All Kinds Of Poetry, Justice

Three high school friends joined me in the Midwest city I’d just gotten my Bachelor’s Degree from, had mostly moved out of. We were in the gray area, all of us, like we’d always been; our facades and selves (did we believe in a difference between the two?) walking not-so-high wires between normalcy and rebellion. We were there to move me out, get the last of the boxes and the bed frames out of that house.

But now it was night. Time to invite the locals I still knew over, and pound through thirties of beers. We drank through the night, occupied all four floors, front and back yards, and the sprawling front door porch of the almost empty corner house. We threw glass bottles from the roof, and joked about landing some in the barely visible river. We blasted old Alkaline Trio, Saves The Day, Punk Rock, Emo, whatever you want to call it. It was music that wasn’t cool anymore, and it reminded us that that adolescent angst-for us, that existential need to be different-was still there, would never die. Or maybe racing, blood-yelled melodies just made for the best drinking music.

3 A.M. came. Things had whittled down to High School Dave, College Freddy, and myself on the porch. Beers in hand, and a dozen more left. Freddy-as much social leech as butterfly-giggled more at his stories than we did, and we giggled at them a lot. He was sure to spend the night and linger tomorrow, amusing us while we tried to work through our hangovers.

Someone came to the porch. Freddy knew him, invited him to mingle. He was on the way home, he said. But I didn’t care. I’d seen him before, and he was a piece of shit, with his intentionally torn jeans and rat-tail haircut. His girlfriend with him, and she was even worse. Her face told you that her boyfriend (Jason, that was his name) was the only one worth listening to. They talked to Freddy, said their goodbyes, and left. A moment later, the beer was gone. “Shit!” we yelled, and ran unhesitant down the porch, into the stop sign intersection. We saw them a block down. They looked back, started running, kept running. But Dave and I followed-legs flailing, knees pounding-and caught them, us ex-Cross Country runners. Dave panted, and threatened to kill them. But Jason laughed, sighed, and revered us for catching them as he handed back the beer.

We’d met their swinging, red hot strike with our own, which is what they really wanted; to feel something on fire. We were playing their game, and they loved it. Freddy caught up to us, and we all went into Jason’s apartment. We stood circle-bound in his dirty, dirty kitchen and took pulls of Canadian whiskey while chuckling over our unlikely camaraderie. Fifteen minutes passed, and we grew tired, unimpressed with the tale, and went home.

-- written by John Wilmes