I was seventeen. I was in love with some girl I can’t remember now. I was young and cocky. I wore T-shirts with slogans on them, put on button-up shirts overtop of them without buttoning anything and left the whole thing untucked. I wore friendship bracelets on my wrists. I blow-dried my hair with my head hanging upside down so that my hair would be really tall.
I ate Kellogg’s Raisin-Bran for breakfast. I had a Snickers bar and a Dr. Pepper for lunch. I usually skipped dinner due to extra-curricular activities. I worked at the drugstore to make money to drive my 1980 blue 4-cylinder Volvo Stationwagon with a rumble seat in the back.
I was seventeen. I was in love with some girl I can’t remember now. I was young and cocky. I wore T-shirts with slogans on them, put on button-up shirts overtop of them without buttoning anything and left the whole thing untucked. I wore friendship bracelets on my wrists. I blow-dried my hair with my head hanging upside down so that my hair would be really tall.
I ate Kellogg’s Raisin-Bran for breakfast. I had a Snickers bar and a Dr. Pepper for lunch. I usually skipped dinner due to extra-curricular activities. I worked at the drugstore to make money to drive my 1980 blue 4-cylinder Volvo Stationwagon with a rumble seat in the back.
I was a cheerleader. I was into theater. No, wait, I was pretty arrogant about it, so I wasn’t into theater, I was into theatre. I was a musician, and in my own band. I was in the school jazz band. I was that annoyingly cheerful guy who did the morning announcements over the PA system, and did my best Robin Williams imitation by beginning the day every day with “GOOOOooooooooooOoOoOoOoOoOOOOOOOD MORNING, Quince Orchard High School! Today is (mumblety-mumblety) and these are YOUR morning announcements!”
I thought I was cool once, darn it.
My favorite “hello” phrase to good friends, then as now, was “How’s it hanging, dude?” In today’s politically correct environment, it sometimes earns me reproving looks. That’s just too bad for the overly sensitive political correctness police without a sense of humor, isn’t it?
One day after cheerleading practice in the late afternoon, I’d changed back into my bracelets and untucked T-shirt. I encountered Dr. Thomas Warren, the Quince Orchard High School Principal, in the hallway. He and I had always gotten along cordially, since I’d never been sent to his office for disciplinary problems. His vice-principal, though, was pretty well-acquainted with me. Anyway, we’d always been very stiff and formal, and in my heart I thought he was totally, assuredly, 100% un-cool:
- He had the nickname “Dr. Warden” because of his sometimes security-guard approach to being principal.
- He was really tall and slightly balding.
- He wore a suit to school.
- He had shiny shoes.
- He addressed students as “Mister” and “Miss” So-and-so.
He was so-ooo definitely not-cool. Not cool like me.
But today, something was different. His hair was slightly mussed. His tie was undone a little bit. His suit looked slightly rumpled. It looked like he’d had a long, hard day at work. Just the kind of state of mind of a person my overly-cheerful self liked to pick on.
“Yo, Doc Warren, how’s it hanging, dude?” I called as I approached him.
Dr. Warren turned his head slightly in my direction as he kept an eye on maintenance workers through the cafeteria windows. “Short, shriveled, and always to the left,” he replied in a deadpan voice, cracked a wry grin at my open-mouthed holy crap my principal just said that! stare, turned on his heel, and began to saunter toward his office.
I recovered my voice after a few seconds of stunned silence
“Yo, Doc Warren!” I shouted toward his back as he walked away from me. He turned slightly and cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Doc Warren,” I continued, “you’re cool, man.”
“I know,” he responded.
He turned back the way he was going, and swaggered off towards his office.