See, when the two of us were growing up, we had a mutual friend named Brian. And Brian was a cool guy, but his mother was, for lack of a better term, batshit crazy. For starters, she hated us. I mean, absolutely loathed us, and only for the simple reason that we existed.
Yes, you can be furious at someone quietly holding a book or a Rubik's cube. No, it doesn't make sense.
And yet this was a stark contrast to how she treated her son.
Fun fact: she really did call him Bry-Bry, and we gave him endless shit for it
Fun fact#2: if you call me Bry-Bry, I will murder your face
We'd never actually seen a mother smother her child as much as she did without someone needing a body bag.
She wasn't so much a mother as a butler. If he went outside, she gave him a sweater to make sure he wasn't cold, even if it was 95 degrees. She checked in on him every 10 minutes, just to make sure he was okay and to ask him if he needed anything. She fed him lobster, and lamb, and shrimp cocktail, because she wanted nothing but the best for her son... Even if he hated it and just wanted to eat mac and cheese and chicken nuggets like the rest of us.
That, however, was not how she treated his friends, aka us. No, Brian's mom had quite an interesting policy regarding having friends over for lunch or dinner.
Yes, she absolutely refused to feed any of her son's friends, even something as simple as cereal or a sandwich. So if we played over at Brian's all day long, come lunch time, sure enough, Brian's mom would make him a bologna sandwich or pour him a bowl of cereal... and then she'd shoo us outside to wait while Brian ate. Because SHE WAS NOT A GODDAMN CHARITY.
We'd invariably walk to someone else's house, have a quick lunch there, and then return. You know, because our parents didn't mind providing an extra sandwich or two for one of their kid's friends.
That wasn't the craziest part, though. No, her not wanting to share 50 cents worth of cereal was only a funny anecdote, but what made her truly crazy was her indifference toward our injuries. In particular, one day Brian got a brand new swing set that his parents very poorly installed in the backyard.
The day after it was installed, Brian had me (Bryan) over to try it out. Within minutes of swinging, my head went back into a solid iron pole that probably should not have been positioned directly behind a wobbly swing set. I slammed into that thing so hard I probably smashed out a few IQ points.
Brian, being a good friend, got me a towel to put over the back of my head to stop the bleeding. But Brian's mom, not too keen on her "good towels" being used to absorb head wounds, quickly took it back and scolded me. Not only that, but she said I needed to leave.
No, seriously, she kicked me out. And that does not mean she gave me a ride home, either.
The nurse patched me up and then drove me home. In fact, she had even offered to make me a quick sandwich, which I politely declined. Go figure, even the nurse would have been willing to part with two slices of bread, a piece of bologna, and a Kraft single.
But it's funny, because as a kid I really didn't think much of it. To me, adults knew everything, so when they told you to do something, you did it, because that was the correct thing to do. Therefore when I had a gushing head wound and Brian's mom told me to walk half a mile to the school nurse's house, I thought that was just kinda what you did in that particular situation.
Now that I'm older, though, I realize that may have been a bit, um, I believe "fucked up" is the technical term.
Which is great, because I saw Brian's mom in the grocery store about a year ago. And she wasn't exactly what you would have called "warm".
It's just nice to know she still holds a grudge against us nasty, asshole kids after all these years.
Cheers and stay classy, friends,
Beer: Breckenridge SummerBright Ale
Music: Neon Indian