Chad…

Chad and I met in 1st grade. To my recollection, it was nothing special. “Hey, you wanna be friends?”

“Sure.” and off we went. Although we separated for a few years during the puberty era, we found ourselves in the same social circle once more come high school. The fluctuating level of our friendship culminated when I was down on my luck in Florida: The Worst State. We made a movie together with Dalton, which turned out horribly and put a strain on our relationship. However, it takes more than 10,000 dollars and a couple of crushed dreams to destroy longevity.

We were never meant to engage in romantic relationships. His always ended bloody and violent and mine always ended in tears and obsession, but boy did we know how to cause mischief. We were a destructive force of anarchy under the guise of freedom. I had a taste for blood and Chad gave me a politician’s bite. We wrecked many a life, one being a girl I hated from the start who broke Chad’s heart. I hear she’s cool now, but I’ll swear till the day I die that she deserved it at the time.

During our filmmaking attempt in Washington, Chad and I frequented the bars for stress relief after a long, excruciating day on set. One night on our walk back to his house we stopped for a couple cream cheese hot dogs and bore witness to a couple 200 lb. women engaged in a street brawl, probably over some scrawny white boy. In the heat of the moment, one of them dropped her cell phone.

I picked it up and politely tried to return it, but she was too preoccupied spitting slurs through the gap in her teeth, shrugging me off while I tried to return her lost, and soon to be stolen, product. After it was clear she wasn’t interested in her phone I took it upon the drunk justification that she deserved to lose it. Along the way home Chad and I discussed the possibility that she may not have even been aware that is was stolen. That’s when we walked past a closed bookstore. Our drunken and confused morals combined with our collective sins as Chad wiped his finger prints and reared back to cast the first phone, despite the recommended credentials. The glass door shattered in a way that was unnatural to our film filled beliefs and we ran, laughing between breaths.

Sometimes I feel as if we paid our penance in advance, however, with a little game we liked to call Spoons. Rules were simple, yet grotesque: Play one round of Bullshit, the winner of which was rewarded the ultimate immature prize, which was an opportunity to create a punishment for the following loser of the dreaded game Spoons. As long as:

1) It didn’t cause permanent bodily harm.

2) It didn’t cost more than $1.

3) It was nothing more than a misdemeanor.

The twisted fuck was allowed free reign. We had no shortage of twisted fucks, including myself, Chad, Logan and Joe as regulars. Nick refused to play. Shit got deep before we got out, from swallowing a table spoon of Squirrel Away to snorting Tabasco sauce (and much worse), we were all mentally damaged to say the least.

But none of these things stick out in my mind, I have to demand their recollection. The event that sticks out goes way back when. In the third grade both Chad and myself dabbled in Karate. I did it mostly because it was something to do, but he started before me, putting him ahead in belts, and he knew it, too.  One day, during recess, he childishly put his thumbs in his ears, fingers extended and tongue protruding, calling me a “Puny little white belt.” I chased him down and tackled him, causing the both of us to receive indoor school suspension.

To this day when I see kids practicing karate, I think about that day. So if I’m passing by a dojo filled with kids learning the art of “Self defense”, a robber in mid-getaway blows a tire and slams into me at 45 mph, I’ll have died thinking of my oldest friend Chad.

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