John

I'm sure there is a term for how alcohol changes a human being when the parent drinks all throughout the pregnancy. Before, after and without end until the child is an adult, drinking themselves.

Whatever that word is, John had it. It wasn't fetal alcohol syndrome, he was just stupid. He could function in jobs, get himself there, do the duty and be polite, but he couldn't handle much.

He had low standards as well. Not quite as low as his mother's, he mad something in his life which brought him some joy, BMX. He wasn't good, but what lacked in skill, he made up for in zero fucks, balls to the wall idiocy, and I loved it.

John was taller than me, skinnier than me and, on his bike and off, he had a quality to his movement which might bring to mind a newborn deer. A little unsure of movement,

but plowing ahead regardless.

Did I mention he always had weed? Pretty good weed, too. We would get high and John would lose all inhibitions in traffic, pedalling pull out across a busy, main street in Salem at night. Tires squeezing, horns blaring and steering wheels spinning I would briefly lose sight of him, only to see him ripping down the sidewalk on the other side. I would catch up to him and we'd laugh our asses off.

One summer he had spent a ridiculous amount of money on a GT Street bike. The team model, it had three piece cranks, chrome everything and a bash guard. The bass guard was made from additional tubing incorporated into the frame which protected the sprocket, but also functioned as a hammer. The idea was borrowed from trials bikes.

We would ride towards ledges of various Heights and jump, or bunny hop, the bike onto it, landing on the bash guard, which was below the cranks.

John had destroyed the plastic plate on the bottom and had made his own out of a piece of steel, complete with screw heads protruding from it, ensuring that, once it had been used on concrete, it would be impossible to remove without grinding the screw heads off.

John had an uncommon hatred for cars and took delight in damaging the as often as he could be provoked to do so.

My favorite automotive aggression event happened on a Friday. It was such a beautiful day and we had been riding for quite awhile, but were heading to get weed. At that time there had been a restaurant inserted into a former warehouse with the remnants of a loading dock on the side, where cars parked in front of.

It had been a great set up to bash a car, since the run up to it was straight and visibility was perfect. The problem was that, if there were cars around, there were people around.

This particular evening there weren't any people outside and music could be heard inside the restaurant. There, in from of the dock, was a brand new, orange corvette. It was shiny. It was flawless. It was fiberglass, but there was no way John new this fact.

All he saw was shiny and vulnerable.

Without even slowing as we approached he laughed off the dock and onto the edge of the fender and hood, punching through, the bike lurching to a halt immediately as the car alarm went off. John was pitched onto his chest across the windshield, breaking it with his forehead.

He didn't miss a beat, but grabbed his handlebars and began extracting his bike from the shredded fiberglass fender and hood, which seemed to have grabbed various parts of the bike.

I came to a stop, turned around and people were coming outside from the restaurant to look. It was a scene I'll never forget. John ripping his bike out of the hood of this car, blood dripping down his face, not saying a word as music played in the background of that fucking car alarm.