This entry was to be posted in '06 but got "lost"...silly me.They say you can't go home again. I agree. For one it would be a pain in the ass for me to try, seeing as how "home" for the most part was always a choice between here or there. If anything, I had "homes"...a second floor above my grandparents, a few roach infested dumps with mom, an apartment with dad, then a house for the school years, another with my mom for the summers...on and on it went. I have revisited those years with limited interest in the past, mainly because I don't notice the years slipping away. I always assume there will be time to sift thru those memories later, then life happens to get in the way a little here and there...suddenly the occasional fading picture found at the bottom of a shoebox brings back a flood of strange memories or feelings. Of all the years I recall with any regularity, my high school years are the most confusing to me. A few weeks ago many of the people I graduated with got together and celebrated 20 years since we all parted ways. I kicked around the idea of going a bit, but in the end decided against it for one simple reason. I don't know those people anymore.
In fact, I never knew those people.
I shared 6 full years with them in all, from my first awkward moments coming to a new suburb and school in 7th grade, to the day I grabbed my barely earned diploma and ran for daylight with the urgency of a diver surfacing for air. I ran from that school, and those people, from that history and those memories, from that house and that suburb and all of it. I was a square peg from day one, no matter how well I faked it and "fit in", be it in some artsy clique or team...I didn't belong.
A few days ago I drove through that old neighborhood and down near my old school. It was nice to see certain things have not changed, like our old house. It looks as if we just left, with the exception of some lace curtains in my old basement bedroom window. It was also nice to see that some things had changed, entirely. What absolutely did not change was that stale,chilling feel of being a perpetual visitor. Every moment I spent in Elmhurst felt as if I were watching the world through a pane of glass. I could get close, but close was close enough, then I would catch my own reflection staring back. I was by no means depressed living in Elmhurst, although compared to how my life turned for the better afterwards it's safe to say they werent the best years of my life. They were the growing up years, the ones where it's hard to fit in your own skin, let alone a(nother) new location. And afterall, I did make at least a few good friends. One of the few people in my life I ever met that not only "got" my warped sense of humor (my defense mechanism against all that raging teen angst) but bolstered it with his own brand of insanity. I met him the same way most people meet each other...shortly after he punched me, squarely in the nose.
It was an accident,of course. Jim Fucciolo, or "Fuch" (careful now, it's pronounced FOOOOOSH)is Italian, and by virtue of his heritage must speak only whilst flailing his arms about in wild animated fashion. This serves two distinct purposes. One, it gives a visual punctuation to accompany the story being told ... and secondly, it effectivly lays out flat any attempt to sabotage said speaker from a sneak attack from behind.
I honestly don't remember what I was doing walking up behind him, but I do remember the momentary flash of knuckles shortly before hearing..."OOOH...oh..uh...you ok?"
As luck would have it, Jim not only had a wicked backhand, but was a master at stopping nosebleeds thanks to having been tormented by them most of his life.
Our friendship grew quickly, and before long we commandeered out little corner of the school. The jocks had the football field, the brains had the Library...we...owned Art Staff... holding hostage it's residents as our captive audience for about an hour or so a day. We both had our talents, not the least of which was driving our otherwise unflappable teacher insane. He and his battle worn Jeep got us to and from school, and the occasional trip to the mall and everywhere else for that matter.
We suffered through psychotic G-I Joe looking gymnastic coaches and one or two insane girlfriends (one in particular,who,after telling me she wanted to date other guys, dropped Jim's name as candidate number 1. Jim replied by laughing, stating that nobody in thier right mind would date her...and then added..."except for you...of course...!") My dad got a kick out of him and his Jeep with the rusted snowplow, it's shovel complete with huge snarling teeth and blood red tongue.
Jim had lost his own dad early in his life. I remember trying and never quite being able to understand what that felt like...to lose someone that close. At the time, I had both parents in reasonably good health. The closest relatives that had passed in my life had done so when I was too young to comprehend. Jim kept memento's of his father, a luger and some other firearms. One thing he kept in particular I remember quite well. A flag, folded in a triangle honoring his dads military service. Now that I have one for my own dad, I can understand how deep that loss is, but only from an adult perspective.
Hanging with him was good for my soul, I have come to realize. He was a good friend, and for all intents and "porposes" (just for the halibut)my best friend in high school.
I had all those memories in my head when I finally decided it was time to find him again. It was about 15-ish years since we last spoke. A lot has happened in that time. I got married, had 2 kids, bought and sold a house or two, and lost both parents and grandparents. I wondered what those years did for him. I hoped he was married with kids, and that his mom was ok, that he made millions inventing some useless info-mercial trash.
I found Jim's family with a little Googling and some luck. I sent a greeting, crossed my fingers, and a few days later, got a reply. His new wife sent a note saying I had found him...and gave a number.
I felt like a kid again...
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