BOGO Bandits

These stories are kind of old, but I was reminded of the importance of BOGO when my BOGO Buddy emailed me over Valentine’s Day weekend with a coupon and a reminiscence of all our BOGO Glory Days.

It all started one fateful day over the winter when my coworker Hillary got an email about a BOGO deal at Einstein’s Bagel. In order to capitalize on this, one had to like them on Facebook and get a special BOGO coupon. We both did it so we could have the Buy One, Get One Specialty drink.

The problem with BOGO deals is that they are as addictive as crack. When you’re only spending $2 on a White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino Latte Coffee Double Shot Espresso Christmas Holiday Special, it seems like a waste to not get one every day – because you’re saving $2!! Why spend $0 when you can spend 2 and get a huge cup of calories that makes the workday 10% more bearable than it would be otherwise?!

Well, the week became an exercise in cajoling friends to like Einstein’s so that we could bogart (bogo-art?) their BOGO coupon and get another White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino Latte Coffee Double Shot Espresso Christmas Holiday Special. We thought we were being clever, going in every day, creating alter egos – sometimes I’d be Fred or Ed or Ned or Red with my friend Dillary, Millary, Celery and Crillery.

It wasn’t until about three BOGOS deep that we got to the cashier and she looked at our orders.

“Um, don’t you like whole milk in yours?” she asked me. “Let me fix that!”

So…Fred and Dillary weren’t really fooling anyone with their rampant abuse of the BOGO system. Despite being in the Loop and probably taking 150 orders every morning, a giant albino blond man and his alien-faced* colleague were noticeable…especially when they came in EVERYday for a week with BOGO coupons.

[*The alien-faced reference isn’t an insult. Hillary and I went on a work trip and went to a bar. The most offensive man on earth came up to us and said, “You’re clearly not with him because he’s gay.” To which Hillary was like, “Okay…” Then he proceeded to say, “I like your face. It’s like you’re from space. It’s an alien face.” Katy Perry’s “E.T.” was out at this moment, so maybe that was his inspiration? Being not an idiot, I can tell you that he meant to say was, “You have really nice bone structure and high cheek bones”… But alien face is also a way to get a lady to talk to you…]

Since we knew we were discovered, it didn’t bother us to BOGO the rest of that week and the next with our coupons. But what started as a friendly BOGO deal friendship, quickly evolved into an obsession. We would hunt down BOGO deals in the surrounding area so that we could get the BOGO fix. This included Kefir, coffee, and Einstein’s Bagel Sandwiches. We would go wherever BOGO was possible.

So much BOGOing obviously led to the discovery of an elusive creature that not many people know of, The BOGO Bozo.

The BOGO Bozo is someone who ruins BOGO deals. BOGOs are a two-person only scheme. You buy one, get ONE. It’s always awkward when a third person shows up and you have to make them pay full price. Very rarely do you encounter any BOGT deals, which aren’t as fun to say and also probably wouldn’t be as exciting. Maybe Einstein’s has a buy one get two…bagel spreads? It’s just not a good business model.

Anyway, a bozo can be the third wheel to a BOGO date, but they can also be a regular schmo at the place of BOGO business, who ruins the BOGO experience.

Case in point, Hillary and I were taking advantage of a BOGO deal down the street at Starbucks. We both ordered Pumpkin Lattes and were awaiting the order. One came up, which Hillary took.

Enter BOGO Bozo. This guy with glasses kind of sidles up to us and stands way to close. They call the next Pumpkin Latte (obvs mine) and this guy grabs it before the barrista even is able to put it on the counter.

I totally understand mistaking your order at Sbucks. It happens. You order, the same drink is called, you assume it’s yours.

I turn to Hillary and give here a little, “That guy took my drink! What a silly pants!” smile, then turn to him to say this out loud.

To my horror, the Bozo is rubbing his index finger around the lid of the cup. Then, he proceeded to flick his tongue on the opening. He doesn’t drink anything. He just flicks his tongue and blows on the lid.

His taking my drink was malicious! He planned this!

Hillary and I again make eye contact. This time the look more of a “WTF is that guy doing?!” look.

This leads to an awkward moment of all three of us standing at the counter staring at the barrista and waiting for the next drink. Hillary and I are kind of weirded out by the glasses guy standing close to us breathing all over the lid of his coffee. We’re pretty sure in his head he was saying, “Yes…my preeccciiiooouuuusssss….”

About thirty seconds later, the barrista holds out another Pumpkin Latte. I grab it without hesitation. Bozo is NOT happy about this.

“Hey…” he starts to say, still caressing his coffee cup.

“This is mine!” I say as we bolt out the door.

Who knows what happens when you enrage the BOGO Bozo… I don’t want to find out.

My Taste in Men

A few months ago I was hanging out with two of my good friends from St. Louis. We were talking about hit songs of the summer. I mentioned that Macklemore’s “Can’t Hold Us” was one of my favorite songs ever. If it comes on, I will resolutely lose my sh*t and fist pump like the whitest frat boy on earth. Because I’m a male and think about sex every 7 seconds, this segued into me saying:

“Man, I love Mackelmore. And his cowriter Ryan Lewis is gorgeous. Right?”

Ryan Lewis looks like my ex-boyfriend. They both are skinny dudes, who look Mediterranean and have beards. This is kind of my type. Every one of my good friends knows this. It’s like if someone who likes Meryl Streep movies says, “I liked American Hustle, but August Osage County was my favorite movie of the year.”

It just makes sense.

Also, because he is perfect, this is what Ryan Lewis looks like:

After confessing my love for Ryan Lewis, I didn’t expect to get my two friends staring at me like I had just said I wanted to eat toilet paper.

“You…like Ryan Lewis?” One of them said.

“Yeah, he’s totally my type.”

“I just…Okay… That’s not what I thought you were into.”

“Well, he looks like John. That’s kind of my type.”

What had been confused stares quickly turned into looks of complete flabbergastedization.

Having been a Mackelmore fan since “And We Danced…” I didn’t know that people didn’t know who Ryan Lewis was.

Fast forward to the Grammy’s and Mackelmore and Ryan Lewis performing “Same Love.” My friend actually texts me in the middle of the performance and says, “Oh! That’s Ryan Lewis! I thought it was the guy in “Can’t Hold Us!”

I laughed for about fifteen minutes.

The guy in “Can’t Hold Us” is this cute, heavier set guy, who looks like he may not be legal to date, named, Ray Dalton. He is also adorable, but not exactly the same type as I have been dating.

I then, three months later, understood why they had been so confused when I said Ryan Lewis was my type and looked like John. It was like if I said, “My favorite movie last year was Grown Ups 2. Don’t you think Adam Sandler looks like Meryl Streep?”

That does not make sense and leads to flabbergastedization.

That being said, Ryan and Ray are both welcome to call me anytime. I have a super awesome fist pump and am bad at dating, if you’re into that… *awkward wink*

I Lost My Coat and Street Credibility

I recently posted about my volleyball team and how I didn’t understand anything that was happening. Well, as the season has gone on, we’ve gotten better and I’ve gotten to be friends with the guys on the team. They’re really nice dudes and I have a great time hanging out with them.

Last weekend we all went out after our last game. I’ve hung out with them but never really gone out to bars and stuff. Like I said, they’re cool guys and I don’t have a ton of guy friends, especially ones like my rowing buddies who like to play darts and do boy stuff. That seems like a weird thing, but over the past year my rowing friends have dispersed, gotten girlfriends, started back to school, or moved to different areas of the city, so I don’t have a lot of friends to watch sports with or who would willingly participate in Fast and Furious movie watches.

That being said, I was trying to be cool when I hung out with these guys so that I could earn more hang out time. This led to me buying shots and beers and being kind of a mess. Ultimately, it turned into me losing my coat.

After our game, we drank and bar crawled for almost 7 hours. I never got super schwasted, but evidently it was enough to lose coat judgment. To be fair, I always wear a hoodie under my winter coat for extra warmth. Not only is this not juvenile at all, it is also incredibly stylish – so I’ve told myself.

Well, at one bar, my hoodie came out of my coat, and was placed on the pile of coats. I had put the hoodie on top of my blue peacoat, but in the drunken shuffle of being at a bar and precariously placed on a bar stool, it got mixed up and ended up on top of another coat.

This coat was not mine.

We moved to another bar, and I grabbed the wrong one. We drank, played darts, and then went back to one of the guy’s places. By this point I was drunk, but I was also exhausted. I had been up since 7 a.m. watching American Horror Story...because I am a scared 4-year old boy and can’t watch it at night…and had been playing volleyball then drinking all afternoon/evening.

My friend dropped me off at my place and I fell asleep, coat still on, sitting up on my couch.

It was when I woke up at 3 a.m. with my coat on that I realized I had the wrong one. This didn’t bother me so much until the next morning, when I realized I had to text all of the guys I had been hanging out with to let them know I was the drunken mess who lost his coat.

Thinking that I just picked up the wrong one at my friend’s place, and not four bars before that, I texted the guy who owned the place we’d been at.

He didn’t have it. And proceeded to text everyone on the team. He was really nice about it, but the subtext was:

“Tedd’s kind of a disaster and stole a coat… Does anyone have his?”

I was really thrilled that my first night out with cool friends I would quickly and resolutely turn into "That Guy." Is anyone really surprised though?

It turns out that no one had seen my coat.

After a brief funeral and coat eulogy, I counted it as lost to the ages. I could have gone to the bars and checked, but I had gotten the coat on clearance and had another blue peacoat from 5 years ago that I could still wear. I was most angry about losing the $4 chapstick that had been in the pocket.

Shiz is expensive.

Because this is me, I got even more chance to feel awkward.

I got a text from my friend this past weekend. “Tedd, I think we found your coat!!”

He proceeded to tell me that his friend had the coat and picked it up at the bar. We had just swapped.

There was much rejoicing! I would get my gloves back! The chapstick!

He told me his friend’s name and that we could trade it back.

The next morning I get on the ol’ Facebook and type in the guy’s first and last name. I was super excited to see that the guy who I had stolen the coat from’s profile picture is a modeling picture…

Womp.

Of course I would be a drunk mess and steal a model’s coat. That’s about right. I couldn’t have stolen it from a quirky, bespectacled, out-of-shape, guy named Lloyd. No, I stole it from a model.

FML.

So I have to message this guy, “Hey, I’m a drunk mess lolz and stole your coat. Want to trade back?”

And we did. And I got my gloves. The chapstick is MIA, but if the guy is using it to keep his pouty-model lips camera-ready, then I will be okay with it. I will know that, through the loss of my coat, my life has contributed meaning and beauty back into the world. 

The Usual Suspects: CTA Edition

I don’t really care for public transportation. If I had my way I’d drive in an SUV to work every day while spraying Glade with its CFCs out the window, just because I can. I’m one of those people.

Usually I can grin and bear the train to work every day, but in the past few months, probably due to Chicago’s 25 hours of darkness a day, cold weather, and even colder weather, I’ve become an intolerable humbug on the train. And the bus. And the metra (whatever the hell that is). 

A straight up rant wouldn’t particularly make me feel better, as there are so many particular things that I loathe, it’s best to reduce them to the cast of characters that make me want to jump from the platform into the tracks.

The Hero/The Martyr

The Hero and The Martyr do the same obnoxious thing, just at different speeds. You’ll be behind them moving up the escalator or stairs. Everything is going normally – one step is taken at a time. That is until you get to the top. At this point they feel the need to completely shut down. Stop moving. Stop. Completely. And make you and everyone behind you crash into them. This is often punctuated by a dirty look from the Hero/Martyr as they think they should be rewarded for climbing an entire staircase/riding an entire escalator all by themselves.

The need for two classes is due to the speed of the ascent. The martyr is usually a woman in her mid to late 40s. She wears furs and lumbers up the stairs, her purse splayed to the side so it’s taking up just enough space not for you to not be able to go around her. Why a woman in fur is not taking a cab is beyond comprehension, but she is and she is making everyone miserable. When she gets to the top, she waits until she is exactly ½ a step off the stairs before she bends over and starts panting.

“I did it! I made it! This is just… can you believe I came all that way? I just need – I couldn’t possible take another step – not even to the side to get out of your way, because I did it. I climbed these stairs. See my plight! My struggles! Look what I have done, world!”

The Hero has the exact same problem, although, it is even more annoying because the Hero, gazelle-like, leaps up the stairs, only to come to a complete stop at the top. It’s as if the hero has changed into his spandex, superman suit and sprinted to the scene of the crime, only to discover that the cops and fire department have it under control. This entire realization HAS to occur with only ½ step from climbing the top stair; otherwise….??!! Many a time have I been running to catch a train behind a young, professional twenty-something, only to crash into their back when they stop, stone-cold in the middle of the stairs.

Train Freezes

Train Freezes are similar to Hero/Martyrs, only their idiocy occurs on the train rather than at the top of the stairs. These people, regardless of how many people follow them onto the train, completely stop. Moving. Upon. Entry. To . the. Car.

Cease.

It’s as if their legs lock and they can’t do anything about it. This always creates a weird shuffling, bumping and ramming of people as they try to fit the extra 4500 people behind them onto the train car.

My favorite thing about Train Freezes is that 95% of the time as you ram them trying to get further into the train, they look at you like it’s YOUR fault.

“Gosh, I’m just trying to commute home and this JERK runs into me! Can you believe it?”

YES! Yes, I can because your legs froze on getting on the car and we had to figure out how to get everyone else on!

A nice subset of the Train Freezes are the Panic! At the Discos, these people don’t stop because they are frozen, but rather because the sudden realization that they are on a train is paralyzying to them. Their complete halt of momentum is punctuated by frantic head turns trying to figure which of the 60 empty seats and endless empty aisles that they will take up. It’s hard! It’s hard to figure out which way to walk. It’s a right and a left. What if you choose left…and you should have chose right?! The CHAOS! The AGONY! 

Interior Character: I’m Responsible and Helpful!

Exterior Character: The Jagoff

This person is probably the kid that ran for class president in high school and had to settle for student council or was beat completely and ran for secretary of the FFA. They have a commanding presence and great bluster, but everyone else realizes that they are just commutertarded.

 The scene is usually rush hour. The train is plowing down the track toward one of the main stations downtown. If you have ever commuted in Chicago – even once – on one of the lines, you can assume which these are, because EVERYONE gets off the train. Many mornings the brown and red lines are so packed that you can’t move. If the train even sways slightly, you knock into people, or, in worst-case scenarios, are so packed in that you don’t move at all.

With this as the scene, imagine a person, at the complete back of the train, who picks up their suitcase and yells to everyone:

“Coming out!”

You are about two minutes from arriving at the station, the train is so packed that in order for this person to squeeze out, you would have to all bump, shove, topple, and mash into the seated people and the standing people: toes are stepped on, suitcases crushed, and bruises given.

There is no reason for this.

In two minutes the train will have stopped and the all the cars will empty anyway. But, this person, in their heads thinking, “Ah ha! I’m such a good citizen! I have made everyone aware I’m leaving so that when I leave they will know and have time to move out of the way for me to get to the door!”

Everyone else is thinking: “This jagoff is really going to make us all shove out of his way and move to the door, just so when the train stops, we all pile off anyway.”

One of the best CTA memories I have (only?), was one morning when someone at the complete opposite end of the train from the door yelled, “Coming out!!!”

His response? All fifteen people around him that were standing all stared in unison and shook their heads.

He didn’t go anywhere.

AcKtORs

Away from rush hour there is another breed of obnoxious on the train. These are people who think that they have their own reality show on E!, even though there are no cameras and no one cares what they are saying.

One night I was on the train reading. It must have been a blue moon because there were two girls across from me and one of them was continuously checking me out. The train was almost empty and there was no need to be yelling, but this girl felt the need to shout everything.

“I KNOW! CAN YOU BELIEVE DEREK? LIKE REALLY? I’M GLAD WE BROKE UP. I’M GLAD” (Throws glance at me, who is diligently trying to read some pretentious book, but is distracted by the twenty-something screaming at the girl one inch away from her.) “LIKE HE TOLD ME THAT HE DIDN’T WANT IT TO GET SERIOUS. SERIOUS! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!”

When  I didn’t listen to the drama, the girl – still looking my way – changed gears into a comedy routine.

“SO LIKE MOLLY, RIGHT. SHE TOLD ME THAT SHE AND KURT RAN INTO EACH OTHER THE STREET! LIKE LITERALLY BUMPED INTO EACH OTHER! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

It’s not just flirting that motivates people, though, sometimes it’s because they just think other people care what they’re saying.

Another time on the red line home from work, this woman and her boyfriend (?) both middleaged, were making out and talking at loud volumes.

Makeoutmakeoutmakeoutmakeout

“CAN YOU BELIEVE RANDY DIDN’T COME TO DINNER? THE NERVE!”

Makeoutmakeoutmakeout

I don’t know if it’s ageist or something, but the last thing in the world I want to see is two people over forty making out. Like… No. It doesn’t matter if they’re attractive, gay, straight, gorillas, dolphins, et. al. I don’t want to see that. And I don’t want to hear them yell about boring life minutae between periods of tonsil hockey.

I can't wait until it gets a little warmer. Then at least the cast of Suspects will expand to include Dude with Nice Arms in Tanktop.

Minnesota Adventure: Dontcha Know!

A couple weekends ago I went to MN to see a couple groups of friends. One was my old coworker, Harriet, and the other were my friends Peter and Georgia. A couple funny things happened along the way:

Disappointed?

Harriet and I went to a gay bar in the middle of downtown. We were by ourselves, awkwardly dancing together, when these two gay guys came up to us.

“Hey! It’s so refreshing to run into some straight people,” one of them said. “We want to talk to some straight people.”

I felt like we were at the zoo and they just got the chance to pet the goats.

Suddenly, a look of horror crept over one of the gay men’s faces after we didn’t immediately respond to him.

“Wait…,” he said glaring at us, “You mean… You aren’t straight?”

You would have thought we murdered his entire family and then just made him eat a stew that we made from their body parts. He was furious.

Harriet looked between me and the guy and was like, “No… ,” she pointed at me, “he’s gay.”

“C’mon!” The angry gay said to his friend. “We’re getting out of here!”

Harriet and I looked at each other and tried to comprehend what had just happened.  He was mad? Because we weren’t straight? At a gay bar?

B’ohkay, MN.

All the Lonely People

Georgia and Peter had a party for Peter’s bday. A whole bunch of people were there – roughly 11 or 12. We had been drinking and playing games all night, when my friend’s fiancé jumped up.

“Guys! We gotta go out if we’re going to go to Gay 90’s before it closes!”

She immediately sprinted upstairs.

It had been Peter’s idea that if we made it out, we would go to this big, gay dance club called Gay 90’s to party on.

I thought it was really nice of everyone, but I spoke up:

“Guys, we can go to any bar. Don’t feel like just because you have a gay guy here you have to go to the gay bar.”

My friend Sam turned to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Tedd, you realize that you’re the only one at this whole party that isn’t married or going to be married in the next few months. You’re the only one who can get action.”

I kind of jumped back because I hadn’t even realized it until that moment. Everyone was really friendly and awesome and I had never thought about who was single/married/vegan what have you.

For some reason (most likely the 10 drinks in my system) it hit me weird and I got kind of sad.

“Thanks, Sam. Thanks for pointing that out. I’m going to go upstairs and put a gun in my mouth.”

That’s when one of the guys from the party jumped up.

“Tedd! Don’t worry! We got you!” (Remember I said they were super awesome?) He then proceeds to play “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” on the Apple TV, causing everyone at the party to get in a circle and sway. The lights were even turned off and people held up their cell phones like lighters.

Single or no, I felt a lot of love in that room.

Catching Fire

Sam and his fiancé, Jenny, were also from out of town and just visiting for Peter’s bday.

The next day, after the party, we all went out and got breakfast. It was at this place that had a bakery and sandwich shop in it. I saw Jenny sneak over and buy this flower thing from a bakery and stuff it in her purse.

I kind of forgot about it until later that afternoon when she pulled it out and brought it into the living room. We had all been watching TV and were pretty mellow.

“Peter! This is for your bday!”

She proceeds to take the flower out of the box and put it on the coffee table in the living room.

“Do you have a lighter?” Sam asked.

At this point I looked over and Georgia’s eyebrows were raised. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she was wondering what was about to happen.

Peter and Jenny walked over to the flower and got out a match to light it.

Peter, as if hosting a bad 60’s game show, says, “I hope this table’s not flammable!”

He then proceeds to light the flower. Perhaps light is too gentle a word, he ignited the flower blaze.

A shot of sparks and flame about three feet high shot out of the flower. Both Sam and Jenny leapt back and fell on the floor.

I was laughing so hard I was crying. This wasn’t helped by looking over at Georgia, who had this complete look of, “Dear God, if anything is ruined because of this I’ll murder you” mixed with, “It’s Sam doing this, of course he almost burned the house down.”

In the end the thing was pretty awesome. After the sparkler flame went out, the flower burst open into like 10 tiny flames. It was supposed to play “Happy Birthday”, but it hadn’t been lit properly.

Jenny grabbed Sam’s arm. “Light the wire! It will play “Happy Birthday!” she said.

“NO!” Peter and Georgia wanted nothing more to do with that thing.

Of course, there’s a video of this thing on YouTube for reference:

The Horcrux

The Horcrux

This post is specifically directed at Mr. Fluffer, since he is my only faithful blog reader without opposable thumbs and a Facebook account. He wouldn't have seen on his non-existent newsfeed that I recently published my MFA thesis/first “book” on Amazon. The book is okay. I would highly recommend saving real opinions for private interactions and suggesting you give the book 5 stars on Amazon and say it's the greatest thing you've ever read. I promise I'll buy you a cup of coffee with the royalties your promotion causes. Please don't expect anything fancy. It may be week-old Folger's that I reheat on my stove.

I decided that I was just going to bite the bullet and publish it on my bday. I thought it would symbolize...something? I figured if I had momentum and got it done by that date then my year would be a year of progress and movement toward... I don't know. During this whole process I've kind of let myself be okay with the fact that I won't have a big publisher and my writing is for me and a few people who read it. Publishing was more of an act of exposing myself as a writer, an artist. It's “coming out” again and letting people know who I really am and what goes on inside of my head. And people will/may find that offensive or worthy of mocking. But I did it. And it's out there.

While doing my final round of edits, I was reading through a passage and read some of my own vulnerability in a scene. It was kind of shocking to read through this artifact of my life, three-ish years in progress. Because part of it is definitely me, a piece of my history, my thoughts and ideas at a certain time in my life. But part of it's alien. These characters that I made up surprise me and make me laugh as if I had no part in their creation. The manuscript is a piece of me, but also has a life of its own. The only thing I could liken it to was a Horcrux from Harry Potter. In the book, these objects are repositories for pieces of the soul; granted, in the book it's so the Dark Lord can live forever by scattering his soul so it can't be destroyed. Which...isn't quite what I'm doing. But I think in all my writing, a piece of soul escapes into it. It may be a transitory idea or image, but it's part of me that exists on paper. It's part of me that has to escape for the whole to survive.

All that being said, please don't stab your Kindle with a Basilisk fang. It's just awkward for all of us.

So, yeah, real talk for a change. But here's the first part of the book for your perusal.

Book available here:

http://www.amazon.com/Faggit-Tedd-Hawks-ebook/dp/B00HUMETSU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1390068576&sr=8-1&keywords=faggit

Prologue

That whole week I went over a lot of things. The most important one was figuring out if it was for sure. Like, I was 98.45346% sure that I was really gay, but I didn’t want there to be any confusion about it. This one website recommended writing your coming out story, the moment or time where you realize that you’re gay, so you have it and it’s real, a moment you can hold and say, “This is me. This is how I know who I am, and I am proud to be this way.”

I started writing like 100 times, but it always felt weird. One story was about how I wore my mom’s high heels when I was five, and another one was about Kyle, but all of those felt off. They were part of the story, but they weren’t the story.

The one thing I did keep coming back to, over and over, was this scene from my favorite old movie called An Evening with the Asherfields. Cal always made me watch old movies, but this was my favorite because of this one part. It’s in black and white and the main guy, Douglas, is moving through this big, fancy party. He is really excited about something, because he’s pushing his way through all these people. Finally, he stops outside a set of French doors; he stands there for a minute and takes a deep breath. The camera shoots through gauzy curtains and reveals a woman standing outside. You can’t see all of her, just her silhouette, but she’s standing with one hand on her hip, the other hand extended clutching a long, old-fashioned cigarette holder. Douglas opens the door and sees her looking really elegant staring at the moon. The camera moves in closer, and she turns with a halo of light around her head and says, “Hello, Douglas.”

When I was thinking about my own story that scene always popped into my mind. Because for me that’s what it was, a moment when you think the world should stop moving, and you feel something you’ve never felt before. It’s not sex, but a sort of calm in the middle of something wild – like the eye of a tornado. Your heart is racing, and you have a million feelings going through your head, but in the middle of it all, you have this joyful feeling of peace. It’s beyond lust and all that, a realization that you have an amazing connection with another person. And for me that other person was a boy.

Part One

Chapter 1: Orientation

Cal told me the last thing in the world I should tell anyone was that I was a Princi-Pal. I tended to agree with him, but there were much worse things to be. For instance, Tommy Capella showed chickens at the Kaplan County Fair, which to me seems much more embarrassing than being in Principal Rothchild’s little student group.

One of the responsibilities of the Pals was helping out the day of freshman orientation. My sophomore year I was in the cafeteria behind the welcome table handing out nametags. Another Pal was helping Principal Rothchild stack the student planners on a table, and the junior president of the Princi-Pals, SRC, was wandering around, surveying everything with her cold, grey eyes.

SRC’s name was actually Sally Rae Chilton, but no one ever called her that. SRC sounded like a kind of bomb, which fit her perfectly. Everything about her reminded you of the Cold War or something, from her square haircut, big, round glasses and thick bangs, to her clothes, which only came in black, grey, and black again.

“I think you should reorganize these, Jack.” SRC glared at me as she brushed her finger over the nametags. “This looks,” she paused and adjusted her glasses, “cluttered.”

Principal Rothchild appeared behind SRC and put a hand on her shoulder. “I think they’re fine, Sally Rae. Is the projector ready for the assembly?”

“Yes.”

“Check it over again, just to make sure.”

SRC gave a little bow. As she turned, she almost knocked down a girl and her mom, who had just entered the cafeteria. Principal R. looked at her watch and almost crapped herself.

“It’s almost 1:30! Will you all be ready?” she asked, looking at the rest of the Pals and the few teachers gathered.

We all nodded.

“Good. I’m going to finish things up in the office. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Principal R. had this weird sort of waddle that took her out of the room. She was a tiny, chubby woman, and when she moved too fast, she bobbed back and forth like an angry penguin.

As she left the room, the girl and her mom moved up to the table. The mom was a tiny, petite woman, but her daughter was a whole lot bigger, not fat or anything, but big and thick. I’m kind of short and scrawny anyway, but this girl made me look like a chimp standing next to a gorilla.

“Hi,” the mother said.

“Hello, there!” Mr. Arnold, a science teacher, said. “New freshman?”

“No,” the mother shook her head, “Mary is actually going to be a sophomore this year. We’re moving in from Clarksburg.”

“Well, Jack here is a sophomore!”

I think Mr. Arnold saying that was supposed to make me and this Mary girl talk or something, but I just nodded. It got really weird when no one said anything for a whole second, so I brushed the hair out of my eyes and started organizing the nametags again.

“Mary’s nervous about starting, but this school seems nice.”

“Mom.” Mary’s voice was sharp. Her face was beat red. “I’m not nervous.”

The mother smiled one of those mom smiles – my mom does it when she’s trying to make me happy, but also acknowledge to everyone else that I’m being a stupid kid. After the smile, the mom gently stroked Mary’s hair. I held in a laugh when Mary’s face grew redder. She swatted her mom’s hand and stalked off across the cafeteria. Her mother politely nodded and then hurried after her.

The cafeteria started to fill up with kids and their parents. Mr. Arnold and I were really busy handing out the nametags and keeping the line moving. Most of the kids I already knew – it was hard not to know everyone when you went to a tiny high school in the middle of a corn field. It only took about two weeks after I moved in from the junior high before I could match up faces with names and understood who was cool and who wasn’t.

When the cafeteria was filled, Principal R made everyone shut up and then gave a welcome speech. I think it was the same one she used for my class the year before, but with some of the inspirational adjectives moved around.

“Welcome … blah blah blah … We’re excited to see you … blah blah blah … You are the future … blah … exciting year … blah blah blah … new friendships and challenges … blah …”

I probably should have been paying attention, but I let my mind wander during the blah-blahs and was looking at all the new kids. There were several that I thought would be great for a make out. Not that I had ever made out with anyone, but there were plenty of people I'd want to have a movie make out with, preferably in the rain or a mild snowstorm. When I looked into the sea of faces and saw the new girl, Mary, looking at me, I almost jumped out of my chair. She awkwardly looked away and tucked some hair behind her ear.

After a few more blah-de-blahs one of the student council kids stood up and started separating the kids into their tour groups. I slipped out of my chair and was getting ready to go to the gym to help SRC, when Principal R. grabbed me. She said, “Jack, would you mind leading a tour today?”

“What?” I asked. “I mean, don’t you have enough student council kids?”

“We have enough for the new freshmen, but I hoped you’d take around the older students? We have three new kids that are sophomores and juniors. If you take them around separately, they won’t feel like babies.”

“What about SRC?” I asked.

I wanted to get out of it more than anything. I don’t really like being in charge of stuff. I mean, I lost sleep for a week because my neighbor, Mr. Hurley, asked me to feed his cat while he was on vacation. I was sure I was going to stumble in on the cat right as it was dying.

“Meow meow meow!”

[Cat subtitle: Forsooth! Why didn’t you take care of me!]

Most of the Pals, including SRC, had leadership experience, so this job was right up their alley. I was only in the Princi-Pals because I won a regional math contest the year before. I bombed out at the state finals in Spring Falls, but for about three seconds before the big contest, everyone at school was cheering me on.

“Sally Rae has her hands full,” Principal R. said.

Over in the corner I saw SRC and Bobby, another Pal, at the student planner table. She was swatting Bobby’s hands because he was taking a planner from the wrong stack.

“So you’ll do it? Perfect!” Mrs. R was already waddling away before I could say anything.

It was time to panic then. Sweating was the main thing that happened to me when I started to feel uncomfortable. It was like the pores in my armpits popped open at once and rained all over, which was awful, because then I had pit stains on my shirt and couldn’t lift my arms up. If I did lift them up, then I got embarrassed by all the sweating, so the pits would sweat some more. I carried around an extra shirt in my backpack, just in case I got nervous for some stupid reason at school.

It was really quite terrible.

I was taking deep breaths when Mary, a tall guy with dark hair, and this other girl with a really tight shirt, who still had her sunglasses on, approached me.

Principal R. was following them and gave a wave as she passed by. “Have fun!” she said. “Just bring them to the gym for the presentation with their parents when you’re done.”

She angry-penguined away, and I was left staring at this group of kids. I was sure that my pit stains were visible, so I kept my arms down to my side like a robot.

“Uhhh, hey,” I said.

No one said anything. Mary and the tall guy looked nice enough, so my sweat started to slow down. The girl with sunglasses was typing on her phone faster than any human being I had ever seen.

I really had no idea what to say until the tour started, so I kept watching the front of the cafeteria to see when the other groups left. Finally, the silence was broken when the tall guy spoke up. He said, “Do you like this school?”

He had on a shirt with a skull on it and the band name “Death Flavor.” His eyes were big, round, and brown. They were staring right at me. His nametag read “Kyle.”

“I guess,” I said. “Where did you guys come from? Which school?”

“Clarksburg,” Mary said.

“Holbrook,” Kyle said. “It’s in Kentucky.”

The girl with her sunglasses on, whose nametag read “Delilah,” smacked her gum twice before saying, “I used to go to Brentwood Academy.”

“Brentwood?” Mary asked. “What are you doing in this dump?”

“Whatever,” Delilah said furiously texting.

When the last tour group left, I led us out of the cafeteria and into the band room.

“This is the band room,” I said. “I don’t play an instrument, but I hear it’s pretty fun. The teacher makes everyone call him Keith, instead of Mr. Cockrell. I think he’s a hippie.”

“I play piano,” said Kyle.

“Like Amadeus?” I asked. Being best friends with Cal inevitably meant watching almost every movie ever made. I didn’t even think about how most people just call him Mozart.

“Who?” asked Kyle.

“Mozart,” said Mary. She smiled at me.

“I’m not that good,” said Kyle. “I’m in a band and just play basic stuff.”

“You’re in a band?” Delilah said without looking up from her phone.

“Yeah,” Kyle said.

“Coowl.” Delilah turned her phone sideways and slid her finger across the screen.

The school tour was really dull because our high school was designed by the same guy who architected the county prison. It’s a pair of big cement blocks in the middle of a cornfield. One of them is the school gym and the other is for all the classrooms. The walls are all cement blocks with white paint on them, and the carpets are this weird teal and purple color with diamond patterns. Every once in a while you’d see a poster on the wall that sounded like Principal R.’s speech. “Blah blah blah … Teamwork!” or “Excellence … blah blah …!!”

I took them around the first level of the school and showed them the gym, the fine arts wing, and the freshman hallway. After that we went upstairs and ventured down the junior wing. At the very end of the junior hallway there is a row of beat up lockers. They were taken out of our original high school building that was demolished in the 80s.

Delilah noticed them first. “Those are ugly,” she said.

“I know,” I said. They were pretty terrible. It was like someone purposefully dragged them around in a demolition derby. “Those are part of the original high school and are supposed to be part of our history.”

“I hate history. I don’t get why we have to learn about dead people,” Delilah said.

Mary looked at Delilah like she was full of some disease.

“No one actually uses them,” I said, “but they’re really famous around school. That’s where you pick up Cutty Sark every month.”

“The shark?” asked Kyle.

“No, it’s this thing…” It was weird that someone wouldn’t know about Cutty Sark. Not knowing our gossip paper was like being in India and not knowing cows are a big deal. “Every Thursday students write up this unofficial newspaper with stuff that happened over the week. A lot of times it’s just gossip or news that they won’t let us print in the school newspaper, like who broke up with who and why, or who was caught making out under the bleachers. It’s called Cutty Sark, I guess it’s the name of rum and a boat or something.”

“Oh my god,” Delilah said. “It’s like Gossip Girl.”

Cutty Sark wasn’t nearly as great as it sounds. Once in a while there would be a juicy story, but mostly it was about stuff everyone already knew about. The best story my freshman year was when everyone found out that Micah Herron and Becky Georgestein were caught having sex in Micah’s neighbor’s front yard. The neighbor happened to be Principal R.

I told this story to Kyle, Mary, and Delilah and they thought it was hilarious.

After leading them back downstairs I said, “That’s about it guys. You can head into the gym for the presentation.”

“Coowl.” Delilah turned away and, distracted by her phone, slammed into the trophy case. For the first time that afternoon, I saw her show some emotion, as she scrambled to shove the battery back in her phone and adjust her sunglasses.

“Thanks for the tour, man,” Kyle was looking at me again with his brown eyes. It felt like we were both saying something, even though there weren’t any words.

“Jack?” Mary said.

I turned away from Kyle. “Yeah?”

“This was really cool. Where do you live?”

“Oh, I live on the north side of town.”
“I live close to there!” Mary was grinning ear to ear. “Would you want to hang out some day or something?”

“Oh,” I said. “Sure. We’ll probably have some classes together.”

Mary was looking at me. With that look look. It reminded me so much of Susie Hamilton, this girl I used to date, I felt my stomach start to churn.

It would have made sense to tell her then that I was gay, rather than have it all blow up like it did later. It would have made a lot of sense to have told everyone at that point.

 But I hadn’t even told Cal yet, and he was my best friend. My dad knew, but he hadn’t told anyone else. I probably wouldn’t have either, though, if I walked in on my son watching two guys in wrestling singlets getting naked on YouTube.