The Last 29’er

This Challenge made me think of the band Queen, which made me think of my friend Bob, whom I have not seen or heard from in forty-some years, so perhaps I should say, “my old friend Bob.” The challenge didn’t remind me of Bob because he was an especially big Queen fan or anything like that, although I am sure he thought the group was ok, as I did, but more-so because there was this one time when Bob and I stole one of Queen’s songs and walked it off into the sunset, immortalizing it in our own minds.

Round about 1980 my buddy Bob and I got kicked off the school bus mid-winter during our eighth grade year. Of course, being that we were fourteen-year olds sporting long hair and attitudes we didn’t think what we’d done was that big of a deal, but then Bob and I were regularly in trouble for things we didn’t think were all that bad. It was just that bus drivers, we ruefully discovered, were just like every other jackass out there who was over thirty years old. What is it with old people anyways, that they can’t take a fucking joke? And so our pair of as yet under-developed minds naturally came to idolize petulant assholes like Ronnie, Duane, Jimi, Janice, and those other “cool-ass” rockers who cashed out before achieving that dreaded, life-altering, mid-life milestone subscribed after three decades. In fact, me and Bob had become so disgusted by this grown-up’s world and the idiots who ran it that we vowed during our forced marches to-and-from school that we would be sure to keel over proudly and in some cool fashion when the right moment came, well before striking what the two of us considered to be the common age of jack-assery, just as our rock and roll heroes had so wisely done; the saying back then being that, “it’s better to burn out than to fade away.” Hell yea! We would go down in flames, me and Bob would, our un-trimmed hair fully on fire!

Now, I’ll fill you in here in just a minute about what Bob and I did to get kicked off that bus that first time. When I do so you’ll have the opportunity to decide if mine and Bob’s thinking on the matter was right or wrong, though even after all of these years I expect that if you are over thirty you are gonna agree with that bus driver who gave us the boot, and if you are under thirty you will side with me and Bob; but first, before I explain, I’m going to tell you a little bit about my friend.

If you’ve been following my writings for any amount of time then you have met Bob before, sometimes under his real name, sometimes under pseudonyms, but still unapologetically Bob. We shared many, many adventures, not the least of which came about due to our walking to and from school together everyday for two years. I first met Bob one day while I was enjoying a smoke out on my front porch swing. This kid toting a fishing pole across the handles of his ten speed bike came racing down my street before cutting through the grass between my house and my neighbors; headed, no doubt, for the neighborhood lake behind my house. Not five minutes later my smoke break was interrupted when a tall, thin, shirtless kid sporting an ugly red welt across his cheek came around the corner of my porch. “Hey man,” he asked me (everyone called each other ‘man’ back in those days), “could you help me find my glasses?” So I followed him around to the backyard where the kid had crashed his bike after running into the neighbors’ unseen clothesline. My first impression being that the kid was a legitimate loser, it was fortunate for him that the search for his glasses also turned up besides several dropped fishing lures, a disposable Bic lighter and a flip-top box of Marlboro Reds, making it possible that I could be friends with this kid if he turned out to be not so gooberish as this first meeting made him out to be, though that decision had not yet been made. But I would give the goober a chance at least, and time always tells.

It turned out that Bob had just moved to Virginia Beach from Kansas, which I found unimpressive, although he did like rock music, which was in his favor. We were in the same grade, though he was almost a year younger than I was, and he had a brother the next grade up, who also became a friend. Ours was a big neighborhood with lots of kids, so Bob could not have known how important this impromptu interview was, as I could have contributed to making his life miserable from here out if I chose to, but despite the bad start this new kid seemed alright.

Bob played basketball, which made sense, as he was tall, thin, and somewhat athletic. I played baseball, so I understood the sports thing. He talked a lot about “partying” and “getting high,” though I took that more as him wanting me to think he was “cool” than that he was a druggie or something. He wanted to be a badass, but really didn’t have that in him. Too skinny. Not at all intimidating. Regardless though, Bob liked fishing, girls, sports and music, which made him ok by me.

Anyways, getting to the point, what me and Bob did not too very long after establishing a tentative friendship was that we started up that “We Will Rock You” thing on the school bus one day; you know, the whole “stomp, stomp, clap… stomp, stomp, clap…’ thing. We had everybody on the bus going, kids stomping as hard as they could and clapping in time… even the younger ones were completely into it when me and Bob started in, shouting the lyrics out above all the stomping and clapping:

“Buddy you’re a boy, make a big noise

playin’ in the streets

gonna be a big man someday…”

Anyways, that was all we did… over and over again, rocking out the school bus til they kicked us off, the old fuckers:

”You got mud on your face

You big disgrace

kickin’ your can all over the place, singin’…”

And so because of Queen me and Bob went pedestrian. We could have rode our bikes I suppose, but there were busy highways, and let’s face it… it’s very hard to look cool on a bike. So we hoofed it, cigarettes cupped in our hands against breezes created by passing cars, flipping off any fuck-heads who honked, stopping by the convenience store to cash in the lunch money which fed our cigarette habits, some days leaving a little early so we catch Cheryl at her bus stop before she got on. Bob introduced me to Cheryl, whom I had one of those “holding hands and making out things” with for a while, at least we did until I met Louise, whom Bob also introduced me to. He was a great wing-man, Bob was. All I had to do was to say, “that girl is pretty hot.” Ten minutes later Bob would bring her over. Truly great wing-man.

After all of that the bus didn’t feel right when we started off the 9th grade, so Bob and I began looking for ways to get kicked off again, and we quickly accomplished that goal. Hell, we were old pro’s by now, and experience does tell.

So, turns out me and Bob were not good at school bus’. And despite our brash talk, we were not intended to join the “29 Club” either, apparently, as Bob is still living somewhere up near Atlantic City now, and I’m still kicking down here in Nashville; both of us a little fatter now, and a little balder, though very much alive.

And being old isn’t so bad I guess, though the kids today are real wimps in their Under Armour clothes and with their Great Clips hair. I can’t speak for Bob, but it is nothing for me to kick the little shits off of my bus when they’re acting like idiots… the fools rocking out to their Taylor Swift and whatnot.

Jeeze, it makes me wonder… why didn’t I get out when I had the chance?