Fake Cool

It was the 1950's, and I was bad.  I wore tight jeans folded up at the ankles, shaped my hair into awful configurations, and turned the collar up on my jacket.  Despite being male, most of the people I hung out with were female.  Of the few guys I knew, though, I did have one friendship that I particularly cherished. We lived in an abandoned building, in a wrecking-ball hole several floors up and only accessible via a tall, twisting, magnificent tree.  We would huddle there together like birds in a nest, watching the rain fall on the leaves from the comfort of our derelict home.  I didn't have to act tough around this guy; I could be myself, I could talk about beauty and nature.

A restaurant owner had lost his child.  The androgynous kid was probably only about 12 years-old when they died.  Knowing that the child he had loved was gone, the father gifted the body to my posse of teased-hair, chain-smoking, mini-skirt and leather-clad whiskey-drinkers.  It didn't seem like an entirely out of the ordinary thing to do, but I was repulsed no less as the girls excitedly unwrapped the thin sheet to reveal the sunken, bluish corpse.  Still wearing my mask of impenetrable cool, I slowly edged backwards away from them as they planned to dissect it and make art of it, "like da Vinci did."  Taking a swig from my flask and a drag off of my cigarette, I leaned towards the ear of my best friend and whispered, "Jesus Christ, girls are hard core."

And Mostly Forgotten:

I returned to Israel to work in the same peace village, but this time had much more fun.  Much more. So much more.  I was prepared ahead of time to enjoy myself massively.  I knew what to expect.  My love would meet me there.  I had a friend with me.  Together, she and I hitch-hiked and traveled about confidently and with scheming, adventurous minds.  I awoke wishing I had brought such an attitude with me in reality.