H is for Heckling (High school kids)

Midway on our life’s journey, I found myself

still unacceptably immature.

I’m 23 years old. I have a (somewhat) respectable job. I am in graduate school. I have a coterie of friends who are all either in law schools, graduate schools, or working (somewhat) respectable jobs. I should have a modicum of maturity, right?

Well, I don’t.

I feel my friends, the ones in either law schools, graduate schools, or working (somewhat) respectable jobs, have unstated expectations. While it seems certain social faux pas are admissible (i.e. getting too drunk and throwing up, hooking up with beastly girls and joking about it afterwards, ect.) others are not. One glaring example that no one seems to find funny anymore is when we’ll be driving somewhere and I roll down my window to scream something (hilarious) at an unsuspecting group of high school kids.

Why do I find this so funny? I don’t know. Maybe there’s something wrong with my brain. Every time I do this, and crack up afterwards, my friends look at me with disgust, shake their heads disapprovingly, and lecture me on the unfunnyness of my actions. Little do they know, by trying to ‘convince’ me screaming at people is ‘unacceptable’ and ‘not funny’, they make me want to do it all the more.

But there is one other person who empathizes with my inane antics: My former roommate. Not only does he encourage this sort of behavior, he actually devotes nights to going out with the simple intent of, what he refers to as, ‘gettin’ kids.’

Gettin’ kids – n., the art of slowing a moving vehicle down in order to properly scream degrading and offensive truisms at high school kids congregating on street corners. Kids are ‘gotten’ when they respond by either trying to yell back or displaying a trite middle finger hand gesture. See also, THROWING PROJECTILES AT PEOPLE’S PRIVATE PARTS

Since I am in graduate school for creative writing, and the first lesson you learn when writing creatively is to ‘show, don’t tell’, I want to ‘show’ you a night of gettin’ kids by taking you along with me.

We’re driving along the main strip of my pathetic suburban town. It’s a warm Spring night, hence convertible tops are down, girls shirts are up, and groups of kids are pooling around street corners.

You’re in the backseat, I’m driving, and my former roommate is sitting shotgun. We’re approaching the pizzeria, where the groups of kids converge and form one big kid conglomerate.

The kids are approaching on my side. My former roommate looks to me and says, “As your former roommate, I advise you to heckle these kids.”

I slow the car, shove my head (and half my body) out the window, and get the kids’ attentions with a shouted mantra of “Hey!”s. Now they’re all looking. I ask them if this is a gay convention. Someone answers no. Is it the gay parade? No.

Their coolheaded response is alarming, since, under any other circumstance, high school kids HATE being told they're gay.

Suddenly my roommate leans over and bellows at the crowd, “You little hooligans! This is my property! I want you all off my property! Every last one of yas! I’m gonna call ya mothers! Hey curly hair, wipe the grin off your goddamn face! I know ya mother!”

A brazen youth yells, “Fuck you!”

“Oh fuck me? I’ll spank your bottom you little ungrateful bastid! You’d better watch your fucking mouth!”

Yeah, so that’s pretty much how I spend a lot of my nights…