Bad Is Good
I grew up on an idyllic, one-block-long street that was a microcosm of the diversity of Milwaukee’s Northshore. The neighborhood had kids of all ages from families that were both Protestant and Catholic. Some of the kids on the street were girls, but far more were boys. For the most part, we all got along. There was one mix-raced boy who lived a block away. For no reason at all, he and I didn’t get along. We postured a lot, but never actually tussled. One day he backed me into our driveway and sidearmed a flat rock that skipped off the back of my hand, drawing blood. Many of us went to the same public elementary school. Others went to a special school where they were taught by real-life nuns. Despite our cultural and religious differences, we were unified by one thing: bad haircuts. It didn’t matter if it was short or long, shaggy or bowl-shaped, or had a dreidel-like point on the top of your head, it just had to look so ridiculous in your school photo that you considered it cringy by the time you were in your early teens.
Grant, my oldest and best friend, lived across the street. He led the league in bad haircuts for several years. He pioneered the dreidel cut. We got along well, but occasionally we argued. When Grant was mad at me he would sing the title line from “Go Away Little Girl.” I didn’t know the song, but what Grant was implying was clear. It wasn’t until years later when I heard Donny Osmond sing it that I fully appreciated the genius of the insult.
If Grant had broken out the Donny Osmond or he wasn’t around, I frequently sought out Jimmy, who lived next door to Grant. A year younger than Grant and I, Jimmy was a fun kid, but he chased trouble constantly and usually caught it. When I was eight or nine, Jimmy and I were playing in the street as an Asian couple on a pleasant neighborhood bike ride approached. As they pedaled past us, Jimmy squinted and blurted out in his most offensive Chinese accent, “Ching chang chow chong.” The couple stopped and gave Jimmy a lecture on cultural sensitivity. My father watched from the sidewalk, chin on chest, no doubt thinking, “Thank god that isn’t my kid.”
No doubt, Jimmy had never seen any real-life Asian Americans up close before. Not many of us had. Still, I would never have mocked the Asian couple like Jimmy did, but I didn’t mind creating a little mischief now and then. When I was mischievous, I wasn’t preoccupied with my problems. I let them go. I was in charge. No one expected anything of me. There was no pressure to please anyone, real or imagined.
Around the time of the ching chang chow chong incident, Jimmy and I were in my father’s basement workroom carving popsicle sticks with razor blades. Grinding them on the sidewalk couldn’t get the point sharp enough to qualify as a legitimate shank. I went upstairs for something, leaving Jimmy alone with his razor blade. There was no tool or blade holder, just a little naked blade. When I returned, blood was gushing from Jimmy’s hand. There was so much blood I thought he’d slit his wrist. I scanned the floor for a thumb or a pinkie. Fortunately, for both of us, all digits were still attached to his hand. I’m sure my parents were mortified by what Jimmy’s parents must have thought of them. On the other hand, Jimmy’s parents knew their son well enough to expect some blood puddles now and then. I, of course, was punished. When I got caught for doing something stupid like this, I either cried and begged for forgiveness or tried to lie my way out of it. With Jimmy’s finger sliced open and blood flowing freely, there was no point in lying. I begged shamelessly for forgiveness. Most of my capers with Jimmy, however, went unknown and unpunished.
One sticky summer evening, my parents hosted a cocktail party in our backyard. It must have been a good one because nothing had been cleaned up by the time Jimmy and I arrived late the following morning. Jimmy and I sucked gin-soaked limes and raided ashtrays full of cigarette butts and, as luck would have it, unused matches. We collected the butts and matches and went to a small park on a bluff above Lake Michigan. We hid in a sparsely leafed bush and smoked ‘em all down.
The following day, without Jimmy, I took the matches to the park and searched the sidewalks and grass for discarded butts, picking up any I could find. No butt was too short. Lipstick marks were acceptable. Back to the bush I went. This routine went on until I had picked the park clean. Even when I went home with a burnt hand and smokey breath, my parents never knew what I was up to. Back then you could take off for anyplace within a ten-block radius and your parents wouldn’t worry. The peaceful neighborhood allowed us to look for trouble safely. Some of the best days of my life were spent roaming that neighborhood. Sure, I had plenty of worrisome thoughts, but hiding in a bush to score a few drags quieted my racing mind. Being bad felt so good.
The moment I walked into the house, the bad boy thrill was gone and I was back to being my usual ponderous self. As I grew older, I chased the bad boy thrills a few times hoping I’d get an answer to the question, “What’s wrong with me?” Tripping my balls off at a Grateful Dead show at the Greek Theater in Berkeley, or the Providence Civic Center, or the Meadowlands, or the Ventura Fairgrounds, or the Minneapolis Metrodome didn’t provide an answer. Mushrooms, weed and drinking until I puked couldn’t do it either. Nothing ever came close to the thrill I got going into the bushes to suck on a stubby, lipsticked-stained Virginia Slims.