‘Gag me with a spoon,’ she said.
‘Totally,’ I agreed. ‘You didn’t speak like a valley girl as a teenager, did you?’ I asked.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, tentatively.
‘I didn’t either,’ I said. ‘I mean, I meant, I meant that I also didn’t think you did. I certainly did not. Gag me with a spoon anyway.’ The male high school slang more particularly pertained to jesters who shadowed irreverent graveyard shift DJs, quasi-meta Pied Piper personalities and sportscasters who trained their voices to carry an octave below the human median. And if you didn’t catch a game in which Oscar Robertson fumbled the sidekick analysis, you are missing something. “That was a tricky bank shot your ex-teammate Lou made, wasn’t it Oscar?” “Yes it waaaas!” “Number 12 made a great block right there, didn’t he Oscar?” “Yes he diiiid!” Oscar Robertson, the Big O. Yes he waaas!
She laughed, and at this my brain rotated to the Preppy Handbook, albeit that came later than high school. This reference guide poked fun at so-called preppies, how they passed the 5-7 hours of their days, etc, and their de rigueur proclivity for buying clothes at J Crew and Brooks Brothers, before the former went bankrupt and before the latter was purchased by a conglomerate and taken mass market and mainstream; in other words, bankrupted. The Handbook was a parody of a lifestyle, but if someone is prone to hay fever and airborne allergies, it’s a lot more comfortable to wear all cotton than poly-blends and to cake your face with makeup.
The pamphlet published tried and true Friday night pointers about “things to do, if you know what I mean.” Intuitively, covert protocol was deployed if a preppy had an 8 PM date with a competitor’s highly public crush and this rival was rooted at the same table for five at Casa B’s G&T Hour. “We’re golden,” he’d outline to his secret-keeper among the quintet to foretell his lone departure, but if it turned out he and the woman played quarters at Mary-Ann’s and both lost, if asked the next morning how the evening went he’d confess they “took the porcelain bus home.”
A near majority of preppies were spoiled brats who spoke as if biting on a pencil while speaking, but some (none of the six in the paragraph above) had tangible brains and would not have considered dressing like a lumberjack or lumberjill unless the temperature was below 40 degrees Fahrenheit and they were chopping down trees, although arguably with a hacksaw too small for the stated purpose.
One instant later I decided it was high time I forgave Alan Henry, out of control and unnecessary as he was on that Saturday afternoon, because whether or not he has made anything of himself beyond working for the DMV, he had an excuse. Plus, according to his social media his beloved performance autist is the Blue Man Group. He was on drugs, and I can’t fault anyone for taking drugs, it’s up to them, it’s none of my business, and my headache healed. It’s those who have a sober choice that I find fault with, who both claim to be sane and don’t emit signs of manic depression, but who leave people out to dry for no other reason than that they are true cowards, such as Johnny S, no relation to Johnny Bu, Doug’s love-hate close friend, even in countries where the last name is printed and spoken first.
But did he turn out hi-di-hi rude and cowardly due to personality or simple lack of awareness? I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself, I was feeling angry with myself for my goodwill towards him, for bending over backwards to lift a finger for him. If the situation was the reverse he’d laugh it off and grab another lite beer out of the selfishness box. I was too angry to put in writing what was on my mind and therefore picked up the phone and called, which is why this is written in a form dissimilar to the earlier text. It’s out of sequence, it’s a bit “where did that come from,” but I couldn’t tell you what triggered this sentiment, simply that something did. And it’s more “well that was out of the blue” than “why are you telling me this?” or “how is this relevant to my day?”