I had my friend Jean and three strangers all packed inside my beat-up Subaru and was driving somewhere out in the middle of nowhere on a dirt road in southern Arkansas. One of the guys shouted directions at me, struggling to be heard over the music and the manic conversation. Jean asked if I had any hip hop, so I popped out one silver disc and replaced it with another that had “Immortal Technique” printed in black sharpie on it. I secretly hoped it might score me some points with her, picking an independent rap artist rather than someone like 50 Cent or Nelly. Instead she said, “Yeah, I like him,” but went on to name other rappers she liked better, none of whom I recognized.
Eventually the dirt road led to an old white mobile home streaked with dirt and tiny fogged windows. We all went inside and I settled on a couch listening quietly while everyone talked and debated about every radical thing under the sun. I eyed the dinged-up coffee table with a glass bong and several ash trays and hoped someone might suggest we start smoking. Nobody did. Someone in the kitchen poured some Folgers into a rusted pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. As the water boiled, the scent of strong coffee wafted into the living room, so I made my way into the kitchen to ask for a cup.
“How are you going to separate the coffee from the grains,” asked the guy manning the stove. A lit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He wore a loose t-shirt, the neck was stretched out so far I could see his collar bones.
“It’s cowboy coffee,” Jean said suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway. “It’s the best way to make coffee. Makes it so strong.” The coffee guy put another tin pot in the sink and took the pot of coffee off the stove. Carefully he poured the coffee through a metal strainer. I asked for a cup and when he finished he grabbed an old stained mug and filled it half way for me. Bits of coffee grains floated to the top, but I thanked him and drank the coffee.
I don’t remember why I was there. All I know is Jean needed me to drive her and her friends out to this place and I complied because that’s what friends do. I guess, even estranged friends.
I remember one day in high school I was sitting with my back against the brick school building engrossed in a book when Jean came up to me and slapped a large plastic biohazard sign on my chest.
“You’re infectious waste! You’re a disease!” she screamed and walked off.
It didn’t even phase me. Later she apologized and I nearly burst out laughing. Why would I be offended? I had never been called a disease before and the idea someone would be so theatrical with their insults made the whole thing seem absurd. Jean was prone to outbursts like that and I’d learned to roll with it. I hung the plastic biohazard sign on my wall in my bedroom.
This was the person who taught me how to fix my cheap Walmart skateboard with the plastic trucks and the peeling grip tape. She took off the wheels and oiled the bearings. She took out a riser that was nestled between the deck and the base plate. “You don’t need these,” she said and tossed them aside. She repainted the deck and decorated it with duct tape.
We took the board to our friend Devin’s parent’s house which was in a neighborhood on top of steep hill. The trees were shedding their yellow, orange, and brown leaves and the air was cool and clean. I got on my board at the top of the hill and with no hesitation started cruising down. The work Jean had done on the board was better than I had expected. I was absolutely flying down the hill, the cool autumn wind stinging my eyes, making them water. Then I was off my board tumbling forward, feet in the air. I hit the blacktop and slid along as the gravel tore at my skin. Devin and Jean were soon next to me, helping me up asking if I was okay. I laughed and said of course I was okay because I guess I thought I was too cool for pain. We went back to Devin’s parent’s house and I took off my shirt which had been soaking up blood to see the road rash all along the left side of my torso. Devin brought some gauze, alcohol, and some medical tape for Jean and she began gingerly fixing me up. The thing I remember most clearly was what she said while she pressed gauze on my torso. “That was fucking rad.”
Years after we lost touch, old high school friends started sharing on Facebook a video from the Tyra Banks show. Jean was on it talking about her freegan diet. She would dumpster-dive restaurants to salvage the food they would throw away. She talked about how wasteful society was and how she found a working ipod in the dumpster of an Ivy League school. Tyra Banks asked her if she got all her food this way. Jean said no, there were some things that just don’t get thrown out. She still had to buy coffee.
“Got to have that Starbucks!” Tyra laughed and I instantly hated that whole show. There was no way for Tyra Banks to know that Jean drank “cowboy coffee” out of chipped and stained mugs. She didn’t know that Jean would have lengthy bouts of mania and then sudden fits of rage where she called people “infectious waste.” Nobody on that show knew that Jean could fix up a skateboard and then fix up her friend’s injuries after he wiped out along several feet of gravel. To Tyra Banks, Jean was a guest on her show that ate weird stuff. That was it. Her next guest was a guy that ate bugs. Jean, ever adventurous, tried to ask the guy if she could have one, but Tyra talked over her.
I often wonder how many people there are like Jean. Did every high school have someone so fiercely independent, so uniquely themselves, and so unabashedly radical in their beliefs? Does everyone have a friend who, decades later, they still think about the influence they had on the trajectory of their lives? I hope they do. I think we all need a little weirdness and little wildness injected into our lives.
The Barberry Writers 