Clipped

Generation Y and the Perpetual Nag

[Unedited preface. Ugh.--ed.] So check it. The English teacher says write a short story for an end-of-book assignment. So of course, being a writer, I hugely overscope this. He wanted a scene. Like two, maybe three pages. Turns out I wrote 8 1.5 spaced, 11 font before I realized there was no way I was going to finish before the deadline. So I just deaded it on page four. I've marked off the fakie ending, and then just left the rest after it. The rest just kinda stops, so if there's enough demand, I'll get off my ass and try to finish. ~BC

I was in third grade when my two best friends and I bounded out of the bathroom with our pants and baseball caps on backwards. "Jump! Jump!" we shouted with glee. Bouncing around 'til we fell to the ground from exhaustion, we were the epitome of 9-year-old cool- In theory. Kris Kross didn't fly with the ten-year-olds. Their next album, Da Bomb, did just that.

I'd like to think I'm still not that easily influenced, but I can't. You see, I am Generation Y. Well, the birth certificate says James Rybeck, but I am the ideal Y. The product of a minority neighborhood- not projects or anything, but across the street you got six story apartment buildings with no elevators, na'mean? Reared on computers and the internet- my own website, gamer. Media sponge- I have yet to lose McDonald's Who Wants to be a Millionaire? game. Sports nut- I can hold up a conversation in anything, give you rules and play it at an adequate level. Intellectual- Maintain an A-, write, philosophize. You know how it is.

I got up that morning, rolled out of my Old Navy pj's (people aren't cool with just boxers at sleepovers) and dragged myself to the shower. I washed my face with Neutrogena Oil-Free Acne Wash (Jennifer Love Hewitt and Mandy Moore are in the commercials, and they have clear skin) and my hair with Herbal Essences shampoo. This follows directly from my use of HE hairspray, which recommends the use of HE shampoo and conditioner for best results. I tried to wake up.

What day was today anway? There was definitely something I should be remembering. I rubbed my head vigorously with a towel as I stepped out of the shower, trying to get at that nagging feeling that was lodged in my skull just behind and above my ear. Eh. Who knows? It'll come to me. I brushed my teeth, did a quick shave (the MACH 3- You shave once, it shaves three times), and then rinsed with Listerine while swabbing my ears with q-tips. A final touch of CK-One (Just about the only CK fragrance with ads that weren't cool) on the wrists, dab on the neck, spread the rest down the chest, and we're off.

To get dressed. I trekked back to the room, still pondering what the hell day today was that it's so special. I whipped the towel off and hung it on the bedpost, realizing too late that the blinds seemed to be up. That's what happens when Mom manages to get at your room and you're not there to supervise. Diving into a blind spot by the dresser, I flung the drawer open and put boxers on even before I could see which pair they were. Hey, hey- Hawaiian print. I found a shirt that matched the pattern last time I went shopping at SEARS. I almost pulled it off the rack before I realized what I was doing.

I slowed down now, actually selecting a pair of pants (GAP cargos- they have happy commercials. Happy is good.) I plucked a black undershirt and my Tim Couch jersey (He's a quality player- who just happens to be on the Browns) out of the drawer and threw them on. Socks were next and then I laced up my spiffy Answer IV's (Look, Allen Iverson's the man. What more is there to say?) and was off to the sinkroom.

The harder I scratched my skull, the less it seemed I could get at the nag. Dammit. Ah well. I wet my hair, sprayed it, kicked on the hair dryer, and tried to focus on anything else. It says on the box that it's only 90 decibels. Like that's a good thing. Think about it. The thing is a foot long and produces 30 decibels less than a jet engine. It's almost impressive. Makes you wonder if the hairdryer people sit around going, "Hey, If we make the initial model really loud, we'll be able to get away with so much on succeeding ones. Three cheers for noise pollution. Hip hip..." Well, you get the picture.

I bounded down the stairs to the echoes of "Don't run!" and went into breakfast mode. Breakfast is all about efficiency. I've got it down to a science.

I kept my momentum coming off of the stairs and headed straight towards the pantry. I made a left to right read of the cereal boxes (Yeah Hebrew!), stopped after I saw the Kix (Kid tested, mother approved!) grabbed the box, did a 180 and took two steps before starting a turn, stretching, and dropping the Kix on the table. Continuing my spin, I ended up in front of the cupboard, pulling a bowl and glass from the upper shelves, and two spoons from the waist high drawer. Slamming the drawer shut, I turned towards the table, dropping off the bowl and two spoons. Completing the turn, I went straight towards the fridge, plucking the Milk (2%- I'm a good kid), Tropicana Orange Kiwi Passion (with more potassium than a banana), and two Pillsbury Toaster Bagel Shoppes (square bagels that are pre-filled, essentially a poptart except a bagel). I spun off the refrigerator, made a quick right around the oven, and dropped off the milk and OKP as I picked up one spoon. Popping the "pop-bagels" in the toaster oven (medium setting), I did a 360 into a crouch to find myself facing the dog food cans. Mighty Dog for not-so-mighty dogs. I scanned quick, picked up two Turkey & Beef Entrées (It's the easiest to spoon out), popped the tops off, spooned each out in two scoops, mashed it up a bit, snagged the tops in one hand, the can and spoon in the other, and maneuvered around the dogs as I made my way to the sink. I dropped the cans and spoon in the sink, pulled open the cabinet under the sink, tossed the tops into the garbage, and slammed the door. After a palm strike to the faucet put the water on high, I rinsed out the two cans and placed them on the counter. A final 180, and I collapsed sideways onto my chair.

Time for Sports. As I poured milk into my cereal, I scanned the headlines- Kincks playoff coverage... Mets aren't hitting... Yankees lose again... Ooh- here we go. I started eating the Kix as I read George Vescey's Sports of the Times. It's an article about the catch 22 of athletes. People complain that professional athletes are too distant, and poor role models. And then when a guy's family endures a hostage crisis, and he chooses to sit out a game to get his head on straight and be there for them, he's lambasted for not putting sports and his team first. Go figure. 'Aint America grand?

As I finished the bowl and the article, the toaster started beeping. "Note to self- Today will be a good day," I thought. I moseyed over to the toaster, slid out my two wanna-be bagels, and started eating one on the way back. My free hand came down from my head as I sat down- I had been unconsciously trying to get at the nag. What was it? There had to be something dammit. Lemme run down the list. Homework? No, I hadn't done that on purpose. After school? I had work. And then homework and the like. Nothing out of the norm. I reached up and patted my spiked hair. Nope, not that either. Points to ponder.

I was snapped out of my funk when my gaze crossed the wall clock. Oh my, 7:05. It would appear I'm late. I checked the digital clock radio on the countertop for verification. Yep. If there was any doubt, I was definitely late. I dropped off the bowl and spoon in the sink, and followed the turn out into the living room. I grabbed my book bag off the plush chair, my wallet, keys and chapstick from the TV tabletop, and was out the door. My back arm trailed me, closing the door. Wait! Forgot my money.

Backtracking (quite literally- I was moving in reverse) to the kitchen, I saw my brother at the computer. He was engrossed in minesweeper. I kept going. Until he started recently, I've never seen anyone play that game. Not in that using the application kinda way, but actually playing the game. I'll come home and sit down at the computer, and the screen saver will disappear to reveal splashes of color on a field of gray. Flags sporadically spaced. Numbers strewn about. The occasional blank space. A smiley face with sunglasses is located top center, like a god overlooking its people, supremely satisfied with their progress. A digital timer in the top right corner is ticking its way to 999, the point where binary code has determined to be the limit. The question is, does it stop? Or start over at 000? I've never had the patience to find out. I spotted my two beans on the kitchen table, and was in the process of taking them when a headline caught my eye- The Computer of the Future- No wires, no chips, just plain physics (a bit of an oxymoron, no?). I was bordering entering really late territory. I compromised- I took the paper with me.

[FAKIE ENDING]

Out the door for real this time, I yelled "Bye!" to my parents on the way out. Tightening the straps on my bookbag, I bounced down the steps, head automatically snapping left to check across the street for the bus. Alas, today was a walking day. Wait a minute! Evan? It's his birthday today. Oh well. I'm already out the door. And he doesn't talk to me anyway. Sucks for him. One.

[BACK TO THE STORY]

As I started my sprint, I noticed Nike's Love the Draft/Hate the Draft Patrick Ewing/Ron Artest ad on the side of the bus. Oh did I hate the draft two years ago. My favorite player on St. John's, Artest, had declared early and was being projected as a mid-to-low first round pick. The Knicks, following a miraculous run to finals as the 8th seed in the East, had the 15th pick in the draft, their highest in years. My family was driving cross-country at the time. We were in a rest area in West Virginia when I bought a copy of USA Today (Oh how I missed the Times!). I flipped to the sports section, and right on the front page, they had a picture of every 1st round pick. I scanned the picks in order, making a conscious effort not to cheat. Michael Olowakandi...Steve Francis...Antawn Jamison...Vince Carter... I got to pick 10 and still no Artest. I crossed my fingers as well as I could've with the paper in my hands. 12...13...14... Moment of truth. I looked away. Glanced up at the heavens, made a quick prayer, and saw what still shocks me to this day. Frederic Weis. His pasty-ass French face desecrating the spot where the Knicks real draft pick was supposed to be. And you know what the worst part was? Artest was picked next, by the Chicago Bulls. I could no longer root for my favorite player. He was a Bull. The Knicks don't like the Bulls. Therefore Knicks fans don't like the Bulls. I was in shock. The Bulls got one of the league's up-and-coming young players, and the Knicks got a seven-foot fire hydrant who was posterized when Vince Carter jumped clear over him during the Olympics.

That ad has caused me to stop buying Nikes.

I got across the street, and slowed down as I approached the bus, trying to maintain some modicum of cool. I slid my hand up the cool metal rail as I climbed the steps. Simultaneously looking past everyone and scanning them, I noticed that once again, I was the only person on the bus lacking pigmentation. My freckles seemed woefully inadequate. My hand defensively scratched my skull- the nag was not going away. Something important was definitely being forgotten.

After a short bus ride (6 blocks, but there's this one light that takes like two minutes to change, so the bus shaves five minutes off an 8 minute walk on a bad day) I got to the train station. As I stood by the fence overlooking the platform, scratching my head (Maybe my hair itched. Is all that Herbal Essence bad for me?) I saw my train coming. I dropped my arms down and turned to run and noticed my right arm didn't come as fast as my left. CLANG, THUNK. I slowed as I realized the ringing noise behind me could only have been my fault. I stared up at the sky, and turned around to see the entire front half of a garbage can lying on the floor, and about 20 black people staring incredulously at the stupid white kid. A middle-aged woman brushed past me. "Dumbass," she said, shaking her head. Note to self- Maybe today is not such a good day.

I walked back over to the can, picked up the front half, placed it nicely in front of the rest of the can, and started to calmly make my way down to the platform. Once you make a total ass of yourself, you can't possibly do anything that'll make anyone think worse of you I always say. Or at least try to believe.

The express came pretty quickly. Today was turning into one of those see-saw days, where you were just as likely to be unconscious playin' ball or get your heart ripped out (again). The train ride was uneventful.

Points to ponder- I left my house ten minutes late and caught no bus. I was three minutes late. Making up time is normally a good thing. But it's really just annoying, because I generally get to school a minute early. When I catch the bus. Gotta love that MTA.

The itch would not go away. It was getting to the point of agitation. It had better be something big, I thought. I ran down the list again. Term project? ...No. Date? No, It's been long enough that I'd remember that. Dammit! What could it be?

I strolled into the locker room, and engaged in all the weird, meaningless banter of an early morning conversation. A conversation that started with the Knicks ended up as a debate on whether the clothes made the locker smell, or vice-versa. I told you, it was early.

Gym is where I find my peace of mind. It's the one chance during the day that you have to move around and not get yelled at. I don't see why you wouldn't want to be there. It breaks up the monotony of sitting at a desk for six hours. Given, so does lunch, but who in their right mind gives up the chance for food for athletic activity? (My parents are getting me the unlimited meal plan in college- reason, you ask? And I quote, "James, you're an eater.") Besides, it's the only place you get to see girls running around in shorts and t-shirts in the winter. (Yeah, yeah. I'm a guy, let it go) And that whole being adequate at every athletic activity known to man (well, except track- you can't help slow) always keeps things fresh. Sports let you take your mind off everything but what you're doing. That makes things like that awful nag go away.

Except today. The nag kept drawing attention to itself. Just enough to make me think about it. I left my man open for a basket. "James, you forgot to?" Yeah. I'll tell you what I forgot. Something I couldn't even remember. Thoughts like that made me want to cry.

I sludged my way through Math, faked my way through band, slept through history, and fumbled through AP Chem. This left me on the precipice of the daily savior that is lunch. I had done my fair share of nag pondering while ignoring my teachers (2nd term senior- I'm allowed), but had given up midway through history when I fell asleep mid-thought. "It's gotta be something?" I yawned. "But wh..." The mental equivalent of a pencil mark trailing off in the middle of sleepily forming a letter.