Thursday, February 19, 2009

The time I broke my back. (Part 1 of who knows how many.)

OK. Let's give the broken back story a try. I hope it doesn't make me cry or break things in anger as I write it. I doubt it will, but you never know. Here goes:

It was May 2nd, 1993. It was a Sunday morning. We were in my hometown: the elitist, liberal, snooty, left-wing, ashamed to be Southern town of Davidson, North Carolina. (20 miles north of Charlotte.)

I remember hanging out in my driveway by the basketball goal with my friends Blank and Jason. (By the way, people who were assholes get their real names used in this writing. People who are cool, or even just questionable, get the courtesy of me changing their names. Jason's name is really Jason.) Jason was a little blond skater drug addict who was two years older than me. Last I heard, he alternates between being a Russian missionary and being a junkie. He never does both at once. It's been ten years since I've seen him. The last time I saw him was at my friends' shotgun wedding party at Ocean Isle and he was a junkie and not very nice to me. The time before that, he was a missionary and confessed to me that he always had hated me and that the bad haircut he accidentally gave me 6 years earlier was no accident. He apologized and I accepted. That haircut was so bad that I once had to throw a can of Pepsi at Darryl Lameo's head for picking on me about it. (Darryl Lameo is his real name. And Darryl Lameo got smacked in the forehead by a twelve ounce metal fastball for trying to ridicule me after school before I got my hair fixed.) I'm still waiting for Darryl to come back "with all his black friends" to kick my ass like he said he would. That's so racist to assume that the few black people you know are just a bunch of violent animals waiting to be asked to start a fight. If you think like that, then you're not their friend. And I've never seen a group of black guys actually show up and fight on behalf of some wigger from the suburbs.

Now on to the other guy in my driveway. I'm calling him Blank. Blank is still my friend today. Blank is also a revolving junkie. I saw him at a Cure concert last year. He's clean and enrolling at Cornell as a 31 year old Ivy League Freshman. I don't keep up with him, but he's forever my pal. He alternated for many years between going to rehab and working as a shock therapist at a mental institution in the mountains of North Carolina. He also once had a job as the cum-cleaner at a porno shop in Charlotte. He would put on two pairs of gloves and clean up the mess the men left after jacking off in private boothes at the store. Blank also once almost got arrested for an obscure charge of drunkenly directing traffic on a busy highway for no reason. Blank and his brother "Nuthin" once almost got arrested for driving construction equipment that they found left on the side of a highway. (Little known secret: the men often leave the key in the ignition at the end of the night, so the next guy that shows up for work in the morning can drive it, too.) Blank and Nuthin were the sons of a concretee man - they knew this. Blank also once did a testimonial on the news from rehab about how he was addicted to everything. Then hours later, he was arrested for breaking out of that same rehab and buying lighter fluid and huffing the shit out of it behind the gas station. I could go on about those brothers, Blank and Nuthin, but we're eventually going to get to the story about me breaking my back. So let's get back to who was in the driveway.

Oh, I forgot, my best friend B.S. was also in the driveway with Blank and Jason. (B.S. is not quite his real name, but it is his real game. I love that criminal so much that I even took a trip to Ohio four years ago to help him and his family as his father slowly died in the hospice bed in the living room from brain cancer. (Let's just say, when a dad tells his son that his only dying wish is for his son to fuck the smoking hot black hospice nurse on his behalf, because he "never got to bang a hot black chick himself," the son complies and fucks her upstairs while dad slowly erodes downstairs in the bed. And then the son tells him all about it. You think I'm kidding. I don't joke about shit like that.) I can even overlook that in the last five years, B.S has banged both my big sister and my little sister. You know why? Because when I said something to him about hit, he said, "Well, if you want to get me back, you can fuck my sister if you want. But I doubt you'll want to... she's ugly as hell!"

She WAS ugly as hell. And B.S was funny as hell. And I'm sure my sisters enjoyed fucking him anyway, so what the hell can I do about it. Not fuck his sister, that's for sure.

So anyway, these three guys in my driveway were from Mooresville: The center of the NASCAR world. It was a much nicer town than Davidson, even if it was (then) sort of a hick town. I like hicks. A lot of them are the most tolerant, generous people on Earth. They just don't give a fuck if everyone knows it or not. However, my three friends weren't hicks. They were all three Midwestern transplants from blue collar families. Maybe that's how I got to be friends with them: because I too was the new guy in Mooresville since my parents decided to transfer me to Mooresville High School (away from the crappy Charlotte-run school system) just a year before.

All four of us in the driveway should've been hungover from drinking and greening the night before out at the lake at the YMCA, but we weren't. You know why? Because we were fucking teenagers! Teenagers don't get hangovers. The bastards. I wish I was one.

Anyway, these guys in my driveway were waiting on B.S.'s dad (he was alive then) to pick them up and take them to a Renaissance Festival. The asked me to come with them, but I told them I had already agreed to go play volleyball with three of my friends from my old high school (2 were girls. 1 was gorgeous. The other was my other best pal, Holden.) So while my three Mooresville guys waited on their ride, I waited on mine.

The End of Part One

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