High School Crap: The Roadblock, Pt. 1

As a student of a grad program* partially specializing in novels for teenagers and as an employee of an organization that reviews a great number of said "YA" novels, I do an inordinate amount of thinking about high school. So I might as well put that to my benefit, right?

Thus, I present to you, the first** entry in High School Crap, a strip-mining of my days in that teetotalin' epicenter of eternal development: Snellville, GA (and here):

The Roadblock, Pt. 1

It was a typical summer's eve in '99. We weren't quite juniors then, and the novelty of owning a car was still fresh (especially when you had a sweet green Jetta as I did). Not to mention the fact that we had nothing to do and were anxious teenage souls. Thus, as is so often the case in high school (and Western history), it's the boredom/anxiety + transportation combination that leads to adventure (e.g. kids in high school doing stupid crap like the events that follow, or the Colonization of the New World).

So the two of us with cars (me and Daniel) split the gang between us and we set out into the wilds of Gwinnett County. Gwinnett during the day is such a traffic-encrusted sprawl that it's strange to see it at night -- practically deserted, with twisty and often poorly lighted roads, and outcroppings of outrageously priced neighborhoods and apartment complexes dumped straight off the factory line.

And office parks. As Daniel and I carried our Precious Cargo (in my case: J.B. (male), in the back, and Trixie (female, name disguised to protect the innocent), riding shotgun) through the evening, assuredly making obscene gestures at the other car, we passed plenty of these squat little brick-and-glass buildings where you imagine people are probably selling things like carpet (imported from Dalton?). And then, seeking to cause a little good-natured trouble, we stopped at one.

This particular one had the appearance of a car dealership -- lots of glass and open office space and high ceilings. And the lights were on. Stealthily, we parked outside. A scout informed us that what appeared to be a middle aged couple was doing nightly custodial duties inside, in full view of the expansive windows.

So, four of us did as we had to. We crept up to the window, unbuttoned trousers, knocked on the glass, and presented full, pasty bottoms to the hapless couple inside. We didn't stick around to see their reactions -- we just ran. And drove off.

Now, this would, in itself, probably be enough fun for one evening. Enough to talk about as we drove around (probably listening to Weezer) and then once we got back to whatever basement we were chilling in that night.

But there would be more. Much more.

We haven't even gotten to the roadblock.

Next time!




*a program from which I will soon be graduated. Sweet?
**actually, kind of the second