The Coolest Adult in America

            by Jacob Shandling

 

            We have all experienced that strange, confusing time in life that is called Middle School, and, I think it is fair to say that, looking back, it was one of the more funny times of my life.

            I was the stereotypical ÔIÕm cooler than you think I amÕ middle school kid. Excuse me, middle school adult. Anyway, I focused on the important things in life. And if it wasnÕt cool, you know for damn sure that it wasnÕt important. However, what I decided was cool changed constantly over the three years.

 

Adventures as a Skater

             One thing that I really liked and that stayed cool throughout middle school was skateboarding. I was a skater. Yeah, I was extreme, didnÕt take no mierda from the man. I was a bonafide rebel. So my skater friends and I would spend our weekends skating around, finding spots to practice our extreme acts of civil-disobedience, and then scattering when the man, in form of a schoolyard teacher or business employee, came and kicked us out. The adrenaline of such a high-stakes encounter was exhilarating.

            Even though skateboarding was inherently so bad assed, it was hard to deal with my parentsÕ insistence on wearing a helmet. Since I was never very good, I had to boost my reputation any way besides skill that I could, and definitely not blight it with anything so dorky and not cool as a helmet. So most days when I ran out of the door to skate to school with helmet in hand, I stashed the loser-cap in a nearby bush, assuming I wouldnÕt need to worry about anyone stealing a helmet. And at the end of the day, after showing off my rebellious uncovered head at school, I removed it from its hiding place, and walked in the door, to my parentsÕ pleasure, wearing my helmet like a goodÉman?

           

            Every Friday my friends and I would hang out at Berkeley HighÕs East Campus. This was the old East Campus, where the floors were made of wood and the ground was made of rough cement. This was our posseÕs turf, and we skated it, did pyrotechnics on it, and claimed the land with our pre-teen shenanigans. The nearby LeeÕs market supplied all of the candy, ice cream, and other sugary delights that kept us energized and crazy. One Friday morning I discovered fifteen whole dollars lying under the living room couch. Wow, I was excited! After school, as my skater posse sped up the street towards east campus, I took a quick detour.

            ÒHey guys IÕll meet you at East Campus,Ó I shouted as I went down a side street toward LeeÕs.

            ÒWhere you goinÕ?Ó shouted Ross.

            ÒYouÕll see.Ó

            I arrived at East Campus with an entire plastic bag, fifteen bucksÕ worth, of candy.

            ÒDude! Awesome!Ó everyone shouted in unison. As I passed out the goods, Ross had a crazy idea.

            ÒI dare someone to snort a pixie stick,Ó he said. Being the confident, securely cool kids we were, no one laughed at the obviously stupid and juvenile idea. It didnÕt seem at all stupid or juvenile.

            ÒIÕll do it if you do it,Ó I said, trying to be the crazily cool one in the group.

            ÒFine,Ó said Ross. So we went to the open area in the center of East Campus, and opened the package of pixie sticks.

            ÒIÕm doing a green one,Ó Ross said.

            ÒOkay let me get an orange,Ó said I with perfect disregard to the unforeseen consequences that might come with sniffing sugar, food coloring, and assorted chemical flavorings. ÒAlright. OneÉTwoÉThree!Ó

            We shoved the thin paper package into our nostrils, closed the other nostril with our fingers, and quickly inhaled. Five seconds of bug eyes and silence.

            ÒAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!Ó we both shrieked in pain. ÒOwe! Oh my god! Aaaaaahhh!!Ó I began sobbing. The pain was terrible! My face burned and my nose had filled with stinging mucus.

            ÒWATER!Ó Ross screamed at the giggling onlookers. Our eyes got bloodshot, and I felt as if a bug were eating my sinuses. We rolled around on the ground for a good 5 minutes before we forced ourselves to get up and get to the water fountain.

            ÒOoowww,Ó I quietly continued to moan for the next hour.

            But at least I had done it. Better to be stupid than scared.

Iceland

            At some point in middle school, it became a cool thing to go to Iceland on Friday nights and go ice-skating. Now, being the true-to-the-core skateboarder that I was, I didnÕt want any of that cheesy ice-skating. No, I would go against the grain and be individual, along with the rest of my friends who were being individual. At some point, however, I decided that, as individual as I was, the coolest thing to do was conform. So I went.

            ÒJake, you canÕt go, you have to eat dinner at home,Ó my mom said.

            ÒBut why canÕt I just go after dinner! Everyone else goes.Ó

            ÒI donÕt know how safe it is JakeÓ

            ÒWhat the hell mom, I can take care of myself IÕm already 13 for gods sake. IÕll be with Ross anyway.Ó

            ÒMaybe sometime,Ó she finally relented. Sweet! I thought.

            The next Friday I stood in my ice skates, which were not quite tight enough, but hell, I was a man already, and I could exaggerate my shoe size if I wanted, just to show everyone how manly I was. Ross came out of the bathroom.

            ÒHey dude lets go,Ó he said. We strutted with as much grace as 7^th graders on ice skates could muster to the ice rink.

            Knowing that I HAD to know what I was doing, or else I would look stupid, I put a little grin on my face and placed my first foot on the ice. Okay. I placed the second foot on, and stood! Ross did the same, and we started skating.

            Swinging our arms as casually as we could manage, we glided around the rink, smirking with insecurity. As I glided by other middle schoolers, I didnÕt introduce myself or try to make any friends. This, of course, had nothing to do with premature social skills, but was simply because I was much cooler than they would think I was, so talking to them would only give false impressions.

            ÒHey Emma,Ó Ross said to some unfamiliar girl as we skated past.

            ÒRoss!Ó Her and her friends skated over to us.

            ÒHey Jacob this is Emma, Emma this is Jacob,Ó Ross introduced us with the smugness that only came with the opportunity to show off a social connection.

            ÒHi,Ó she greeted me timidly.

            ÒÉHey,Ó my not-quite-dropped male voice crackled in response, attempting to sound much lower than it naturally did.

            ÒWill you marry me?Ó said the girl, smiling goofily. Lots of people coped with the social insecurities of middle school by acting really weird, I did too, but when others were coping with social insecurities towards me, I had nothing but to be as unweird and secure as possible.

            ÒUh, sureÓ came my pubescent, off-pitched voice.

            ÒHooray!Ó she screamed and skated away with her friends.

            ÒWhat a weirdo,Ó I said, turning back to Ross.

            ÒSheÕs cool though,Ó he responded, unable to allow his impressive social connection to turn out to be not so impressive.

            ÒOk,Ó I said. Now, I trusted Ross on what was cool and what wasnÕt, so every time I passed Emma, we would do some kind of weird thing at each other. I was really good with girls.

The Gilman

            One friend followed by another began to listen to punk rock. It was rebellious, it socked it to the man, and it was cool. Plus, many of the lyrics talked about sex and violence, things I was perfectly familiar with as a twelve year old. So I got into it as well. My friends and I started going to The Gilman, an abandoned fish cannery that had been turned into an underground, and for the most part punk rock, music club. And this is what I learned from the enlightening music and oh so sane people that went to such a place:

            The searing inner pain and emotional and social instability of my heart drives me. The blackness of my soul lives within, constantly tormenting and eating away at my happiness. I live in darkness, in heat, and in pain. Growing up white and middle class has left me emotionally deformed. I was dragged through eight years of soul shattering school, and blighted with the eastern European Jewish heritage that my god-forsaken parents nailed to me at conception. Not to mention grandparents who left as much of their money as they could afford to for my college education. My life is suffering.

Hand Jobs

            One Monday as Ross and I walked to school, Ross started talking about his wild and crazy experience at Iceland the previous Friday night.

            ÒAnd this girl was sitting on the bleachers and she was drunk!Ó

            ÒWoa,Ó I exclaimed.

            ÒYea and all these guys were sitting around her and she was putting her hand in their crotches!Ó My heart skipped a beat. Sexuality? Yea, I knew about sex. I kept myself cool and responded.

            ÒSweet, I wish I was there.Ó Was that the right thing to say?

            ÒAnd Jess and Mikey went in the bathroom, and Mikey said she was about to give him a hand job, but then she remembered that she had a boyfriend!Ó

            ÒNo dude, what are you talking about she wouldnÕt doÉthat,Ó I said in as relaxed a voice I could. ThatÉI know what that is. Yeah, sure.

            ÒDude, people are giving those at our age you know.Ó Oh no. I was trapped.

            ÒUmm. So wait, whatÕs a hand job?Ó

            ÒYouÕre kidding, right?Ó the dreaded question. Please god, please spare me from this awkwardness! And in that moment, I felt as though my life could not be any worse.

            ÒNo,Ó I muttered in shame.

            ÒOh. ItÕs where a girl gives you a hug and then gives you a back massage from the hug position.Ó

            ÒOh ya, now I remember. I knew that. Duh, everyone knows what that is.Ó

            So when I got home that day, as many a middle schooler is, I was eager to use my newly learned vocabulary. My mom was making a snack in the kitchen.

            ÒHey mom, can I have a hand job?Ó I said, completely unknowingly.

            ÒWHAT?!Ó

            And my parents finally sat me down and gave me the oh so famous ÒBirds and the BeesÓ talk. I felt like the coolest kid in America the next day.