The Bridge (29)

Sometimes you can’t begin again, even when you want to. 

When I returned to school in Flagstaff, I came from a school where I was a freshman, but I was a sophomore in this school. 

No, I never got to experience what it was like to be a newcomer to high school. My friends from junior high were still around, but they had changed dramatically in my absence. We hung out on a little bridge that crossed a small stream during our lunch break, which we called “the Bridge.” If you told someone to meet you there, they knew exactly what you meant. The Bridge was where all of the punks, goths, skaters, and fringe people hung out, talked, smoked, and did drugs together. 

I wasn’t exposed to any illegal drugs in Oklahoma, but in Flagstaff, perhaps because of our proximity to route 66 and I-40 or the NAU college campus, there were drugs galore floating around our school. Most of the drugs weren’t problematic, but one drug – methamphetamines – was particularly dangerous. Indeed a few of my closest friends had complete personality changes owing to their heavy meth use.  They were no longer friendly and curious but instead jaded and cruel. This obvious, physiological change was apparent to me, as someone who had been gone for over a year and became a blessing of sorts. Their drug addiction caused me to stay completely away from trying meth. Actually, I went further still and steered away from trying anything you might snort or shoot up. 

But everything else was fair game. My mother left a carton of cigarettes at our place, and after a long stretch of not seeing her, I took out a pack and decided to see for myself what all of the fuss was about. I will never forget smoking that first cigarette. I was all alone in our tiny little converted garage home, sitting at the kitchen table. I lit the cigarette, and I inhaled slowly, coughing profusely as I exhaled. Even though my throat hurt with each cough, my body felt elated and high, and I felt a sense of calmness that I had never felt before. Naturally, I had to do it again and again, and before I knew it, I was up to one pack of cigarettes a day. If you don’t know how many that is, it is twenty. 

I couldn’t keep smoking my mother’s cigarettes, as hers were expensive. She smoked Camels. I settled on a brand called GPCs, which I jokingly called “Gutter Punk Cigarettes”: their virtue, if they had any, was their affordability, a mere 25-50 cents a pack. To get my fix, I could scrounge up enough change from the floor near my mother’s bed. Or raid the change jar in the kitchen or through selling odds and ends here and there. Even though you were supposed to be 18 and show ID to buy smokes, I somehow never had to. I bought it from a little liquor mart and a bookstore on San Francisco Street. The bookstore was great, especially if I had some extra dough on me. I’d grab a book, sit outside on the curb and read while smoking. Smoking became a huge part of my life and identity, as it was soothing and something I could do to bond with others who also smoked. If you had extra cigarettes, you were also everyone’s friend. They could bum them off of you, so I went out of my way to make sure I always had some spares for friends. 

My mother smoked so much indoors that she never noticed the additional smoke that I added to the place while she was gone. When she was home, I had to hide my habit and smoked when she went to bed. 

I slowly started to shed my Oklahoma clothes in favor of bands that I was excited about. I still liked my emo-goth stuff like The Cure and The Smiths, but I took a liking to Nine Inch Nails, Lords of Acid, and Thrill Kill Kult. I oddly found the first two of those bands through my mom, who was I caught at home one day vacuuming and listening to “I must increase my bust.” It was just so bizarre. For all of my mom’s issues, she always had her fingers on the pulse of what was cool. I guess she went down to the local record store and asked them for what was hot, and they handed her some industrial dance music. 

I didn’t have a job, so I didn’t have any money to buy cool shirts. But Dave, the owner of Dab Nabbits, the cool punk rock record store, took a liking to me and allowed me to trade after school labor for credits that I could exchange for music or shirts. He certainly didn’t take a liking to me right away. I loitered outside and inside like a lost puppy, and I begged him to sweep his floors and organize records. My real goal wasn’t the t-shirts, though. My real goal was the real-estate at the front of the store. 

A woman decorated the windows of the store with a sick mohawk named Victoria. She did an amazing job, but I wanted my shot at decorating the window display. I asked Dave every week if I could have the job, and he told me that if Victoria were ever to stop, the window was mine. She also wasn’t paid – it, too, was a volunteer gig – so I figured someday she’d grow tired of it and move on. I studied all of her installations and admired her craft. Her work was so inspiring, and though I didn’t know then, I wanted to become a window merchandiser. I wanted to create art that was so compelling; it called you to come into the store like a siren, mindlessly forcing you to obey. Victoria took promotional materials sent to the record store and cut them into shapes to make amazing 3D structures. Victoria taught me what a good window should look like. 

Dave also gave me his leftover food, so I could eat dinner, as my mother often wasn’t home. If she was home, we ate at the soup kitchen on the east side of town. Dave always had amazing things, and I suspect he ordered extra food if other stray punk kids or I wanted anything. Dave took on the role as a father figure to a lot of us though I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what he intended. Small town small businesses had bigtime responsibilities. 

So, while I waited for my dream job, I did whatever Dave wanted me to do, and once a week, I would pick out something new to listen to off the used tape or record shelves and a new t-shirt to rock out in. 

My old friendships dwindled because I was seen as not “cool” enough for them. Before I left for Oklahoma, Sarah was my best friend, but we had a strained relationship when I returned. I think she tolerated me but no longer liked me. She would give me endless shit for my shirts, calling me a “poser,” which was rich coming from a girl who met me wearing jeans covered in NKOTB scribbled all over them and who’s favorite show was Beverly Hills 90210. She seemed to have forgotten where she came from. She also liked to tell everyone around how “innocent” I was because I hadn’t done any drugs yet and had yet to have sex with a boy. I guess the good news about all of that was that I did not have AIDs. It was a technical impossibility. 

So, I mostly hung out with junior high kids who still thought I was fun. Most of them weren’t into hard drugs and just wanted to smoke with me, so it all worked out. They also didn’t give a shit what shirts I wore or didn’t wear. 

My time in Oklahoma set me back academically, so I decided to do something crazy and take multiple math classes to catch up. My counselor, Mr. Chadwick, didn’t think this was a good idea; however, I had a high GPA, and my test scores were an indication that maybe I could be right about my needs, so he permitted me to take Algebra II and Geometry. I tested into three advanced placement programs - history, English, and music theory. These are heavily weighted, so if I excelled in them, I could get my GPA over 4.0. I figured I’d need this to get into a good university. So, two math classes and two music classes a day equaled lots of stress. My only fun class was ceramics. The rest I needed to survive. Unfortunately, without proper food, this proved to be an impossibility. Within one semester, my grades plummeted, and it is safe to say I was failing at pretty much everything. 

The only thing I was winning at was Dab Nabbits. Going there after school kept me grounded and gave me something to look forward to, and most importantly, kindness and nourishment. Two things I needed more than anything. 

Sometimes, the family you need is all around you—If you know where to look for them.