he said, "I can't afford to smoke this shit. This is just something my brother stole from some guy."
I'd always wondered if crack instantly turned a person into a crazy person, or if it took a lot of smoking to get them to the point where they wandered the streets talking to themselves. Mike didn't seem any different after he smoked his rock. He just seemed like Mike.
As far as I knew, he never became a crackhead. He came from a family of potheads, and I never knew any of them to be too interested in anything else. When his brother was in a serious car accident and was prescribed a bunch of powerful pain killers, he sold them all for weed money.
Mike loved to make and modify his own clothes. While most of my clothes-modification experiments consisted of me safety-pinning things to other things, Mike learned to sew. A routine dumpster-diving expedition once landed us a fine bounty of brand new clothes intended for obese women with preferences for extremely loud clothing. For a while after that, our clothes were often lined with pieces of that bounty: leopard prints, plaids, and plastic imitation snake skin. In addition to lining things with other things, Mike would paint his clothes, add spikes or straps or zippers, and sometimes briefly set his clothes on fire because he liked how it looked afterwards.
Another time, he glued bike reflectors to the bottom of his combat boots.
Mike was a young guy, several years younger than myself, but he had already had a number of run ins with the police. It seemed to be common in his family. One day, Mike was walking around outside when he saw the police driving nearby. He wasn't carrying any contraband, and he hadn't done anything wrong, but the sight of the cops scared him. He started running, and when the police got too close, he jumped into a ditch so they wouldn't see him.
They didn't see him, but they did see the reflectors on his shoes shining in their headlights. They arrested him for resisting arrest, since he was evidently trying to hide from them.
I haven't seen Mike in a few years, but when I did, he still had his mohawk and leather jacket. Everybody else I knew had gotten rid of them long ago. Punk as fuck, I tell you.
28.12.06
Eric Candleass.
I first encountered Eric Candleass when I was in eighth grade. I was talking to a friend during a passing period before class, in the classroom where his next class was about to take place. Suddenly, somebody kicked me in the ass. I turned around and saw a tall, skinny kid leering down at me. I laughed nervously, hoping the assault was in jest. I had never seen the kid before, and thus had no reason to believe that he'd have a problem with me.
"Ha ha ha!" he said, mocking my laughter with a sneer. He shoved me, saying, "You fucking faggot!"
"Whoa, Eric, what's the problem, man?" asked another student.
"I fucking hate that little fucking faggot," he said, as I made my way to the door. "Yeah, get the fuck out of here!" he said.
I didn't know why he hated me, but he was bigger than I was and I learned to avoid him. I didn't have any more encounters with him that year, except for an occasional shout of "Hey, faggot!" as I walked down the hall.
Our school was both a junior and a senior high school. For the most part, the two groups of students were segregated for the majority of the day. In 9th grade, we began to share hallways with the older kids. Some of the older kids, mostly racist burnouts who I referred to as the Nazi stoners, made a sport out of shoving each other into smaller students or knocking the books out of their hands. One day, I was the pin in one of their human bowling games, and ended up being slammed into Eric. He started shoving my violently as the Nazi stoners laughed.
"I was pushed!" I pleaded.
"I don't care!" he shouted in my face, shoving me again, much to the delight of my tormentors. I scurried away as quickly as I could.
That same year, I started getting into zines, small photocopied magazines produced mostly by individuals and traded through the mail. Many of the zines I was receiving had poetry in them, so my friends and I somehow ended up starting a short lived routine of 'Poetry Minute' in the locker room after gym class. We would stand on a bench, read a couple poems, and then move on to our next class. I never noticed Eric at Poetry Minute, but one day after Poetry Minute he noticed me, dialing in the combination to my locker with a stack of zines in my other hand.
"What you got there?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said, knowing he wasn't being friendly.
"Doesn't look like nothing," he said, and tried to grab my zines. I resisted, and he grabbed me by the throat. My friend Aaron pulled him away from, saying, "Leave him alone."
"Fucking faggot!" Eric said as he walked away.
Every Friday in gym class we swam. One Friday, I was one of the last people to finish getting dressed, but my friend Sean was slower still and standing at his locker. The only other person in the part of the locker room we were in was Eric, who was in the other gym class that occurred at the same time as ours.
"Come on, Sean," I said as I walked towards the exit to the pool area. "What's taking you so long? Are you shaving your legs or something?"
I don't know what possessed me to say that, but it was a subtle jab at Eric. Rumor had it that he shaved his legs, because they were always really smooth. More likely it was because, despite being really tall, he hadn't fully hit puberty.
I walked to the exit to the pool area, where everybody was congregated and waiting for the teacher to unlock the door. I started talking to one of my friends, and then was shoved hard from behind. I slammed into my friend, and we both went crashing into the soda machine and then down to the floor.
"What the fuck did you say?" Eric yelled in my face as I got up from the floor. He towered over me, and I stood there, half-naked and scared, completely unsure of what to do. Fortunately, a big kid named Jeremy grabbed Eric from behind and carried him, squirming, out of that part of the locker room. "I'm going to kill that fucking faggot!" he yelled on the way out.
My friend Rick decided to fight Eric when we were in 10th grade. I don't remember exactly what his motivation was, but I think Eric had stolen something from him. When I heard about his intentions, I was jubilant, and followed the crowd down the hall as Rick attempted to start a fight. The kids who walked with us hated Eric, too, which surprised me because I thought I was the only one that had had problems with the guy. Rick would periodically shove Eric as we walked, and Eric would turn around and look at him, and then continue walking. Rick wasn't a particularly big guy, but he was a wrestler, and not nearly as skinny as I was. Apparently Eric wasn't that tough when it came to people closer to his own size.
At some point a bald kid named Jamie said, "Man, I would never shave my legs!" Eric turned around and pushed Jamie. Jamie was unfazed, saying, "Get the fuck off me!" Eric continued on his way, and we followed him, with Rick still periodically shoving him.
A short guy name Jason gently nudged Eric with his shoulder, quietly saying, "Come on, Eric." This time, Eric stopped. He grabbed Jason and put him in a headlock, and then Rick started punching Eric in the face. Before I even had time to know what was going on, Eric was on the ground, and a couple of kids were kicking him. For some reason I was carrying a plastic banana on a plastic string that I had found in the gym, and I began swinging it at him. Eric got up, and the fight went crashing into a classroom, where a bewildered teacher gasped and stood in shock for a moment before breaking up the scuffle. I noticed an older student, one of the tough-guy Nazi stoners, holding Rick by his shirt collar and telling him if he ever jumped in on a fight again, he would beat his ass.
When I walked to lunch later that day, Eric and a bunch of his big, tough-guy friends were standing outside of the cafeteria. They puffed out their chests and snickered at my friends and I as we walked by, but they didn't do anything.
Almost everybody involved in the fight was suspended for a week, including at least one kid who they claimed had encouraged the fight, even though all I remember him doing was following the crowd and waiting for something to happen. The only person who was there but wasn't kicked out was myself, and I had been physically involved, though just barely. I wondered later why I had chosen to hit him with a plastic banana, which weighed less than a pound and which he almost definitely did not feel at all. Perhaps, despite my intense hatred of the kid, I was still reluctant to actually hurt somebody. Maybe the fact that he was outnumbered and on the ground made me momentarily pity him. I don't know.
I was able to avoid Eric for the rest of the year, and then again for the next. His distaste for me no doubt never subsided, and my contempt for him never went away. I once overheard him in 11th grade bragging about how he had "fuckin' stomped a fuckin' bird" to death before school, and showing his buddies the gore leftover on his shoes.
On the first day of our senior year, I was walking around the cafeteria with a friend of mine. He stopped briefly to talk to somebody who was sitting at the same table as Eric.
"Look at this fucking faggot!" Eric said when he noticed me. I was a huge Misfits fan at the time, and wore my hair in their trademark devilock style, with my bangs combed to a point in front of my face. Eric, ever the opportunist, began making fun of my hair, saying, "You think that's fucking cool or something? It looks like you have a wad of fucking chud hanging off of your fucking face!" I stood there with my friend and didn't say anything. Eric threw some food at me, and then we walked away. For the rest of the week, I daydreamed of breaking his face with a food tray. In retrospect, I probably should have assaulted somebody who fucked with me at some point during school. Even if I had ended up getting my ass kicked, in the long run I probably would have had to endure less of that sort of bullshit.
Apparently Eric had beaten up some kid during the summer before school started, and now he felt like a huge badass. Not that huge of a badass, though, because his new target was still a scrawny kid named me. He started messing with me regularly, calling me a faggot and a spick, tripping me in the hallway, and claiming he was going to come to "Spick Town" to beat my ass. The thing is, I'm half-Filipino and half-white, not Hispanic, and I never lived in the area he referred to as "Spick Town," which didn't even really have any Hispanic people living in it, anyway. Furthermore, he was friends with a couple Mexican kids, and his skin was darker than mine. I had always assumed he was mixed himself, despite his white supremacy and pasty siblings.
Taking a cue from The Kids in the Hall movie Brain Candy, my friend Pat and I had begun a campaign of shouting, " I'm gay!" at random people, both to befuddle them and to enrage the homophobes, of which there were many.
"Hey, I'm gay!" Pat shouted at Eric one day as he walked by.
"Hey, I'll kick you!" Eric told him.
"I'll kick you in the nuts!" said Pat.
Eric turned around. He got in Pat's face. More accurately, he put his chest in Pat's face, as Pat was a small, short kid, and Eric still towered over everybody. I stepped closer, indicating that I had Pat's back if things escalated to physical violence.
"I'll kick your fucking ass!" he said, "You and your fucking little spick friend here!"
"Paul's not even Mexican," Pat said, "He's Filipino, and he doesn't live in Sumava, either."
"Oh, he's a fucking spick, alright, and I'll come to fucking spick town and I'll fucking kill all you little fuckers!" His face was contorted in rage, and little beads of white spit were forming at the corners of his mouth. He looked so ridiculous, I couldn't help laughing a little. A few people were watching to see what would happen, among them my brother, a seventh grader only recently introduced to our friendly school.
"You wear that Insane Clown Posse shirt everyday," Pat said, "and they rap about killing racist people."
"Do you see me wearing it now, you little fucking faggot? I'll fucking kill all of you little faggots!"
My friend Jeff turned to me and asked, "Did he just call you a faggot?"
"I believe he did," I told him. What happened next surprised the hell out of me, because I didn't realize that we were close enough friends for him to stick up for me the way he did. He got in Eric's face.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, fucking with people like this?" he asked, inches from Eric. Jeff wasn't a particularly big guy, but he was bigger than either Pat or myself. Eric was still taller, though.
"I'll fucking take all of you!" Eric growled through clenched teeth, his body literally shaking with rage and anticipation.
Throughout the entire confrontation, I was ready for things to get violent. I wasn't sure of the outcome, but I knew that if it came to blows Eric would be facing at least three of us. Somehow, though, the situation diffused itself and we went on to our next class. Eric continued to call me a spick and make threats, and I feared being caught by him alone, as I probably would have been doomed.
He disappeared a couple months into the school year. I think he got sent to the "alternative school," though I was never really sure of the purpose of the place. Maybe it was for assholes who couldn't behave like civilized humans, or maybe it was for kids who couldn't do their homework. Either way, I was glad never to have to see that guy again.
"Ha ha ha!" he said, mocking my laughter with a sneer. He shoved me, saying, "You fucking faggot!"
"Whoa, Eric, what's the problem, man?" asked another student.
"I fucking hate that little fucking faggot," he said, as I made my way to the door. "Yeah, get the fuck out of here!" he said.
I didn't know why he hated me, but he was bigger than I was and I learned to avoid him. I didn't have any more encounters with him that year, except for an occasional shout of "Hey, faggot!" as I walked down the hall.
Our school was both a junior and a senior high school. For the most part, the two groups of students were segregated for the majority of the day. In 9th grade, we began to share hallways with the older kids. Some of the older kids, mostly racist burnouts who I referred to as the Nazi stoners, made a sport out of shoving each other into smaller students or knocking the books out of their hands. One day, I was the pin in one of their human bowling games, and ended up being slammed into Eric. He started shoving my violently as the Nazi stoners laughed.
"I was pushed!" I pleaded.
"I don't care!" he shouted in my face, shoving me again, much to the delight of my tormentors. I scurried away as quickly as I could.
That same year, I started getting into zines, small photocopied magazines produced mostly by individuals and traded through the mail. Many of the zines I was receiving had poetry in them, so my friends and I somehow ended up starting a short lived routine of 'Poetry Minute' in the locker room after gym class. We would stand on a bench, read a couple poems, and then move on to our next class. I never noticed Eric at Poetry Minute, but one day after Poetry Minute he noticed me, dialing in the combination to my locker with a stack of zines in my other hand.
"What you got there?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said, knowing he wasn't being friendly.
"Doesn't look like nothing," he said, and tried to grab my zines. I resisted, and he grabbed me by the throat. My friend Aaron pulled him away from, saying, "Leave him alone."
"Fucking faggot!" Eric said as he walked away.
Every Friday in gym class we swam. One Friday, I was one of the last people to finish getting dressed, but my friend Sean was slower still and standing at his locker. The only other person in the part of the locker room we were in was Eric, who was in the other gym class that occurred at the same time as ours.
"Come on, Sean," I said as I walked towards the exit to the pool area. "What's taking you so long? Are you shaving your legs or something?"
I don't know what possessed me to say that, but it was a subtle jab at Eric. Rumor had it that he shaved his legs, because they were always really smooth. More likely it was because, despite being really tall, he hadn't fully hit puberty.
I walked to the exit to the pool area, where everybody was congregated and waiting for the teacher to unlock the door. I started talking to one of my friends, and then was shoved hard from behind. I slammed into my friend, and we both went crashing into the soda machine and then down to the floor.
"What the fuck did you say?" Eric yelled in my face as I got up from the floor. He towered over me, and I stood there, half-naked and scared, completely unsure of what to do. Fortunately, a big kid named Jeremy grabbed Eric from behind and carried him, squirming, out of that part of the locker room. "I'm going to kill that fucking faggot!" he yelled on the way out.
My friend Rick decided to fight Eric when we were in 10th grade. I don't remember exactly what his motivation was, but I think Eric had stolen something from him. When I heard about his intentions, I was jubilant, and followed the crowd down the hall as Rick attempted to start a fight. The kids who walked with us hated Eric, too, which surprised me because I thought I was the only one that had had problems with the guy. Rick would periodically shove Eric as we walked, and Eric would turn around and look at him, and then continue walking. Rick wasn't a particularly big guy, but he was a wrestler, and not nearly as skinny as I was. Apparently Eric wasn't that tough when it came to people closer to his own size.
At some point a bald kid named Jamie said, "Man, I would never shave my legs!" Eric turned around and pushed Jamie. Jamie was unfazed, saying, "Get the fuck off me!" Eric continued on his way, and we followed him, with Rick still periodically shoving him.
A short guy name Jason gently nudged Eric with his shoulder, quietly saying, "Come on, Eric." This time, Eric stopped. He grabbed Jason and put him in a headlock, and then Rick started punching Eric in the face. Before I even had time to know what was going on, Eric was on the ground, and a couple of kids were kicking him. For some reason I was carrying a plastic banana on a plastic string that I had found in the gym, and I began swinging it at him. Eric got up, and the fight went crashing into a classroom, where a bewildered teacher gasped and stood in shock for a moment before breaking up the scuffle. I noticed an older student, one of the tough-guy Nazi stoners, holding Rick by his shirt collar and telling him if he ever jumped in on a fight again, he would beat his ass.
When I walked to lunch later that day, Eric and a bunch of his big, tough-guy friends were standing outside of the cafeteria. They puffed out their chests and snickered at my friends and I as we walked by, but they didn't do anything.
Almost everybody involved in the fight was suspended for a week, including at least one kid who they claimed had encouraged the fight, even though all I remember him doing was following the crowd and waiting for something to happen. The only person who was there but wasn't kicked out was myself, and I had been physically involved, though just barely. I wondered later why I had chosen to hit him with a plastic banana, which weighed less than a pound and which he almost definitely did not feel at all. Perhaps, despite my intense hatred of the kid, I was still reluctant to actually hurt somebody. Maybe the fact that he was outnumbered and on the ground made me momentarily pity him. I don't know.
I was able to avoid Eric for the rest of the year, and then again for the next. His distaste for me no doubt never subsided, and my contempt for him never went away. I once overheard him in 11th grade bragging about how he had "fuckin' stomped a fuckin' bird" to death before school, and showing his buddies the gore leftover on his shoes.
On the first day of our senior year, I was walking around the cafeteria with a friend of mine. He stopped briefly to talk to somebody who was sitting at the same table as Eric.
"Look at this fucking faggot!" Eric said when he noticed me. I was a huge Misfits fan at the time, and wore my hair in their trademark devilock style, with my bangs combed to a point in front of my face. Eric, ever the opportunist, began making fun of my hair, saying, "You think that's fucking cool or something? It looks like you have a wad of fucking chud hanging off of your fucking face!" I stood there with my friend and didn't say anything. Eric threw some food at me, and then we walked away. For the rest of the week, I daydreamed of breaking his face with a food tray. In retrospect, I probably should have assaulted somebody who fucked with me at some point during school. Even if I had ended up getting my ass kicked, in the long run I probably would have had to endure less of that sort of bullshit.
Apparently Eric had beaten up some kid during the summer before school started, and now he felt like a huge badass. Not that huge of a badass, though, because his new target was still a scrawny kid named me. He started messing with me regularly, calling me a faggot and a spick, tripping me in the hallway, and claiming he was going to come to "Spick Town" to beat my ass. The thing is, I'm half-Filipino and half-white, not Hispanic, and I never lived in the area he referred to as "Spick Town," which didn't even really have any Hispanic people living in it, anyway. Furthermore, he was friends with a couple Mexican kids, and his skin was darker than mine. I had always assumed he was mixed himself, despite his white supremacy and pasty siblings.
Taking a cue from The Kids in the Hall movie Brain Candy, my friend Pat and I had begun a campaign of shouting, " I'm gay!" at random people, both to befuddle them and to enrage the homophobes, of which there were many.
"Hey, I'm gay!" Pat shouted at Eric one day as he walked by.
"Hey, I'll kick you!" Eric told him.
"I'll kick you in the nuts!" said Pat.
Eric turned around. He got in Pat's face. More accurately, he put his chest in Pat's face, as Pat was a small, short kid, and Eric still towered over everybody. I stepped closer, indicating that I had Pat's back if things escalated to physical violence.
"I'll kick your fucking ass!" he said, "You and your fucking little spick friend here!"
"Paul's not even Mexican," Pat said, "He's Filipino, and he doesn't live in Sumava, either."
"Oh, he's a fucking spick, alright, and I'll come to fucking spick town and I'll fucking kill all you little fuckers!" His face was contorted in rage, and little beads of white spit were forming at the corners of his mouth. He looked so ridiculous, I couldn't help laughing a little. A few people were watching to see what would happen, among them my brother, a seventh grader only recently introduced to our friendly school.
"You wear that Insane Clown Posse shirt everyday," Pat said, "and they rap about killing racist people."
"Do you see me wearing it now, you little fucking faggot? I'll fucking kill all of you little faggots!"
My friend Jeff turned to me and asked, "Did he just call you a faggot?"
"I believe he did," I told him. What happened next surprised the hell out of me, because I didn't realize that we were close enough friends for him to stick up for me the way he did. He got in Eric's face.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, fucking with people like this?" he asked, inches from Eric. Jeff wasn't a particularly big guy, but he was bigger than either Pat or myself. Eric was still taller, though.
"I'll fucking take all of you!" Eric growled through clenched teeth, his body literally shaking with rage and anticipation.
Throughout the entire confrontation, I was ready for things to get violent. I wasn't sure of the outcome, but I knew that if it came to blows Eric would be facing at least three of us. Somehow, though, the situation diffused itself and we went on to our next class. Eric continued to call me a spick and make threats, and I feared being caught by him alone, as I probably would have been doomed.
He disappeared a couple months into the school year. I think he got sent to the "alternative school," though I was never really sure of the purpose of the place. Maybe it was for assholes who couldn't behave like civilized humans, or maybe it was for kids who couldn't do their homework. Either way, I was glad never to have to see that guy again.
16.8.06
Paul Jacobson tries to rip me off.
When I was 20, I did a short lived zine called undumb. It was filled mostly with the kind of stuff I write on this blog, except with more punk rock, and drawings to go with most of the stories. I only did two issues, the second of which made the MAXIMUMROCKNROLL top ten, which I thought was completely awesome even if my favorite songwriter ever didn't think so highly of the rag. Honestly, I never picked it up regularly, and I'm sure I would have been just as happy if I was mentioned on the third page of any magazine available at any decent bookstore.
I was lazy, so when I printed my zine, instead of just copying it myself, I'd drop it off at one of the closest office stores, which was still about half an hour away since I lived in the middle of nowhere. The first issue I dropped off and picked up with no problem, even though they didn't collate it like they were supposed to. The second issue I dropped off with no problem, but when I tried to pick it up, the asshole manager figured he could run a scam on me and steal some extra pocket money for himself.
I had been playing music with my friend Radical Ryan and a drummer who I had just met that day. When we got tired of playing, they came along with me to go pick up my zine.
When we went to the counter, the middle aged guy behind it ignored us for a minute before asking, "Can I help you?" I already had a feeling from his condescending tone and the looks he was giving us that he was going to be a douche. Radical Ryan was a pretty straight-laced looking dude, the drummer was wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off that said something about punk rock, and I was wearing the usual glue in the hair, rounding out my ensemble with punk band logo patches safety-pinned to my clothes. The guy behind the counter wore a button-up shirt with a collar and a tie underneath his work-issue vest. His name tag said PAUL JACOBSON - MANAGER - COPY DEPARTMENT.
"Yeah, I need to pick up some copies," I said.
"I see. What company is it for?" he asked with a smirk, as if I could only be a jobless hooligan not working for anybody. I was, but there was no reason for him to be a dick about it. I had dropped them off under my name, but the originals had been in a folder with a software company logo on it. I told him they were for that company.
Paul Jacobson looked under the counter and found my copies. He brought out a calculator and did some math, and then told me my total. It was fifteen dollars higher than it had been the last time, and fifteen dollars higher than the total they gave me when I had dropped the new issue off.
"That's not right," I said, and told him how much it should be.
"Hmm...Let me see..." he said, punching in the numbers again, "No, no, I was right."
"That's not the price I paid last time for the exact number of copies, and that's not the price I was given when I dropped these off."
"So, you won't be taking the copies, then?"
"No, I will be taking them, but I'm taking them at the correct price."
"I can't let you take them for less than the price I gave you. That's store policy," he told me. He punched the numbers into the calculator again, shook his head, and gave me the high price.
"That's not right at all," I said.
"Well, here, you take the calculator and try it. I have other things to do."
He turned his back on us, and I typed the numbers. Sure enough, the price I came up with $15 less than the one he gave me. On a whim, I calculated what it would have cost me if I had the zine printed on bigger paper. It was the price Paul Jacobson gave me.
"This guy is trying to rip me off," I said.
"Yeah," Radical Ryan said, "He's busted."
Paul Jacobson ignored us for a few minutes and then finally came back to where we were standing.
"Did you figure it out?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, "You've been trying to add it up as if I were using legal size, I'm using letter size paper."
"Oh," he said, barely trying to look surprised, "My mistake."
Even if Paul Jacobson wasn't a total condescending asshole to us the entire time, I'd still have an incredibly hard time buying the notion that the manager of the copy department would have made such a ridiculous mistake. He assumed that I was some dumb kid who wouldn't be able to know what he was up to, and he probably assumed I was going to pay in cash and that he would be able to pocket the money.
I was lazy, so when I printed my zine, instead of just copying it myself, I'd drop it off at one of the closest office stores, which was still about half an hour away since I lived in the middle of nowhere. The first issue I dropped off and picked up with no problem, even though they didn't collate it like they were supposed to. The second issue I dropped off with no problem, but when I tried to pick it up, the asshole manager figured he could run a scam on me and steal some extra pocket money for himself.
I had been playing music with my friend Radical Ryan and a drummer who I had just met that day. When we got tired of playing, they came along with me to go pick up my zine.
When we went to the counter, the middle aged guy behind it ignored us for a minute before asking, "Can I help you?" I already had a feeling from his condescending tone and the looks he was giving us that he was going to be a douche. Radical Ryan was a pretty straight-laced looking dude, the drummer was wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off that said something about punk rock, and I was wearing the usual glue in the hair, rounding out my ensemble with punk band logo patches safety-pinned to my clothes. The guy behind the counter wore a button-up shirt with a collar and a tie underneath his work-issue vest. His name tag said PAUL JACOBSON - MANAGER - COPY DEPARTMENT.
"Yeah, I need to pick up some copies," I said.
"I see. What company is it for?" he asked with a smirk, as if I could only be a jobless hooligan not working for anybody. I was, but there was no reason for him to be a dick about it. I had dropped them off under my name, but the originals had been in a folder with a software company logo on it. I told him they were for that company.
Paul Jacobson looked under the counter and found my copies. He brought out a calculator and did some math, and then told me my total. It was fifteen dollars higher than it had been the last time, and fifteen dollars higher than the total they gave me when I had dropped the new issue off.
"That's not right," I said, and told him how much it should be.
"Hmm...Let me see..." he said, punching in the numbers again, "No, no, I was right."
"That's not the price I paid last time for the exact number of copies, and that's not the price I was given when I dropped these off."
"So, you won't be taking the copies, then?"
"No, I will be taking them, but I'm taking them at the correct price."
"I can't let you take them for less than the price I gave you. That's store policy," he told me. He punched the numbers into the calculator again, shook his head, and gave me the high price.
"That's not right at all," I said.
"Well, here, you take the calculator and try it. I have other things to do."
He turned his back on us, and I typed the numbers. Sure enough, the price I came up with $15 less than the one he gave me. On a whim, I calculated what it would have cost me if I had the zine printed on bigger paper. It was the price Paul Jacobson gave me.
"This guy is trying to rip me off," I said.
"Yeah," Radical Ryan said, "He's busted."
Paul Jacobson ignored us for a few minutes and then finally came back to where we were standing.
"Did you figure it out?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, "You've been trying to add it up as if I were using legal size, I'm using letter size paper."
"Oh," he said, barely trying to look surprised, "My mistake."
Even if Paul Jacobson wasn't a total condescending asshole to us the entire time, I'd still have an incredibly hard time buying the notion that the manager of the copy department would have made such a ridiculous mistake. He assumed that I was some dumb kid who wouldn't be able to know what he was up to, and he probably assumed I was going to pay in cash and that he would be able to pocket the money.
13.7.06
Been caught stealing.
When I was 20, I picked up a young hitchhiker. He was only a couple years older than me, a college drop out, and an anarchist. He told me that in 1999, he had only spent $99, and he was incredibly proud of that. He had been on the road for a couple years, "mostly partying," but occasionally stopping to do activist work. The majority of his meals were shoplifted from grocery stores.
"It's all about being confident, man," he told me, "If you just walk in there like you're not doing anything wrong, and stick something in your pocket, nobody will know. I've never been caught. I've been doing this for years."
"Maybe I should try that."
"Yeah," he said, "It's a great way to say 'fuck you' to the system."
Encouraged by his words, I decided to give it a shot. I went to a grocery store, selected two fine avocados, and walked through the aisles with them. It took me a few minutes to gain the courage to stuff them in my pockets, and when I did, I could practically hear my heart thumping in my chest.
Be cool, I thought, be confident. Remember what the dude said.
I started walking out of the store, ears ringing from the high volume of blood being pumped through my body. I was sure somebody was going to stop me.
They didn't.
Shoplifting turned out to be an incredible thrill. After getting away with stealing avocados, I found myself stealing from grocery stores regularly. My friends and I would go into a store, swipe snack size bags of chip, box drinks, and other convenient items, and go have a picnic. Shoplifted food, even when not very good, was excellent because it was free. Soon, we began stealing other things. We didn't steal anything big or valuable, only silly little knick knacks and novelties. I liked to steal paperback books. I think the most expensive and large item I stole was a giant fighting robot model kit. My friends were sure I was going to get caught when I walked out of the toystore with it under my sweatshirt. The adrenaline rush from that heist was incredible.
We never felt bad about it because of the anarchist's smug rationalization: stealing from big chain stores is OK, because they are The Man, and they are always stealing from you and oppressing the working man. Filled with righteous (if not overly idealistic) indignation, my friends and I continued to steal stuff unabated for about a month after I picked up the hitchhiker.
And then I got busted.
I was on my way to visit a girl who lived a couple hours away from me. I was hungry, and had money, but knew there was free food at any grocery store. I picked a superstore in a chain that I had had luck with before.
I should have known they would be watching me. I was out in the middle of nowhere, and stuck out like a sore thumb. It was like being in the twilight zone, and every single person was whiter than myself and a little bit deformed. The first people I saw when I walked in were a pair of what I assume were brothers, because they shared one key feature. One was an incredibly obese man, the other was abnormally short and stumpy. Both had the exact same face.
I walked the aisles and picked up a can of pre-cooked macaroni and cheese with a pop-top lid, a pack of juice boxes, and a box of plastic silverware. The aisles of food were crowded, so I started perusing their other items. As I walked, I ripped open the silverware box and took out a fork, leaving the rest of the box in a pile of toys. I kept walking and removed one of the juice boxes from the pack, dropping the rest on a shelf. Going back to the toy section, I briefly considered stealing a yo-yo before I decided I didn't have enough time to work the package open. I stuffed the macaroni, juice box, and fork in my pockets and began to walk out.
As I headed for the door, I heard a numerical code announced on the intercom.
Fuck, I thought, I wonder if that's for me. Do they know? Should I put this stuff back?
I shook off my fear. They never know, I thought.
Seconds after I walked out of the store, I heard somebody behind me.
"Excuse me, sir, we need to talk to you about some merchandise that wasn't paid for."
Fuck.
I turned around and was escorted back inside by three large guys. They were very calm, and seemed to be making an effort to keep what was happening from being known to other customers.
"There's a hallway on the right," one of them told me as he walked a few feet behind me, "Go into the first door."
They took me into the security office and asked if I had any needles or anything. I told them I didn't, and they frisked me down, finding the stolen goods. They asked me if I had done anything like this before, and I told them that I hadn't. I told them I was a college student (which was true) and that I had a little money (which was true), but not enough that I wanted to spend it on food (also true). They ran a quick background check and found that I didn't have any kind of record.
"It's store policy that shoplifters will be charged ten times the cost of the stolen merchandise, but no less than $50 and no more than $250. The total cost of your items was $2.32, so we have to charge you the minimum, which is $50."
The guy explaining the situation to me didn't seem angry, and actually seemed kind of sad to be busting me for it.
"It's our option to call the police or not," he told me, "but given the understandability of the situation, we're not going to call them. However, if you get caught stealing in any of our stores again, it is our policy that the police will be called."
He wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
"If you have any problems coming up with the $50, you can call this number and they can help you work out a payment plan."
They let me go, and I sent them a check about a week later. I never stole anything again.
Around the same time, one of my friends was caught stealing a toothbrush from Wal-Mart. They prosecuted her to the fullest extent of the law.
"It's all about being confident, man," he told me, "If you just walk in there like you're not doing anything wrong, and stick something in your pocket, nobody will know. I've never been caught. I've been doing this for years."
"Maybe I should try that."
"Yeah," he said, "It's a great way to say 'fuck you' to the system."
Encouraged by his words, I decided to give it a shot. I went to a grocery store, selected two fine avocados, and walked through the aisles with them. It took me a few minutes to gain the courage to stuff them in my pockets, and when I did, I could practically hear my heart thumping in my chest.
Be cool, I thought, be confident. Remember what the dude said.
I started walking out of the store, ears ringing from the high volume of blood being pumped through my body. I was sure somebody was going to stop me.
They didn't.
Shoplifting turned out to be an incredible thrill. After getting away with stealing avocados, I found myself stealing from grocery stores regularly. My friends and I would go into a store, swipe snack size bags of chip, box drinks, and other convenient items, and go have a picnic. Shoplifted food, even when not very good, was excellent because it was free. Soon, we began stealing other things. We didn't steal anything big or valuable, only silly little knick knacks and novelties. I liked to steal paperback books. I think the most expensive and large item I stole was a giant fighting robot model kit. My friends were sure I was going to get caught when I walked out of the toystore with it under my sweatshirt. The adrenaline rush from that heist was incredible.
We never felt bad about it because of the anarchist's smug rationalization: stealing from big chain stores is OK, because they are The Man, and they are always stealing from you and oppressing the working man. Filled with righteous (if not overly idealistic) indignation, my friends and I continued to steal stuff unabated for about a month after I picked up the hitchhiker.
And then I got busted.
I was on my way to visit a girl who lived a couple hours away from me. I was hungry, and had money, but knew there was free food at any grocery store. I picked a superstore in a chain that I had had luck with before.
I should have known they would be watching me. I was out in the middle of nowhere, and stuck out like a sore thumb. It was like being in the twilight zone, and every single person was whiter than myself and a little bit deformed. The first people I saw when I walked in were a pair of what I assume were brothers, because they shared one key feature. One was an incredibly obese man, the other was abnormally short and stumpy. Both had the exact same face.
I walked the aisles and picked up a can of pre-cooked macaroni and cheese with a pop-top lid, a pack of juice boxes, and a box of plastic silverware. The aisles of food were crowded, so I started perusing their other items. As I walked, I ripped open the silverware box and took out a fork, leaving the rest of the box in a pile of toys. I kept walking and removed one of the juice boxes from the pack, dropping the rest on a shelf. Going back to the toy section, I briefly considered stealing a yo-yo before I decided I didn't have enough time to work the package open. I stuffed the macaroni, juice box, and fork in my pockets and began to walk out.
As I headed for the door, I heard a numerical code announced on the intercom.
Fuck, I thought, I wonder if that's for me. Do they know? Should I put this stuff back?
I shook off my fear. They never know, I thought.
Seconds after I walked out of the store, I heard somebody behind me.
"Excuse me, sir, we need to talk to you about some merchandise that wasn't paid for."
Fuck.
I turned around and was escorted back inside by three large guys. They were very calm, and seemed to be making an effort to keep what was happening from being known to other customers.
"There's a hallway on the right," one of them told me as he walked a few feet behind me, "Go into the first door."
They took me into the security office and asked if I had any needles or anything. I told them I didn't, and they frisked me down, finding the stolen goods. They asked me if I had done anything like this before, and I told them that I hadn't. I told them I was a college student (which was true) and that I had a little money (which was true), but not enough that I wanted to spend it on food (also true). They ran a quick background check and found that I didn't have any kind of record.
"It's store policy that shoplifters will be charged ten times the cost of the stolen merchandise, but no less than $50 and no more than $250. The total cost of your items was $2.32, so we have to charge you the minimum, which is $50."
The guy explaining the situation to me didn't seem angry, and actually seemed kind of sad to be busting me for it.
"It's our option to call the police or not," he told me, "but given the understandability of the situation, we're not going to call them. However, if you get caught stealing in any of our stores again, it is our policy that the police will be called."
He wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
"If you have any problems coming up with the $50, you can call this number and they can help you work out a payment plan."
They let me go, and I sent them a check about a week later. I never stole anything again.
Around the same time, one of my friends was caught stealing a toothbrush from Wal-Mart. They prosecuted her to the fullest extent of the law.
3.7.06
I got fired, so I have to work.
Megan was neither intelligent nor physically attractive. In fact, I had previously thought that she looked somewhat deformed; she lacked a proper chin and had the slightly droopy eyes of a burnout. She was racist in an ignorant but innocent country girl way, and had a boyfriend who was racist in a mean redneck way. Megan had no problem lying to him constantly as she fooled around behind his back with any guy willing to talk to her. I know I never would have started talking to her at all had I not been really drunk at a friend's party. She sat with me, completely sober, and listened to me ramble on for hours, and then wrote her phone number on my hand before she left. I probably never would have called her had I not just broken up with my girlfriend of almost three years, but some female company sounded nice.
For several weeks, we hung out all the time. She would get off work, go hump her boyfriend and clean up his apartment, and then come see me. I didn't feel guilty about anything I did, because her boyfriend was a Nazi. I was worried he might find out and kick my ass, but she assured me that he would never find out. Sweet girl. It didn't bother me too much that she would give her phone number to guys when she was out with me, or that she fooled around with nearly all of my friends, because she wasn't mine to begin with. I was happy to have a girl to make out with, and I thought she looked hot when she'd wear my jacket, covered in patches and spikes and safety pins. She was my fake punk girl.
"Do you want to go to a punk rock show?" I asked her one day, "The Queers are playing with Screeching Weasel in a couple weeks. It's going to be great."
"I don't know, I'm kind of scared. Do girls go to those things?"
"Yeah, lots of them. It's going to be a lot of fun. The Queers are the best."
"Alright," she said, "I'm in."
I had been having bad luck going to shows only to learn that they were sold out, so I bought tickets as soon as I could. I wasn't going to risk missing my chance at seeing The Queers and hanging out with Megan on the same day. It was going to be great.
The night before the show, I called her.
"Hey, you ready for that show tomorrow? It's gonna be so fucking great."
"Well," she said, hesitating, "I got fired yesterday, so I have to work."
I didn't care that I had bought her a ticket she wasn't going to use. I ended up selling it to some kid outside of the show when we got there. I did, however, care that she couldn't even be bothered to make up an excuse that made any sense at all. Fucking bitch!
I never spoke to her again.
For several weeks, we hung out all the time. She would get off work, go hump her boyfriend and clean up his apartment, and then come see me. I didn't feel guilty about anything I did, because her boyfriend was a Nazi. I was worried he might find out and kick my ass, but she assured me that he would never find out. Sweet girl. It didn't bother me too much that she would give her phone number to guys when she was out with me, or that she fooled around with nearly all of my friends, because she wasn't mine to begin with. I was happy to have a girl to make out with, and I thought she looked hot when she'd wear my jacket, covered in patches and spikes and safety pins. She was my fake punk girl.
"Do you want to go to a punk rock show?" I asked her one day, "The Queers are playing with Screeching Weasel in a couple weeks. It's going to be great."
"I don't know, I'm kind of scared. Do girls go to those things?"
"Yeah, lots of them. It's going to be a lot of fun. The Queers are the best."
"Alright," she said, "I'm in."
I had been having bad luck going to shows only to learn that they were sold out, so I bought tickets as soon as I could. I wasn't going to risk missing my chance at seeing The Queers and hanging out with Megan on the same day. It was going to be great.
The night before the show, I called her.
"Hey, you ready for that show tomorrow? It's gonna be so fucking great."
"Well," she said, hesitating, "I got fired yesterday, so I have to work."
I didn't care that I had bought her a ticket she wasn't going to use. I ended up selling it to some kid outside of the show when we got there. I did, however, care that she couldn't even be bothered to make up an excuse that made any sense at all. Fucking bitch!
I never spoke to her again.
29.6.06
The oblivious punk rock nerd.
It was senior year in high school I was decked out in full punk rock regalia: safety pins, obscure band t-shirts, spikey hair, and a fuck-you attitude. I was sitting alone at a table in the library when a girl walked in. She was a gorgeous black haired girl who I had always had a crush on since eighth grade, but could never bring myself to talk to. I was horribly awkward, and thought she was way out of my league.
There were plenty of places to sit, but she walked to my table and sat down next to me. I stared into my book, pretending I somehow didn't even notice her arrival.
A couple minutes passed, and she began to sing.
"Bam bam bambam, buh bam bam bambam, I wanna be sedated!" she sang. The Ramones. My heart fluttered. She was singing a song from the fucking godfathers of punk rock. Within seconds, I suddenly found her even more attractive than I had before.
She kept singing while I pondered what I should do. Should I join her? I know this song, I thought, I should just start singing, too.
I tried to make my voice work, but I was gripped with the kind of terror you feel in nightmares when you realize you can't even open your mouth to scream. She finished singing, and my mind raced thinking of things to say. Sitting next to me was a girl I had always been into, and I had a great excuse to talk to her. She liked the Ramones, I liked the Ramones. It seemed perfect. I just had to think of what to say.
I sat there until the bell rang, just thinking. I never said anything. I don't think I ever ended up talking to her.
There were plenty of places to sit, but she walked to my table and sat down next to me. I stared into my book, pretending I somehow didn't even notice her arrival.
A couple minutes passed, and she began to sing.
"Bam bam bambam, buh bam bam bambam, I wanna be sedated!" she sang. The Ramones. My heart fluttered. She was singing a song from the fucking godfathers of punk rock. Within seconds, I suddenly found her even more attractive than I had before.
She kept singing while I pondered what I should do. Should I join her? I know this song, I thought, I should just start singing, too.
I tried to make my voice work, but I was gripped with the kind of terror you feel in nightmares when you realize you can't even open your mouth to scream. She finished singing, and my mind raced thinking of things to say. Sitting next to me was a girl I had always been into, and I had a great excuse to talk to her. She liked the Ramones, I liked the Ramones. It seemed perfect. I just had to think of what to say.
I sat there until the bell rang, just thinking. I never said anything. I don't think I ever ended up talking to her.
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