Dryvetyme Onlyne

Part One can be found at my friend Jeff’s blog.

“Hey kid! What do you think you’re doing here?” exclaimed the sweaty fry cook.

He shuffled quickly out of the kitchen, thrusting open the swinging door that led to the seating area. His stubby legs stopped their movement right in front of the most recent addition to his restaurant. Wiping his greasy hands onto his perpetually stained apron, he peered upwards at the perceived intruder.

“We don’t serve your kind in this restaurant!” he screeched in a high-pitched voice. “This is a family establishment. The last thing that I want is for some snot-nosed punk kid coming in here and scaring away my customers with his bedraggled looks. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

The beleaguered youth, soon to leave his teenaged years, tilted his gaze upwards. He had been staring at the hole in the knees of his blue jeans, only vaguely listening to the keening voice of the cook. He had been verbally assaulted in this manner before and, though it’d probably happen to him again and many times over, it had been awhile since his nerves had been rankled. Not much got under his skin these days; he’d grown tired of being pissed off at everyone and everything. He was finally figuring out that it didn’t do much good to be irritated at the state of things, yet not do anything about it. Attitude with inaction served no purpose.

Taking in the room about him with a slow turn of his head, he observed the following: the hostess sneering at him (as he ignored her cries when he entered the establishment), one of the waitresses regarding him with open curiosity (she’s obviously never seen such a slovenly boy before), a single male patron whose face displayed even more disdain than the proprietor’s, and a two small children gawking at him as their parents tried desperately to distract them away from his presence.

“Are you deaf?” bellowed a customer from the far wall. “He told you to get out of here, so why don’t you leave?!?”

A woman cried out from the other wall, “You’re stinking up the place! When was the last time you bathed? Do your parents know you’re out & about like that?”

And on and on it went, just a normal day in Abe’s life; albeit, this one was proving to be a bit sadder than most. Returning his wandering gaze to the now-sneering face of the cook, Abe smiled wearily, rose to his feet, waved half-heartedly at the diners, and ambled out the door. Normally, he would have flashed a cheeky smile and acted much more brashly upon his exit, but he didn’t feel like it today. Most people would find every way possible to raucously celebrate their 20th birthday, but if you hadn’t heard from your parents in nearly a year, your girlfriend just left you for some blonde-haired bass player in this cheesy jangle pop band from Atlanta, and, with her departure, you had no place to stay or mode of transportation, you’d be rather sad and depressed too.

So, here he was, April 21st, 1983, shuffling down the streets of some shiny suburb north of Philadelphia, PA, 20 years old, sad, and all alone. His parents had approved of his moving to Washington, DC to attend Georgetown University, but past that, they had chosen to remain silent in his life. They had crafted him into an intelligent, passionate guy who had received rave reviews from his teachers in High School with how he lived life (while catching the wrath of the administration for his outspoken opinions about Reagan during the 1980 Presidential election), yet there were times when he felt quite alone. He wasn’t sure if he was living with abandon or he was living abandoned – his name was so frustrating and so was its inherent, ever-present irony.

He has loved his parents’ detachment in High School (and what teenager wouldn’t), but there were times when he needed them, needed someone, needed something to give his life some structure. He thought he had found that for himself with his decision to move to the nation’s capitol, study government, figure out a way to impact some kind of change in the world around him. But instead, he spent his free time hanging out at punk dives in DC & New York City, talking a good game, learning how to play an average rhythm guitar, and generally grousing with his friends and acquaintances about how messed up the world was and that they should do something about it. But they never did – they were content to be vaguely militant, speak empty counter-cultural rhetoric, and pick on the same status quo target that’s always existed: “The Man.”

And with very little warning (was there really ever any?), his daydreaming reverie was broken by the sudden appearance of a rock against the side of his head. Knocked to the ground by the force of the blow, he gathered his wits about him just enough to hear to hear someone toss his insults in his direction, words laden with venom.

“Hey! You! Skinny little punk fucker!” screamed a voice that seemed to emanate from a jock-looking figure in what appeared to be a ’78 Camaro. “Get the hell out of our town! Don’t you realize that no one looks like you around here? Get back to wherever you came from and crawl back under your rock!”

And with that, the car’s tires spun wildly, spraying Abe with gravel, literally rubbing salt into his wounds. Abe pulled himself up enough to crawl over and find a seat on the curb. It’s funny – he never would have imagined himself to be part of such a seemingly contrived and clichéd scenario, but there he was, sitting in his jeans, black hi-top Chucks, and black t-shirt, contemplating just where to go & what to do next, all while nursing a growing knot on the back of his head. One part of his psyche wanted to jump up to curse loudly and derisively at his assailants, but another part of him countered with the thought that those guys wanted him to lash out at them so that they could turn the car around and launch another sortie in his direction. And in a town where he had no friends, he was in no place to defend himself. Abe had been down that road enough times in High School that he realized retaliation would only exacerbate the problem.

“Wait a minute!” cried yet another part of him. “Isn’t there some part of the punk ethos that demands that you’re supposed to fight back against those assholes? You’ve done nothing to them except walk down the streets of their town, injuring no one, bothering no one, and in general not doing anything to anyone? If your mere presence offends their suburban sensibilities, then so what? You’re not changing for them and you should let them know that! Stand up for yourself! Don’t be a wuss!”

The second voice from earlier calmly responds (the one that increasingly sounds like Abe’s Sociology professor, Dr. Rolfe), “But you see, that’s the problem – if you retaliate, then you’re only reinforcing the negative stereotypes we should be breaking down. Yes, you might find meaning and profound significance in being a part of the punk rock subculture, but in the end, you must find a healthier outlet for your distaste with the current make-up of society.”

“Shut the fuck up!” shrieks the other two voices. “Why don’t you take those big, fancy words and blow them out your ass? If we don’t stand up for ourselves, no one else is going to! Those assholes have no right to treat us the way they do, even if we choose to not buy into their look, style, money, or politics. This is our life and we’re going to do whatever the hell we want to do, popular society be damned!”

At that, Abe shook his head violently and stood up with a lurch. It seemed that rock had destroyed the wall that he’d erected to segregate the voices in his head – one speaks up in class, while the other voices make themselves heard amongst his friends when they’re sitting around listening to The Clash, Siouxie & The Banshees, The Sex Pistols, and whomever else they’d just seen play, all while indulging in some pot or whatever else had been brought to the gathering. And as much as he’d feared this meeting of his minds, Abe realized that it finally might be time to finally engage in the conflict he’d been quelling deep inside him; as unpleasant as this all could become, he was becoming increasingly weary of shushing himself. It was time.

Standing still just long enough to allow his mind to finally clear, Abe looked about and launched off in search of the bus station or perhaps someone willing to give him a lift back to DC. He needed to get back to his hole-in-the-wall apartment and finish his sophomore year; there would be someone there to help him sift through these thoughts. He certainly couldn’t do it on his own anymore…

UPDATE 05/23/2007!!
Part 3 can be found at my friend Erin’s blog.

UPDATE 05/25/2007!!
Part 4 can be found at my friend Penni’s blog.