Kids can be mean. Now, I guess, it’s called bullying and is a big no no. In my kid days, it was just being an asshole. I assume every kid was an asshole at one time or another. I was…more than once, but many times I was justified being an asshole. It was truly the other person’s fault.

One friend I had was just an irritating fuck. I liked him a lot though. We did all kinds of crazy stuff together and he was, let’s say, inventive. And we rarely got caught. But he was irritating. He came from California to live in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. From the big city by the ocean with all the pretty celebrities, the coolest music, and surfer stories to a little Gulf Of Mexico, no surf, hick town and he couldn’t help but tell us all how backward this place was. And tell us more, and more…and then again. It could go on for hours if you didn’t leave his company or dare him to dive into the bayou with the gators and copperheads.

Another friend and I decided we were gonna drive to Hattiesburg to a Black Oak Arkansas concert at the University Of Southern Mississippi. This friend was my partner. We didn’t talk a lot out loud much but we were close. My friend, Vernon, didn’t talk much. He was smart and really the epitome of cool. And we drove around drinking Southern Comfort, smoking joints, and singing along with the radio, “Pop the Top on One More Beer” at the top of our vocal decibel range. We were cool.

Somehow, Mike, the California surfer, found out we were going to the concert and decided he wanted to be a cool kid and go with us. Mike and Vernon weren’t friends so Vernon didn’t know him well enough to know this wasn’t going to work, and I suppose because I hadn’t learned the word “NO” yet, Mike acquired passage to Hattiesburg in my back seat.

The onslaught of pessimism started immediately. Mike, in the back seat, was bellowing to drown out the wind and radio noise lamenting the lack of surf and surfer girls, and complaining about the lack of good underground radio stations that played cool music. We had barely gotten out of town and Vernon told me to turn off the highway before the place where we would normally turn to go north. He said he knew a nice country back road that would take us right to the stadium where the concert was happening. I knew he had some plan in mind. I could feel his displeasure with our passenger.

Hattiesburg is about seventy miles from Gulfport where we turned, but we were on back roads. I mean old-time back roads. Dirt roads. And twenty miles of dusty, hot wind blowing through the windows from the outside and the radio up to ten could not overcome the incessant chatter from the back. I could see a little old-time gas station coming up on the left, and Vernon said, “Hey Hoss, let’s stop in here and get some beer.” We had beer. I knew the plan he had was about to begin.

We stopped. The wind noise stopped. The radio turned off, and the chatter…well, it went on, though Mike didn’t have to yell anymore. We got out to go inside. At the door, Vernon opened it and Mike went in. Vernon shut the door and grabbed my arm and said, “Let’s go.” We did. We drove off and I bet Mike didn’t even know until he came out after he bought his beer.

We went to the concert. I felt bad about it all day, and I think Vernon did too. I saw Mike a few days later. He wasn’t mad, he said he hitchhiked home after he figured out we left him, and everything was fine…well except for the no surf, surfer girls, and no radio stations that played cool music thing. I remember Mike fondly now almost fifty years gone. Love ya man!