I. The Magnet School
That fall I was going to begin middle school, the prospect of which made me nervous as hell. I entertained the hope that maybe middle school would be like the innocuously puritan Saved by the Bell, a show I found myself enjoying despite every instinct telling me not to. I fantasized that nerds, jocks, and cheerleaders all lived in harmony under the gentle, but firm, rule of a Zack Morris-like popular guy. Who knows, if I played my cards right, maybe I could be that popular guy. The idea of going to a new school especially appealed to me because it would give me a chance to start fresh, and go forth in my plan to be adored for my sense of humor, rather than feared for my volatile temper.
Due to high test scores, and a high grade point average, I had been accepted into a school for the gifted, named the J. Graham Brown School, located in downtown Louisville. My mom called it a “Magnet School”, which confused me, although the notion of going to a school entirely devoted to the study of magnets to be an irresistibly fascinating prospect. Finally, I would be in a position to answer the question that has plagued mankind since the dawn of history: “Fucking magnets – how do they work?” The fact that I seriously entertained the notion that there existed a school which exclusively taught the physics of magnets should have been enough to automatically disqualify me from the school altogether.
I’d later find out that a Magnet school was actually a school of higher learning for gifted and talented students. My mom was deeply proud that I was accepted, and the two of us drove to downtown Louisville to take a tour. First of all, the place was much larger than any school I had yet been too. We had to be let in a large gate, putting me in the mind of Jurassic Park.
As we approached the front door, my mom and I spotted a group of older students huddled in a corner, smoking an honest-to-god joint with total impunity. I didn’t realize they were smoking pot, as I had never been exposed to it beyond the occasional D.A.R.E. lecture in fifth grade – it should be noted, too, that my successful completion of the D.A.R.E. program earned me the first and only trophy I ever got in my entire life. Sadly, I had the trophy prominently displayed in my bedroom in the mistaken belief that it meant something.
Mind you, I’m not implying that this particular Magnet school encouraged, or condoned, such drug use, just that, apparently, a select group of students did. They watched us approach with casual, but benign indifference, passing the joint from right-to-left, as is the internationally accepted pot smoker etiquette and one of them even gave us a friendly nod in greeting.
I waved back enthusiastically, but my mom, all too aware of what they were smoking, hurriedly ushered me into the front doors, before I could ask what that funny smell was. The school was massive inside. It was empty for the most part, although there were a few students there participating in summer school. However, unlike in the public school system I was used to, summer school in a place like this was not reserved for the dumb kids, but for the ultra smart kids that just cannot survive three months of being deprived of education. “The school was designed to foster an insatiable desire for knowledge,” our tour guide stated, as she explained the students’ presence there, when by all rights, they ought to be enjoying the summer like normal kids. My parents tried to make me go to vacation Bible school one summer, and I spent every day making it a living Hell for the hapless instructors there (some of which were my cousins), because I resented having a summer that could have been spent playing with my brand new Super Nintendo, totally wasted in favor of being forced to sit in a circle and sing “Kumbaya” with a bunch of kids I didn’t know (or like).
This magnet school kind of gave me a strange “vacation Bible camp” vibe. All of these kids seemed to genuinely prefer being here, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. With swimming pools, ice cream trucks, Super Soakers, water balloon fights, pizza party nights spent watching The Goonies, camp outs, and a variety of other activities at one’s disposal during summer vacation, why would one enjoy going to class? The only thing that freaked me out more was how friendly they all were. The class rooms were smooshed together in a large atrium, separated only by dividers like those found in an office, making it look more like Comic Con than school. Our guide would interrupt each class or “module” as they were called, to introduce me, and everyone would turn around to greet me with such sincerity, I couldn’t help but feel a little freaked out. The normal reaction to a new kid that I was used to was suspicion bordered with barely disguised contempt. I honestly didn’t know how to mentally digest this “open armed welcome” approach, and it strangely made me more nervous.
The school was designed so that a student could choose whatever class he wants to attend that day. So, if one weren’t in the mood for Algebra, one could opt to take Reading that day instead. The idea was that the children could focus on their interest of study, which would better prepare them for college. However, that didn’t mean one could totally neglect all other subjects – every student was still responsible for making satisfactory grades in all the required, er, “modules”, or one would face academic probation, and/or possible expulsion from the school. It came down to this: don’t go to Algebra if you don’t want to, but you better know how to pass the tests, or you were shit out of luck.
I wasn’t very comfortable with this concept either. I was used to having my schedule made for me, and strictly adhering out of sheer fear for what would happen if I didn’t. If I didn’t like a class, too bad, I had to endure it for 45-minutes before I went to something more fun like Art or Computer Lab. As restrictive as it was, I kind of found it comforting to have someone else lay out my life for me. It’s an unfortunate personality trait that persists well into my adult life. “So, if I want to spend all day in the library reading books, I can?” I asked, my gaze wandering to glass enclosed library that was two whole stories. I had never been in a school with a second story before, and it made me feel a bit like I was at Wayside School. If I had total access to that library, there would be no way I’d ever go to my classes.
The guide nodded. “Absolutely, however, like I said before, you would still be responsible for completing the required classes.” She went on to explain that, even if I never set foot in one of my classes, the teachers would still assign me homework in absentia, and I’d still be responsible for turning it in at a timely manner. The next part of the tour was the cafeteria, which was even larger than the main atrium. The tables and chairs were all put away for the summer, but the guide explained the selections that were normally offered.
“Selections?” I asked, completely unfamiliar with the used of this word as applied to school food. I was more used to lunch being square pizza, inconceivably paired with corn niblets as a side item, and, as my dad was fond of saying, “if you don’t like it, lump it”. I’ve never understood what that means exactly.
The guide gave a friendly shrug and explained, “Yes, we offer a wide array of healthy food for our students, from regular American cuisine, to Italian, Mexican, and every other Thursday we offer fresh sushi.” My mom and I exchanged shocked, but impressed, expressions. In fact, my mom seemed more excited by this school than I was, almost as if she was considering applying there herself.
“When are the lunches, usually?” My mom asked.
“Whenever he wants,” the guide answered. “We let our students eat as often as they feel. You can’t learn on an empty stomach.”
Unbeknownst to me, my eyes were welling up with tears of joy, and I had to ask to be excused to the bathroom.
***
“I don’t want to go to that school,” I stated flatly, on the way home.
My mom nearly swerved the car into a barricade. “What? Why on Earth not?”
I looked morosely out of the passenger side window at the downtown Louisville skyline. “I don’t know. It’s too weird. No classes? Sushi?” I sighed. I was also nervous about going to a school downtown, for fear of being caught in the crossfire of a shoot-out. As a kid, I had the impression that gun fights occurred downtown, in any given city, on an almost daily basis. We can thank Hollywood action movies for that. This perception of urban life was reinforced by other kids, when they’d tell stories about how so-and-so’s best friend’s uncle got killed in a stray bullet during one of these fictional firefights. Frankly, I was shocked and amazed my mom and I had made it through the whole day unscathed, without getting involved in a Die Hard like hostage situation.
The truth was I wasn’t so much afraid of gun violence as I was simply intimidated by the scope of the school. It was such a radical departure from what I was used to, that I was afraid there would be some kind of sinister catch. Sure, those kids were friendly to me on that day, but how long before they’d turn on me, surround me in a circle, and call me “Fag!” while ripping at my clothing? How long would be until I ran out of the school, crying to my mom, with a fresh new traumatic memory to keep me up at night?
“That’s alright, Craig,” my mom said, comforting me. “I was kind of freaked out by that school too. Besides, there’s no way we could afford to pay for it, and drive you downtown every day. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to be downtown much anyway – too many shootings. ”
***
I eventually decided to attend a school called Carrithers, which was much closer to home, and even though it wasn’t a Magnet School, it was still fairly impressive. For reasons I can’t quite explain, the name of the school really appealed to me. When we had first moved up to Louisville, and my parents were deciding what elementary school to send me, I insisted on Goldsmith Elementary, simply because I loved the name. It was bright and seemed full of promise. I didn’t like the name of the Magnet school, Brown, at all – brown was the color of shit. Brown was the color of the creek I fell into, a couple years prior, when I got lost chasing a dog through the woods behind my grandparents’ apartment. Brown was a dull, drag, miserable color, and I hated it. You can imagine how relieved I was when I found out the preferred nomenclature for African Americans was “black people”, as opposed to what I used to call them, which was “brown people”. Black was a color I could get behind (and it would become my main color preference in my wardrobe later in my preteens).
Now, Carrithers – that had a ring to it. There was something oddly reptilian about the name, and I would imagine a snake hissing the name: Carrithersssss! I didn’t have a problem with snakes; in fact, I rather liked them. Plus, for some reason, the name sounded impressive for when people asked what school I was going to. I was feeling mighty good about Carrithers, as opposed to the utter trepidation I felt regarding Brown.
My mom and I went to orientation, where I got to meet some of the students who would be in my class. We eyed each other warily, with the mutual concern of whether or not the person we were looking at would be a friend… or an enemy. Now, this was the kind of atmosphere I was used to in school. There was only one other person from Goldsmith attending my school, and thankfully, he was somebody I actually liked. His name as Erik – he was a lanky kid, with long, curly blond hair, and a goofy demeanor that perfectly matched his goofy, class clown personality. I considered him the funniest kid in my elementary school, and it looked as if he was going to be the funniest kid in middle school as well. Erik’s hyper, energetic style of comedy kind of reminded me of Jim Carrey, which is just as well since he was a huge Jim Carrey fan. Erik was who I aspired to be: a reasonably well-liked goofball that had the gift to make everyone like him because his sense of humor. His presence at the school was a good omen to me. I decided that I would watch and learn from Erik the best that I could.
I also ended up making quick friends at the orientation with a kid named Daryl. He was a pretty rotund guy, but he carried himself with the undeniable assurance that, if one ventured to make fun of him because of his weight, they would instantly regret it. At once, I recognized him as a potential “enforcer” – a big guy to fight my battles for me, rather than risk my own neck. Sure, I swore off violence forever, but I wasn’t so stupid as to think I could avoid situations where violence would be necessary. Now I’d have a sizeable bodyguard, of sorts, at my disposal. We bonded over are mutual adoration of Beavis and Butt-head t-shirt. All through the orientation, we traded our favorite Beavis and Butt-head moments, with Erik, also a fan, occasionally piping in as well. What I loved about the show, and the overall comedic archetype of obnoxious, terminally stupid main characters, was that Beavis and Butt-head, for all their flaws, didn’t seem to give a shit about what people thought of them. Characters like Beavis and Butt-head, or Harry and Lloyd from Dumb and Dumber, or The Three Stooges, seemed to breeze through life with nary a concern for décor or societal taboos, and were all but oblivious to what people thought of them. There’s a reason why the expression “blissfully ignorant” exists – because there is a charm to the innocence that ignorance offers.
Of course, as a 12-year-old, I just liked Beavis and Butt-head because they regularly talked about hilarious things like boobs, butts, and “spanking the monkey” (an activity I was well acquainted with by that point).
The school itself was very well funded, and even though it wasn’t as fancy as Brown, it was still leagues above what I was used to. It had a huge atrium that also doubled as the cafeteria, sunken into the ground like an amphitheater. Speaking of cafeteria, I was elated to hear that, along with the normal school lunch, Carrithers also offered a variety of fast food products, including Burger King, Taco Bell, and Pizza Hut. During my time at that school, I became very fond of the Chili Cheese Burrito. It blew my mind to eat normal food at school, instead of whatever the hell most schools substituted as food. Of course, it’s funny to think of fast food as the preferable alternative to anything, but it just goes to show how shitty school food generally was.
Other than the outstanding food choices, I was also impressed with the computer lab, which was outfitted with the most sophisticated computer technology of that era… which, for the early 90s, consisted of IBMs that only accepted floppy disks the size of a personal pan pizza. The school had an indescribably comfortable atmosphere. Whereas Brown had seemed like a pair of nice shoes that were much too big for my feet, Carrithers felt like the new pair of Reebok Pumps my parents had recently bought me after much begging on my part.
Reebok Pump Commercial 90's by forshowsquad
During orientation, I also spotted a girl who sent a shock through my entire system. Her name was Crystal. She had a very petite build, strawberry blond hair, almond colored eyes, tanned skin, and braces that, I thought, gave her face a rather horse-like quality, but otherwise, she was absolutely beautiful. I didn’t get a chance to meet her then, but I promised myself that I would meet her during the school year.
I left the orientation with confidence that I had found the perfect school for me.
II. Mortal Kombat!
The first couple of months at my new school were great, but not without complications. It took awhile for me to acclimate myself to the general vibe of middle school. I wasn’t used to all of this walking around to different class rooms every period. Most, if not all, of my classes in elementary school took place in my homeroom, and always with the same bunch of people. Now I had to find my way to certain classes by a certain time, and all of them with a variety of people from my grade. Nevertheless, much to my surprise, I found myself getting used to this new system very easily, and found it much more stimulating than sitting in the same old classroom, with the same teacher, day in and day out.
I got along with most of my peers really well, and quickly found that my shiny, new “friendly and funny” persona attracted more of the right attention. I still wasn’t half as funny as my buddy Erik, who’s comedic timing came so naturally it was almost maddening, but I managed to elicit chuckles, especially when I’d reenact something I saw on The Simpsons or Ren & Stimpy (a show that I adored, and still do). I’d compare my developing sense of humor with how an artist learns to draw, first, by tracing, and then slowly progresses into creating his own artistic style. It drives me nuts, but very often, women will think that a guy is really funny, when in fact his sense of humor is stunted to the point that he can only regurgitate funny things that he has seen or heard, but not really come up with anything funny on his own. That was the level of “funniness” I was in 6th grade, but through my “tracing”, I was beginning to comprehend why certain things were funny, delivery, and timing.
My plan to take advantage of my new surroundings to reinvent myself was working, and I was slowly, but steadily, transforming from the shy, withdrawn introvert, to an outgoing, merry prankster. Gone were the days of violent fistfights over frivolous matters, and attaining respect through fear. I was feeling pretty good about it – like I was finally going in the right direction.
I made friends with a kid named Travis, who was even more into professional wrestling than I was. His bedroom was festooned top-to-bottom with pictures of his favorite wrestlers, and he knew every facet of their careers. It was a level of fandom that I had never quite encountered before. I had my own interests, but I had never considered myself obsessive about them, not even video games (no, that was an addiction – there’s a difference). Travis was the first person I had ever met who I could say was absolutely obsessed with something. Nevertheless, it was he who made me aware that a second Mortal Kombat game was in existence, and that it was ten times better than the first. I had played the shit out of the first game after I discovered, quite by accident, that you could murder your opponent with wildly insane finishing moves. Okay, well, my brother discovered this, and showed it to me. I remember standing in front of the TV, my mouth agape, as the ninja character, Scorpion, ripped off his mask to reveal a skull, and then proceeded to shoot fire out of his mouth at Sonya Blade until she was a smoky skeleton. This was my first encounter with video game violence – and it rocked.
Well, technically, my first encounter with a violent fighting game was Street Fighter II, at a bowling alley my parents played at every Wednesday night. I looked forward to these nights with almost manic enthusiasm, as I absolutely loved to hang out at the arcade there. I would watch older kids play Street Fighter II, and try to learn from them how to play, but I was hopeless. I couldn’t understand “special moves”, and the game was much too difficult for me, especially since, at any point, someone could pop in a quarter, effortlessly whoop my ass, and knock me off the machine. However, down the street from our house in J-town was a corner store called Yager’s, and in the back of the store, in their restaurant area, they had three or four arcade machines… one of them being none other than Street Fighter II. The place was almost always completely devoid of people, so I could play the game by myself. Pretty soon, I got to be so good that I began to gain a certain measure of notoriety at the bowling alley for my Street Fighter skills.
So, I was not only popular at school, I was popular outside of school as well – this was an unprecedented state of affairs. I was no Zack Morris, though – I was still on the fringe, compared to the more athletic, good-looking guys. Nevertheless, I had an honest-to-god posse, and we all met up at the same lunch table every day, like King Arthur’s Knights. I felt good, but more importantly, I was feeling more confident than I ever had my entire life.
Then I got into a fight – a fight that started at the end of one class, and continued at the beginning of another. It was with a guy named Jeremy, who was a metal head kid that wore a Metallica shirt every day. Honest-to-god, a Metallica shirt EVERY DAY! He even had a blond quiff, which rounded out his similarities to the character Beavis from Beavis and Butt-head.
For whatever reason, I seemed to rub Jeremy the wrong way. He relentlessly mocked nearly everything I said in every class we had together with such feverish commitment, I thought maybe I had horribly wronged him in the past, as if I were the key witness that sent his parents to prison. Now that I think about it, though, I think I might have said something smart ass about Metallica, in an ill-conceived attempt at “original humor”, which not only fell flat, but earned me this guy’s ire for life! Ugh, like swimming out to the deep end of a pool when I wasn’t prepared, any time I ventured to be funny on my own merit, it usually ended poorly. I remember an incident at that time when I made the enlightened observation that “chess is for fags”. I don’t even know why I said it. I only hated chess because I couldn’t understand it, and had almost no conception of what a “fag” was, except that it was the atom bomb of insults in the world of young boys. My “joke” almost immediately prompted a bigger kid named Joey to grab me by the scruff of my shirt, and inform me that he enjoyed chess, so I should reconsider my position on the matter. It didn’t take many gaffs like that to teach me that not all of what I consider to be brilliantly hilarious thoughts need take form in reality as spoken or written words.
Too bad Facebook and Twitter has all but destroyed that particular discipline.
Anyway, so this kid Jeremy had it out for me. I tried to ignore him, out of the desire to stick to my resolution to never inflict violence on someone again, but he was really beginning to get under my skin. It was only after a couple of his insults hit home at the end of algebra, and actually elicited laughter from my classmates, that I finally lost my shit. I dropped my books, and, shamelessly using Darkwing Duck’s catchphrase, I growled: “Let’s get dangerous!” before I lunged at Jeremy like a lion on a wildebeest. Then we danced, Jeremy and I, knocking over desks, spilling people’s books onto the floor, before eventually ending up on the floor ourselves, the both of us in headlocks. I spotted Daryl out of the corner of my eye, and reached for him, as if in a tag-team wrestling match. I entreated him to help me.
“There no time!” he cried out, before running off to the next class. It was then I realized, in mounting panic as the fight began to turn to Jeremy’s favor, that, despite all of his bulk, my new “protector” was a huge pussy. My fellow students managed to pry us apart before punches were thrown, and cooled us down before a teacher discovered the fight and we got in trouble. We never broke eye contact, as we both gathered our books and walked out the door to the hall. I stopped by my locker, swapped out my Algebra supplies for my English books, walked to my class, spotted Jeremy on the other side of the room, sat my books on a nearby desk, then marched over to him to take our match into Round 2. This time I had taken him by surprised, and locked him into the Million Dollar Dream Sleeper-hold, the patented finishing move of the Million Dollar Man.
I used my brother as a willing, and sometimes not-so-willing, test subject to practice all of my favorite wrestler’s submission holds. I had found that the Million Dollar Dream hold was the easiest to apply, and the most inescapable. Sure, I would have preferred Brett Hart’s Sharpshooter, but as any backyard wrestler knows, that move is next to impossible to apply on anyone that isn’t a willing volunteer. I had Jeremy trapped, and no matter how wildly he struggled to get free, he was absolutely helpless. This time a teacher was present for the whole fracas, and, after separating us, sent us both to the principal’s office. We were both given detention for 2 days, starting that very day. There we sat, our backs facing each other, the both of us sketching pictures. I hadn’t realized Jeremy was an artist. Out of curiousity, I glimpsed over his shoulder to see him drawing a picture of Venom, one of Spider-man’s arch-villains. It was actually quite impressive, and I said as much. Jeremy pivoted, startled that someone was watching him, and even more alarmed that it was me of all people. The sincerity of my compliment made him calm down. “Oh, yeah, uh, thanks,” he said, somewhat modestly, obviously not used to anyone paying attention to his artistic abilities.
“Check out my drawing,” I said, showing him a picture of the California Raisins, a word bubble over one of them saying, “We are the California Talking Turds! We heard it from the pipeline!” Jeremy laughed, and agreed that the Raisins did, indeed, look like turds. We spent the rest of detention, trading drawings of our favorite superheroes, and making jokes about poop. Odd as it was, I had started the day in a fight, and ended the day having made a new friend. That I had managed to do this by a kind word and a joke was a fact that was not lost on me. The “old me” would have used my isolation with Jeremy in detention as an opportunity to put him in the Sharpshooter. However, the “new me” wasn’t without moments of cruelty…
III. The Offensive Corduroy Pants
“You were wearing the pants again,” I said to him in the boy’s locker room after P.E., while I thoughtfully paced back-and-forth like a James Bond villain, holding the pants in question in my hand. The boy was still in his P.E. attire. “Didn’t I tell you never to wear those pants again?”
The boy I was talking to, named Daniel, tried to wrest free of the grip my posse had him in, but to no avail. I’ll never forget how his eyes seemed full of pure defiance, and how it only goaded me more. I had begun a campaign of terror on Daniel all semester because he offended me in a way I couldn’t describe. His existence just irritated the hell out of me. I didn’t really get it at the time, but what annoyed me about him was he was an uncomfortable reminder of who I used to be. Have you ever met someone in your life you just hated for absolutely no reason? This person never did anything to provoke such feelings, but they do anyway, and I think it might be because we see a reflection of ourselves in their personality that disgusts us. The only people I meet today that fill me such hate are people like that… or people who are just plan assholes.
Daniel was a shy, clumsy, awkward lad, who wore hand-me-down Goodwill clothes, consisting of polyester shirts and corduroy pants, and used combinations of these clothes to dress in such a manner that it was borderline negligence on the part of his parents. In other words, this kid was me only 3 or 4 years ago, before the Boy Scouts. He was mostly very quiet, keeping to himself, and his pitiful attempts to join conversation were usually DOA (Dead on Arrival). My friends and I would be talking about wrestling, and he’d attempt to offer his inane, clearly uninformed, opinion from another lunch table, where he sat alone, only to get derisive snorts and eye rolls from us. Whereas most of the other kids in school ignored Daniel, I zeroed in on him instantly, projecting on him everything I hated about myself. It didn’t help that we shared the same first name.
So, whenever he would try to speak, either to us, or in class, I’d spike it right back to his face. I mocked him with little to no mercy any time he was in my field of vision. It became almost an obsession. It was almost like that game Whack-a-Mole; every time he’d try to rise up out of the hole, I’d pound him back in – but verbally, never physically. Unfortunately, as I was learning to use my sense of humor as a way to win new friends, I was also learning to use it as a weapon – and the right words, said in the right way, can be a devastating weapon indeed. One of the things I’d focus on was his corduroy pants, which were usually drab colors like brown or gray. For some reason, the pants were the lynchpin of everything that was wrong with Daniel in my eyes.
I regarded Daniel coldly for a moment and smirked. “You’ve left me with no other choice, you know that right?” I asked, before deftly tossing his pants up to the ceiling 12-feet above us, where they found purchase on a pipe. Daniel cursed at me in anger, and I pretended to be hurt. “Wow, such anger, maybe you ought to cool down a bit. Take him to the showers.” The posse dragged Daniel to the showers, where he was drenched head-to-toe in ice cold water, while I walked away whistling, content on a job well done. That day I earned myself at least 3 days of detention for that incident, and I had to apologize to Daniel, which I did through gritted teeth.
I continued picking on Daniel for the rest of the year. He would occasionally attempt to retaliate, even going so far as to pay my own friend, Daryl, to be his “bodyguard”. Daryl pretended to agree to this deal, if only to have the money for extra Chili Cheese Burritos at lunch, but in the end, turned out to be a crappy bodyguard, especially when I sent a large, black dude named Perez to confront Daniel after I kindly informed him that Daniel had called him a fag. He hadn’t, of course, but his protests were too muffled by the sound of Perez’s fists hitting his face.
In the span of mere months, I had gone from nobody to somebody immediately, so it’s hardly surprising that I was so drunk with power, but where did this cruelty come from? I gave it no thought, because it was just part of being a boy – you were either being stomped on, or the one doing the stomping. My treatment of Daniel was an abject lesson to myself, and everyone at school, that I did not intend to be the one getting stomped on anymore, and I didn’t even need to use my own fists to prove it. I had gone from being a violent monster to something much more dangerous – a ruthlessly cunning monster.
IV. Horse Face
Just as I had taken a new approach to my life, and was instantly rewarded with success, I had also decided to take a new approach with girls.
Now that my balls had finally dropped, I began seeing girls in an entirely new light. No longer were they entirely alien to me, although they still retained a little bit of that quality about them, and as we know, a little bit can go a LONG way. Even though I didn’t completely understand girls, what I did understand was that they had something I wanted – vaginas. Of course, being only 13-years-old at the time, I wouldn’t have known what to do with a vagina if my life depended on it. I just knew it was a valuable treasure that every boy wanted to claim, so that all the other boys would look at him with awe, and ask him, with reverence: “What was it like?” Of course, it wasn’t just for the sake of social status boys pursue sex, but the almost feverish sex drive that we all go through at that age too. Truth be told, I was much more interested in older women, because they had breasts, whereas girls my age at the time, meh, not so much. Nowadays, I can’t help but notice how radically that’s changed. I won’t lie – I’ve caught myself at church picnics, checking out what I thought, at first, to be a nubile, legal college freshman, only to realize, to my horror, that it’s a girl no more than thirteen. Yikes. I don’t know what hormones they’re putting in the chicken now to make that happen, but I sure wish the girls in my 6th grade class were eating it, because I didn’t find them all that enticing… except for Crystal.
I already described Crystal earlier, but I failed to mention that, along with her overall cute look, she was also one of the rare girls of my class to be developing boobs. It’s a strange feeling when you’re thirteen and you notice that a girl your age has cleavage, which is something you’d normally expect to see on a woman. It’s strange… but not altogether unpleasant. Suffice it to say, Crystal was doggedly pursued by most of the boys in my class. Love letters would practically be thrown at her like paper wads whenever she walked into a classroom. Although she seemed to appreciate the attention, she didn’t seem very interested in most of her would be suitors. I observed this fact, and decided that maybe a different tact might be appropriate.
You see, although girls made me nervous, I never found them intimidating like I do now. I think it’s because, back then, I didn’t feel like I had anything to lose; if a girl I liked didn’t feel the same way, it was no big deal, I moved on. I didn’t invest much emotion, time, mental energy, and certainly not money, like I do now. As bad as things blew up with Tricia, I never dwelled on her so much as the event itself and, bitterly, on my careless behavior which lead to it. Any nervousness I felt towards girls was strictly due to an inability to relate to them, not so much to a total lack of confidence… unfortunately, that would develop during my teen years.
So, my plan with Crystal was simple: I’d be a total bastard to her. She had all of these guys sucking up to her, and it didn’t seem to impress her, so my logic was that a guy being mean to her would be a total anomaly… and, therefore, more enticing. Oh, but I was clever at thirteen! I initiated my plan by first christening her with a new nickname: Horse. The name was due to my observation of how her braces gave her a bit of a horse face. At every opportunity, I’d call her by this nickname. One time I threw a piece of paper I had shaped into a ninja throwing star at the back of her head, and when she turned to glare at me, I whispered: “Hey Horse, can I copy off your test? Yay or naaaaaay?” She would scoff and turn back to her test, red-faced with indignation, as my friends guffawed into their arms.
I would often walk by her at lunch, giving her all of my carrots; saying that I had read somewhere such food was good for a horse’s eyesight. I was relentless. Then, every now and then, I’d do something uncharacteristically nice, like help her pick up her books when she dropped them, totally confounding her by the simple act of kindness. It only threw her off more when, during such altruistic acts, I’d say: “Here you go, Crystal”, instead of using the nickname “Horse”. Unlike all the other guys in school, I was an x-factor, an unknown quantity, and as much as she might have hated me, she probably couldn’t help but be curious by the “other side” of me I’d show her sometimes.
It all came together one day in English class, when we were assigned to work in a group together on a project. The assignment was to develop our own magazine and publish it. This was the most exciting school project I had ever participated in. At the time, I was an avid fan of Mad Magazine, buying every new issue with reverence to the comedy genius bound within its pages. There are still family videos where I can be heard off in the periphery reading something from Mad that I found particularly hilarious to my little brother. There, in that classroom, was my chance to create my own Mad Magazine. So enamored with this prospect was I, it barely registered to me that I also had a good opportunity to flirt with Crystal some more.
I immediately got everyone on board with the idea, and we set to work with ideas for our version of Mad, called… ugh… Crazy Magazine. Give me a break, I was in 6th grade. We laid out the magazine to be exactly like Mad in almost every respect. We had a movie parody of The Mighty Ducks called The Might Dorks (brilliant), a feature called “Good Idea/Bad Idea”, which we totally ripped off of Animaniacs, and our own version of Spy vs. Spy. Jeremy and I handled the illustrations, since we were the only two in our group to have any artistic skill whatsoever. Some other guy, whose name escapes me, contributed a couple of fake advertisements for ridiculous products, like an elaborate Rube Goldberg machine that had the sole purpose of making hotdogs. We were clearly on the cutting edge of comedy. Crystal, not being particularly funny (shocking), just laid out the magazine. Our magazine ended up being a hit when we presented it in class, passing out copies to everyone. Everyone loved the fun direction we took on this assignment, which was a stark contrast to the other magazines which were presented that mostly consisted of National Geographic or Time knock-offs. Our magazine was such a spectacular hit it was even passed around outside of class.
The time spent working together on a project that turned out to be such a success brought Crystal and I closer. I laid off my mean act while we worked, and openly complimented her layouts. The total about-face with my attitude towards her made Crystal blush despite herself. Things began to change with us, and we would began waving to each other every day before class started. One night, after school let out for the summer, while my family was out bowling, I even saw Crystal with her best friend. The both of them waved at me frantically, and Crystal’s best friend whispered something excitedly in her ear when I waved back. I noted with satisfaction that my plan was working – by 7th grade, I’d have my first real girlfriend, I was sure of it.
V. My Parents' Surprise
“Your father and I have something to talk to you boys about,” my mom informed us, while we lounged at the Days Inn indoor pool in Paducah, Kentucky. We often went to Paducah because my dad had business there, so he’d bring us all out, and turn it into an impromptu vacation. My brother and I enjoyed it, because it often meant we’d get to stay in the hotel room alone, to watch whatever Pay-Per-View movies we wanted, while my mom and dad went out to the nearby casino boat for the night. Also, whenever dad was in “vacation mode”, he became much more lenient with his restrictions as they applied to what we could or couldn’t order in restaurants, or how many sodas we drank in day. In fact, only when on vacations, did my dad ever seem to be in what we considered a “good mood”. Most of the time, he’d come home from work, too cranky and tired from work to do much beyond lounging on the couch to watch TV. When he wasn’t working, he was golfing. Should my mom try to get him to spend quality time with the family, either at home, or doing something like going to the zoo, he did so with undisguised contempt. There exists a family tape of our trip to the zoo, where all through it, my dad is rushing us along at madcap speed, presumably so he could make a tee time. “Hey, dad, look at the hippos!” One of us would say, to which he’d reply, “Yeah, that’s great, let’s keep moving, keep moving. Craig, don’t read the displays, we don’t have time! Just look at them and move, move, move!” Don’t even think about going to the gift shop – my dad claimed that we had to have tickets to go in there, and he failed to purchase them.
When dad was in “vacation mode” that all completely changed. Suddenly, he’d be more involved, taking us out to mini-golf, water parks, the whole nine yards. It was as if he was a father or something. We were on our annual trip to Paducah that summer, when my parents sat us down poolside to have what appeared to be a “serious talk”.
“Are… are you and dad getting divorced?” I asked.
“What? No!” my mom protested, shocked at the insinuation. “How would you boys feel about… moving?”
We looked at each other. We both found the possibility of moving to a house where we could have separate rooms again very appealing. Plus, I didn’t much care for the neighborhood we lived in. The only kid to play with was some Bible thumping snot named Gregory, and that all caved in after my brother got into a fight with him, and Gregory’s mom chased us off their property, calling us “servants of Satan” the whole way. We still had fond memories of the house, such as when, on Fourth of July, my entire family had to jump for shelter after a huge brick of Roman candles tipped over, and launched a barrage of fireworks at the house. Everyone managed to find shelter, except for Grandma Williams, who we had left sitting in a lawn chair. She just sat there, silhouetted against the flashing lights of the out-of-control Roman candle, as fireballs flew by her and, miraculously, never touched her. When it was all over, and we were sure she was okay, we all had a hardy laugh about it, and it continues to be a family story today.
I shrugged. “Sure, I guess that would be alright. What part of Louisville will be moving too? Will I still be able to go to Carrithers?”
Now it was mom and dad’s turn to look at each other. “Actually,” my mom began reluctantly, “we meant would you guys be alright with moving out of Louisville.”
This hit me like a scud missile. “What?” I cried out. “Why? Where would we move? Back to Bowling Green?”
“Your father and I want to move back to our hometown,” mom continued to explain. “You remember Russellville? Where your cousins Jeryn and Justin live?”
We had visited my cousins for the first time several months prior. I enjoyed myself, as it was especially refreshing to interact with male cousins instead of the female ones I was used to. I certainly didn’t enjoy myself so much that I wanted to uproot from my entire life in Louisville and move to a speck of a town in the ass end of southern Kentucky. I said as much to my parents, who went on to explain that they felt Louisville wasn’t the ideal city to raise young boys, or especially my baby sister, Lindsey. I found this to be ridiculous, as I was doing better than ever at my school, while my brother seemed well enough at his. Arguing was futile, as this wasn’t up to democratic vote like my parents led us to believe by asking how we felt on the matter – it was already a done deal. We would be moving to Russellville, lock, stock, and barrel, by mid-summer and, as my dad was fond of saying, I could like it or lump it.
In retrospect, my parents’ decision probably turned out for the best, as my life was most certainly going in a troubling direction. Sure, I was popular, on the verge of snagging the hottest girl in my class, but I was also becoming an egomaniacal dickhead. Then again, most kids 13-18 are egomaniacal little shits, but in my heart, I know it would only get worse the longer we lived in Louisville. I would also find out, a year after we moved, that a shoot out occurred at the very corner store my brother and I frequented to play Street Fighter II. So, had we stayed, there’s no guarantee that I would even be alive today.
However, as far as I knew at the time, it wouldn’t have mattered, because my life was over.
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