One hot, muggy day early in the spring, which in Texas could have been as early as February, I met Greg, who probably saved my life. I don't know if I could have withstood the bullying I received in junior high without a real friend. He also connected me to Phil, who along with Marsh, are like brothers to me. I would not have met anyone in what we call the gang--Phil, Lucy, Marsh, Andrea and Jim--without Greg. I probably would have moved back to Utah with my parents after two years, and Dallas would just be a short, agonizing memory.
I did meet Greg. Like I said, it was a hot, muggy day. The clouds were low, black and boiling. I got on the bus. There was the usual pushing, shoving, and over-the-top laughing. Some guy grabbed one of the twins and put her on his lap. She giggled and squealed, and said, "Stop it!"
in something that was between a playful giggle and a panicked scream. As a teenager, I assumed that was all for show, and thought that she liked it. Looking back as an adult, I'm not so sure. Everything during those years is so tumultuous. It's hard to know what's real. Now, I doubt she knew what was going on inside herself. Her brain was probably telling her attention--good; being grabbed, loosing control--not good. And in the chaos--the screaming, the pushing, the shoving, the laughing uncontrollably because it hurts to much to cry, who has a chance to analyze how they actually feel inside? I don't know how anyone makes it through puberty alive. But most of us do.
I was shoved. There was an empty seat next to a gangling guy looking out the window. It was a choice between either getting up and being shoved again or asking if I could sit down. He said yes, pointed to the clouds outside, and said, "It looks like a tornado might form."
He said that so nonchalantly. My heightened senses--all that pushing and shoving and yelling--just skyrocketed. Tornadoes were definitely not part of my childhood. This was new.
"Really?"
"Yeah, see how that cloud is swirled a bit, and drops down low in the middle, like it has a protruding belly button."
I don't exactly remember if Greg described the cloud that way, or if he used the word "protruding," but he could have. He was a smart kid, and he wasn't normal. There is no way to be normal in junior high and act intelligently. Intelligent people care about others, feel empathy, act carefully--in the best interest of not only themselves, but also those around them. Intelligent people see the big picture and move with measured, reflective responses. No, junior high is the time the normal person just shuts down all rational thought and acts on selfish, hormone-driven, ego-centered instinct. Anyone decent is going to stick out like a protruding belly button during those years.
Greg protruded. He was tall, he was lean, but had a curved back. He dressed like a hick--snap-up plaid western shirts and blue jeans--but he didn't seem to like anything country. He liked opera and theater. He wasn't normal, and unlike me, he didn't even try to be. He liked Neil Diamond. He liked fast cars, but unlike those other kids who drew them all over their binders along with the Ozzy and Van Halen logos, he'd actually done his research and knew what he was talking about. He especially liked small, European sports cars. He dreamed of becoming rich, and he had very concrete plans. I don't think most people's lives unfold anything close to their expectations, but my guess would be that his did. He was smart; he knew what he wanted; and most importantly, he seemed totally untouched by the world around him. He was teased like I was teased. The difference was he just didn't give a damn. In his mind, he was already running a big corporation, driving race cars, jetting around the world. To him this whole junior high experience was just a picnic in the woods with mosquitoes. Sure, the mosquito kids were annoying, but it wasn't the end of the world, and it wasn't like he'd stick around and get sucked dry. He'd hop in a little Italian sports car and speed off with some jock's girlfriend to his real life in a mansion just over that hill. Sure, he was failing all of his classes, but what did that matter? Unlike the rest of us, he knew junior high is not real life. He'd listen to music and dream his way through it, and when the moment was right, he'd step into the light and claim his prize.
I quickly lost contact with him during high school. If I remember right, he moved. Maybe back to St. Louis, his hometown. However, I did once hear from a mutual friend that somewhere around 11th or 12th grade Greg became an A student and went on to college and received some award. It surprised my friend. In ninth grade we all knew he constantly received C's and F's (there were no D's in our district). But, it didn't surprise me. It was part of his plan. Dream through the ridiculousness and act once the game was real. I knew nothing about Buddhism then. I doubt he did either, but Greg was the first Buddhist I ever met, and perhaps the only truly proficient one I know. Most Buddhists, like all truth-seekers, including myself, seem to be caught forever in that striving phase that must occur before arriving. The Greg I knew in junior high had already arrived. He was just sitting things out, killing time.
One evening he came over to the apartment and knocked on the door, holding a kitchen chair. My mother let him in. "Grab a chair. Let's go sit in the field. That fog is amazing." So, we did. The fog was so thick that in the center of that five-acre field, the city lights all but disappeared. Greg didn't say a word. He just sat there in silence as cool mist slowly dampened our clothes. I enjoyed it, but I started to get cold. He could have sat there until he grew moss. However, noticing that I was cold, he said, "That was amazing; let's go."
I wish a little of Greg rubbed off on me, but I can't say that it did. Still, although he was only a friend for a brief while, he was a good friend, and more importantly, he connected me to Phil.
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