In an exchange with a girlfriend, spurred on by the death of a middle school classmate, we discussed the pain and glory of making it to our 50’s. Death is “normal” until it is someone we know. This triggered thoughts about our own mortality and a brief life review. On a more joyful note, our convo led to the news that my girlfriend was enjoying a beneficial arrangement with a very hot younger man in his 30’s. A jolt of happiness for her ran through me, then the searing remnants of jealousy settled into self pity. “Sounds perfect!” I responded with happy emoji’s. I flipped through my mental calendar to the last time I had sex. It had been a while. Not a surprise since menopause has taken my vagina and libido hostage. In all honesty, I was very happy for my girlfriend-what a score!
My friends victory couldn’t overshadow the sad news. According to a Facebook thread, a kid we knew in middle school had passed. That reality of death sparked grief knowing he will never walk another step on this green earth. I know death is the only guarantee we are given at birth, but my mind prepares expectations around the appropriate age to die.
I did not know Rusty well and there has been no contact since middle school, yet I felt a deep sorrow upon hearing the news. On a strange level we did share an odd, slightly intimate interaction over one semester in the eighth grade. I marvel at the feeling of connection I can muster from a seemingly benign occurance in a very distant past. I hardly knew the dude, but I can see and feel our last exchange like it was yesterday.
I close my eyes and directly re-live the scene. Rusty is sitting to my left across the aisle at the end of a long row of desks. We occupied the last seats near the exit. It felt as though we were on a very white walled island, just the two of us. Racking my brain now to remember who was teaching the class or the subject matter, leaves me with a giant blank. Maybe it is because we were each others teachers learning about a multitude of lessons not found in any text book or on any blackboard. This was the art of verbal fencing, an exercise subconsciously designed to build the emotional callouses necessary to survive as a “Gen X-er”.
Monday through Friday, Rusty and I would engage in “Burn Sessions” where we crafted one and two sentence bombs intended to cut the other off at the knees. The meaner, wittier, and emotionally degrading the better. Total annihilation was the goal, and without witnesses we were the warriors, judges, and jury. We were not unique to our grade as every classroom was a dojo. Students could witness a match ignite like lightening at any moment. Young teenage hormones and unrefined emotional angst needed an outlet and “burning” someone fit the bill.
Comments such as, “You’re so ugly when you were born they tried to stuff you back in.” or “Your penis is so small it has been mistaken for a vagina”, were commonplace. Yep, as eighth graders this was the level of inappropriate behavior we exchanged for fun. Oddly enough, the two of us never got angry, cried, or quit… until that fateful day.
It was a typical uneventful day in that plain nondescript classroom. Staring forward tired and bored I heard a voice to my left whisper, “Hey, why do you think you’re so cool? You are a fucking idiot.” I heard his low voice and glanced at his pimply rosacea covered cheeks. The gauntlet had been thrown. My mind was racing looking for a strong, and relentless come back. “Ya, well you’re so dumb, you have failed eighth grade four times. How old are you anyway, 18?” Rusty turned to stare at the blackboard. I was feeling prematurely victorious visualizing a little happy dance in my mind.
There was a longer than usual pause and I started to smile feeling smug and prideful. Before I could announce victory, he turned to face me and I whipped my head around. As we locked eyes he began to speak with strong conviction like he had been holding this back all year. “Your chest is so flat… they call you the Great Wall of China!” With that, he busted up laughing. Eyes wide, jaw unhinged, I heard someone else laughing and realized it was me. “Oh shit, you’re such an asshole.” I sputtered as I leaned over and gave him a high five. I licked my wounds through the locker-lined hallways on the way to meet my friends. As the emotional callouses of a middle schooler thickened, I shared the epic “burn” on the concrete stairs in the quad.
I left class that day a little smaller, a lot more humble, and full of respect. There was no come back that day, or any day. Rusty was the welterweight champion and wore the championship belt for the rest of our days.
I have no idea what took Rusty to the other side, but my recollection of this middle school story makes me smile. In his memory, I share this story and his victory with my girls, my friends, and now you. I hope he feels the respect and laughter I still hold for that one single moment. Peace to youRusty.
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