“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,… “
—— Charles Dickens
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Yea… during this time, I was in the best possible position I could be with Allen and his gang. After returning from Kansas I also had enough money to contribute in the ways that made sense to me and them. Ways that at least didn’t directly lead to craziness.
Beer and food, going in on bags of weed… our “best of times” were best for me when we just hung out at Allen’s and got buzzed. I tried to support that as much as possible. That way I could decompress from a hard day’s work while Allen or one of his minions told me all about their best of times gone by. It was winter, so the gang didn’t need much convincing to stay in. To not go and hang out in a park or the street.
Where the craziness happened.
Allen never let the whole gang in his apartment so only a few of the kids got to hang out there with me and him and his girlfriend. These were the older ones, around thirteen or fourteen. They loved it that Allen was allowing them so much time and to be so close. In this environment I could see how he meant the world to them. How he had been the one who had tied that magic string around their fingers.
These lucky few would do all they could to make that time last. They tried so hard to tell the dramatic stories of passed exploits. Times of all that fun craziness. Breaking glass was a big part of their stories and I could see that they were also Allen’s favorite. The storytelling was almost always inadequate for Allen however, and he’d jump in and get to the good parts as quickly as possible. He was better at telling stories but I could also tell that he didn’t really want to do that.
Allen wanted to go out and get crazy. He was seventeen so there were only so many stories to tell. He needed more. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before he was going to want to get ME into more as well. More then just the one about me shoving him and that wrestler dude.
The one about how I “stopped Allen from killing that asshole”.
Yea… to me alone, Allen said that he “never even thought about going for my knife” but the story changed a lot when he told it to the gang.
This fact helped me to believe that some of the stories I was hearing about the gang’s crazy fun times were equally embellished or perhaps even out and out lies. I think I needed to believe this. The stories of wild nights breaking the windows of cars and storefronts seemed “normal” enough, for a gang of street punks. But when I started hearing details of fights or about other, more disturbing things. I tended to try and change the subject.
Or (in keeping with my big quiet persona) I’d just leave.
I guess my good boy/good man behind the mask, could feel the toxic nature of this lifestyle.
More to come…
