Friday, March 21, 2008

• An Instrument Of Divine Justice.

  When I was a little kid, younger than I am now, I had always dreamed of being older and what special abilities it would bring.  I could see myself driving and voting and holding a job. It was a great little fantasy world that seemed just beyond the horizon.  "Someday...” I thought.  "Someday, I'll have that privilege."
  
  Surely enough, that day came and I was stuck with a part time job that paid minimum wage; most of which went to auto insurance payments and gas money.  What a lovely existence, right?  I mean, where was the fantasy or being able to drive around, unhindered by the lives of my parents?  Now I can come home and complain about traffic.  I thought my parents would give me a little more freedom to do what I wanted.  Nothing!  What a life, right?  I just wanted a moment where I could appreciate not being twelve.
  
  Today, that moment occurred.
  
  I was out wasting gas on my way to my girlfriend's house when I decided to take a back road way through a residential section.  The speed limit read thirty, so I decided to stay at a clean thirty-five and not get arrested.  You could say that by this time, I was "cruising."  I was taking my time, playing music, and just enjoying the experience of not walking.  And as I turned down a long stretch of road I saw a line of three children, twelve years old or so.  And their appearance shocked me.
  
  The boy on the left was rotund and sported three nose rings.  He wore eyeliner, and looked like he had just rolled out of bed five minutes prior to our encounter.  He wore black cargo pants that were dragging on the ground over the tops of his shoes, and a gray sweatshirt six sizes too large.
  
  The other two to his right were holding hands, a girl and a guy respectively.  Both of them sported jet-black hair and dreadlocks, if you'd even call them dreadlocks.  The girl was sporting a shirt that was black spotted with little white hearts and with a neckline plunging enough that any reasonable parent would've flipped shit.  She also wore a pair of jeans that appeared to have been mauled by a bear.  Her face looked as if it had been stretched and flattened with a rolling pin and there was enough mascara in her eyes to make them look like big sunken holes.  Her boyfriend had the same pants as the other boy, except he was skinny and the pants were falling down, now to around mid-thigh.  His one arm had a tattoo that looked like it had been drawn on with a sharpie marker, and his shirt was black with the phrase "It would be better if you stopped talking."
  
  All three appeared to be obviously disgruntled middle-schoolers, and at that moment it dawned on me that I had to perform God's will.
  
  I slowed down to about ten miles mph and let the car coast while I fixed the stereo on the dashboard just right.  Within a few moments I had the bass, treble, and midrange set to max and my iPod set to play at the push of the button.  Nearly there, I let all of my windows roll down.  I was close.... closer... and suddenly in hearing range.
  
  The strains of Jack Johnson's "Banana Pancakes" erupted from my '96 Jeep and brought all the attention that was focused on the middle-schoolers' "image" to my car and it's lovely, lovely bass.  All three turned and stared, amplified by their hideous make-up and the scowls on their faces.  Obviously, no one had informed them the youniverse revolves around me, not them.  And it felt so good.  I had the car, I had the iPod, and it was a quaint lesson in reality.
  
  It also made a great story to tell my girlfriend.
  
  But this notwithstanding, I felt like a real jerk later, despite Jack Johnson being one of my preferred artists I drive to.  All I did was exercise my power over people smaller and more underprivileged than me.  I know if I were a punk kid twelve year old walking through the rich side of town with my punk twelve-year-old girlfriend, I'd certainly be pissed and offended that the world doesn't revolve around me.  It probably would've ruined my whole day.  Mayhap I would've shouted to the asshole, "This is why we can't have good people in the world!"  ...Actually, my apparent punkness would've probably translated it to, "Fuck off, dude!"
  
  Afterwards, I closed up the windows and returned my stereo to a tolerable decibel.  I now understand why people do bad things.  Morally it feels wrong, but in the grand scheme of things it could someday make them more mature individuals.  Or I'm just trying to justify being a bad, judgmental person.  If getting older has made me anything, it has made me more judgmental and opinionated.  I know who and what I support, what I don't like, and what I think is acceptable.  This may or may not be a detrimental to the rest of my life.
  
  But it definitely feels good not to be twelve.

  • 1:29 AM
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