“Just take your compliment already.”
—Dr. Frank DeGraaf
It's all good. I mean, it's really fucking horrible but it will be all good.
This one goes out to Generation X, the wandering nomads who ask for no respect, get no credit and offer no blame. It's how we were raised.
In my life, I was lucky enough to have several groups of people that loved, cherished and protected my dumb ass. As we always said, “Strap yourself in. Here comes the sound barrier.”
Now, there is no way I could get to every person, place and thing that helped me be who I am so I'm telling two stories here. Both of these stories are sacred to my history. In the words of 311, “If you don't like it well… I hope you do.”
Junior and Gel Boy
When I was in high school, I hung out with some of the best people that ever regularly committed crimes. I was a lucky kid.
Anyway, one day a new dude entered our crew. His history was a little more diabolical than the history of some of the most tough-assed long-haired crazies we hung out with because he had served his country overseas and killed people. He showed up and no one, I mean no one, I mean people who had gone to jail for murder, would even think about assaulting him. He was a warrior poet. And we took an instant liking to each other. I helped him soothe and he helped me rage. His name is Aaron.
Another one of my friends, Sean, was and still is an elegant and beautiful partier. He was and still is half German and half Mexican.
One night (early morning, whatever), we were sitting in Sean's old hoopty (that's an old, big car for those not in the know) waiting for a particular procurer of something important to us at the time to get the hell up so we could have a good time. And out of nowhere, or maybe the most precious somewhere in the world, Aaron started laughing maniacally. I got scared. Sean got interested.
“What's so funny?” Sean asked Aaron.
“I cannot believe that I gave up my career as a military officer so I could come down to this shit hole, sit in this beat up used car and wait for crap product with Way Cool Jr. and the Half Mexican. What the fuck happened to me?”
“Life,” I said. “It does that.”
“I love you,” Aaron said.
I had known him about two days at the time.
That's Your Door
When I got to college, I met another one of my great friends with whom I got along instantly. His name was and still is Doug.
Back then, at The University of South Florida, few fraternities had houses so these poor, rich bastards had to live like us. Suckers.
Three doors down from our apartment lived three fraternity brothers and a girl we knew who went by V. One night (early morning, whatever) Doug and I came home from a night of drinking with his then-girlfriend Missi. We ordered a pizza and heard a scream.
Missi, barefoot and clad in a T-shirt and a pair of workout shorts, ran up to the door to handle it.
“Miss, sit down,” Doug said.
“That was Victoria screaming,” she said.
“Yeah, I know. What are you gonna do about it though? Call the cops.”
I ran upstairs and put on my steel-toed boots, a weapon I had found very useful in my youth.
Doug and I found V lying and bleeding on the concrete ground of the front stoop. We took her inside.
“Hey Nate,” Doug said. “I think we need to do something here. These guys beat up a woman.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “But let's hear them out first.”
Doug gave me a look that said, “You're shitting me, Nate?”
I gave him one back that said, “I've been here before.”
We nodded and moved on.
First I knocked on the door. There were THREE of them in there. But they didn't answer. Then I pounded on the door. No answer. Then I kicked the goddamn door in.
These rich bitches had an $11,000 motorcycle parked in their living room. I was aghast. The biggest of them ripped off his shirt (because we all know the best way to fight is to expose your skin to your enemy–dumbass).
He was white and rich and a woman beater and he said to me, “I know you didn't kick in my door n*****.”
Such behavior was so out of the sky blue to me that I didn't know what to say. I just stood there mouth agape and thought to myself “People like this actually exist?”
Anyway, Doug grew up wealthier than my family grew me up and he knew these kind of people.
“What the fuck are you talking about man?” he screamed. “That's your door. That's the man who kicked it in. And he ain't no fucking n*****. Now come outside and do something about it.”
“No man,” Fratboy said. “You come in.”
“Do I look fucking stupid to you?” Doug asked.
You see boys and girls, you don't want to fight on someone else's property. Because even if you win, you lose.
Anyway, shortly after the pizza arrived, the over-burdened police showed up and handled it. Nicest cop I ever met. (We shared a drink like ten years later.) He let me off for the door but he had to let Fratboy off for the fight because he and V weren't dating (the law is not the be-all end-all–it won't always protect you).
The next day, Fratboy and I had an exchange of words, in which he told me, “You don't know who you're messing with. I'm from Boca Raton!”
(Boca Raton is a wealthy retirement community.)
I lit a cigarette and stared, once again mouth agape, at this spoiled bitch.
“Yeah, now what you got? You don't know how we do it in Boca!”
I flicked my cigarette in his fucking eye.
“I'm from Saint Louis, bitch! Ever heard of it?”
This kind of ignited a war. Fortunately, they had body builders and we had felons. Real muscles beat show muscles every time.
And so some of the worst of us scared them off like cockroaches.
Now, I never hit any of them. Tim did. And Ron did. And Mike did. And my friends protected me. That's what it means to be pals. That's what it means to belong to a crew. It's usually good times. Until it ain't.
And when it ain't, well, to borrow from another old movie:
“It's like you said, Wyatt. We're brothers. And you gotta back your brother's play.”
So thanks to all of my friends: from grade school to shooting pool to the classroom to the back room. Not only did I need you to do it with me, I needed you to keep me alive.
And you did.
And for that and so much more, I love you Generation X.