Timothy DeLizza
Male Mentors
My first day of sophomore year, I woke up early and put on my new tie-dye T-shirt. I had recently written the Doors in Wite-Out onto my bookbag, with choice lyrics Sharpied in a spiral around the name.
I reached the bus stop by Bartel-Pritchard Square, then waited for the B68. Nobody I knew was there, but a kid who could still be in junior high was bouncing about, seemingly eager to talk. I played it cool—odds were he wasn’t even headed for Midwood.
When the bus arrived, I flashed my bus pass from June. Each month’s looks like a glossy baseball card with a rotating color. This one was wrinkled purple but I didn’t have a September one yet. Instead, I had a pocket full of quarters from my parents that I’d rather spend on anything else. The driver sized me up, then with a pitying look said, “You need the new one. Starting tomorrow, I’m not going to accept that.” The new kid behind me paid.
The bus was mostly empty. I got a window seat as we head south along Coney Island Avenue.
After about forty minutes, I got off at Avenue J. From there, I could catch to the B11 or B6. The new kid got off too and we waited together for the long traffic light that led to the next bus stop. I figured he was either a Midwood or Murrow freshman.
“I love the Doors,” he said tentatively—like he might be speaking to himself.
“You’re too young to get them,” I said.
“I’m fourteen,” he said defensively.
I rolled my eyes.
Across the street at the next stop was a group of punks I knew. I worried the new kid would appear like someone I brought, but he dropped six or seven feet behind me.
I didn’t match the punks visually: I was more grunge (jeans, flannel and band t-shirt) or sixties hippie. But I knew these guys well enough that it wasn’t a big deal. They’d given me countless mixtapes from the underground punk scene, and I could blend. Most of all, I fucking hated Midwood High School with its overcrowded halls (a building meant for two thousand, now holding four thousand) and stale air. They fucking hated Midwood High School too. We agreed on that.
As I approached, Vincent was showing off his summer weight loss to Johnny. Vincent’s stomach, which had been fat, was now creped skin.
“How did you do it?” I asked as if I’d been in the conversation all along.
“I just starved myself,” Vincent said, beaming.
Then, Alex showed up with a mohawk—complete with shaved sides and the middle gelled into points. The prior year, he’d had Noodles-from-the-Offspring’s braids in green. They had looked terrible—like a nerd hiding his nerdiness beneath a hairstyle. The Offspring had recently been decreed less cool by getting too big, too pop, too many listeners. So, I wasn’t surprised that Alex had moved on to something resembling the mohawk on Rancid’s . . . And Out Come the Wolves album cover: an undeniable upgrade.
We collectively groaned as the bus arrived so thick with students that some were standing in the space next to the driver. As we pushed in—the driver not bothering to acknowledge my old pass—Alex tried not to bump his hair in the tight space. The few non-student passengers all regarded the mohawk with stereotypical New York indifference.
We pushed our way to the back, near the steps to the rear exit that would sometimes be a bubble of free space. This coveted spot was already filled with other high school kids. I ended up almost pressing against an old lady with a grocery bag. She had numbers tattooed on her arms. This vividly brought history class to life, reminding me everything wasn’t all fuck-it-all or ironic.
Alex, Johnny, Vincent and I bounced around as the bus navigated Avenue J traffic. “I used to have hair like that,” a stranger said. He was a middle-aged man seated in the row behind the Holocaust survivor. He looked up at Alex, trying to meet his eyes. He had a briefcase on his lap and a nostalgic smile that disappeared and reappeared as he looked up at us. I hadn’t even registered him until he spoke. His hair was thin, but not bald or gray. Overall he was simply unremarkable, with no trace of a seventies punk remaining.
Silently glancing at each other with get-a-load-of-this-dude jerks of our heads and eye rolls, we mostly pretended nothing had been said. The bus lurched left at Bedford Avenue, causing us to cling to banisters and seatbacks not to tip over. This meant only a few more blocks ’til the entire bus unloaded at the school.
“I used to have hair like that,” the man repeated, pointing up, chuckling.
This time Alex emitted the Beavis and Butthead “heh-heh-heh” laugh he made when nervous. Otherwise, we didn’t respond.
If we asked any questions, he would probably list off old punk bands, suggest albums we should listen to, play the elder statesman.
Our glances communicated that this man was lame. None of us wanted to become him. He was a sellout, yes, but worse: he seemed to have sold out for so little. Here he was, deep in Brooklyn, in a cheap suit taking our bus to work, suitcase on lap. What could his job be? Accountant to small businesses? A druggist with kids at home and a lawn he was proud of? Somewhere between our age and his, punk principles had given way to life’s drudgery.
His smile curdled, his hands clutched his briefcase and he shrunk until he was barely there. No longer a man, but a threat—a ghost of Christmas future warning us who we could become if we weren’t careful.