Growing up an only child and a military brat who moved every few years will either make you gregarious and comfortable in any crowd or it will turn you into a loner. I fall into the latter category. Being the perennial new kid, I always felt like the outsider. In fact, it wasn't until Long Beach Junior High that I spent more than two years at any one school. I kept a small but close circle of friends and tended to leave everybody alone, expecting the same courtesy in return.
This is not the recipe for a typical street brawler. Imagine my surprise in junior high when after "aggressively" horsing around with an upperclassman before the first bell, Coach Snow grabbed us both by the collar and hauled us to see the principal for fighting. I don't remember what I was thinking on the long walk to Mr. Whelan's office, but I'm pretty sure the adult translation was, "What the hell?" I don't remember either of us throwing a punch.
A few years later I was in high school. It was a Saturday night, and in Long Beach, the evening hang out was Jeff Davis Avenue - "the Strip" to us townies. This one particular evening I noticed a raucous crowd forming and in the absolute epicenter of the commotion was Roel, one of my oldest friends. His fists were up and he looked like he was expecting to get jumped from any direction. I pushed my way through to get to him, and the crowd immediately closed in on the two of us. Not sixty seconds prior I was minding my own business and enjoying a cheeseburger. Now, he and I were surrounded by at least a dozen guys who for some reason appeared to be in foul mood. I just looked at Roel, "Dude...seriously...what the hell?" Fists were clenched and words were spoken, but not a single punch was thrown. To this day, I have no idea what went down.
Years and years later I was packing up my apartment in Birmingham for the move to Maryland. All my gear was in a U-Haul and the Blazer was in tow. I missed a turn on my way out of town and pulled into an apartment complex to try and turn around. Unfortunately, the parking lot was smaller than I expected and I was having trouble negotiating a turn with the car trailer. I step out of the cab to survey the situation, and one of the apartment doors opens. Out comes a busybody little lady, "Hey, you! You cain't be livin' here!" I'm annoyed, but I brushed her off. "Relax, lady. I'm just trying to figure out how to turn around." She runs back into her apartment mumbling, "This cain't be! This cain't be!" When she returns, she's on a phone jabbering in a panic to someone on the line. Within a minute some old dude walks out of another unit. Little Miss Busybody points in my direction, and old dude strides straight over to me. "Boy, you cain't be here."
What the hell? Never before or since have I been so exquisitely close to committing felony assault. I just smiled at him. Not the friendly, "Howdy, neighbor," kind, but the kind that was a very dangerous precursor to decisive action. "You. Moronic. Gonad. Can't you see I'm just trying to turn this rig around!" By this time, all the apartment doors were open and a nice little crowd had gathered.
In "Turn the Page", Bob Seger eloquently conveys his annoyance at always being the outnumbered outsider. At that very moment, with piercing clarity, I understood his frustration and anger. Unfortunately, it seems we're always going to be encountering moronic gonads. Brushing them off and "turning the page" was good advice. I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath. I got back in the cab, managed to reverse out of the lot, and left that whacked out enclave in the rear view mirror.
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