Playing Chopsticks with Reality: Chapter 1

During our journeys we will come across many other souls. Their destinations may not be the same as ours but our paths will definitely cross in some fashion (whether we want it to or not). I am going to tell you the tale of three such people that have crossed my road and gave me a brief smile, or frown, before moving to wherever their journey takes them.

The Duster

Back in junior high we had amongst our ranks a kid that went by the name of Dusty Lee. He had been held back and his birth date put him at such a place that he became eligible to drive in 9th grade. I am sure quite a few of you are wondering what the big deal is, but to us it was a big deal, in a school made up of 7th, 8th, and 9th graders he was the only non adult that had that special ability. He had a driver's license! He drove a dark grey el camino and his usual attire consisted of a rock band t-shirt, black jeans, boots, and a duster. I personally never understood the look, it was more of a rocker meets cowboy (side note ~ a duster is an over coat much like a trench coat. The difference being the duster has a definite cowboy-esque feel).

Dusty was a pretty cool kid in my book. He never caused much problems and was always looking out for the 7th and 8th graders when the bullies came a-knocking. There were a few stories that circulated the school about his antics and some things that had happened to him and some of his compadres, but for the most part I think they were contrived just to add to his mystique. On a personal level I really never knew the guy as well as I could have. We had quite a few chats mostly about Metallica, and other heavy metal bands of the time. He was one good source that always knew who the next hot band was going to be and would turn me on to the latest albums. Were we friends? I would have to say "No", but we could have been if there was more effort put into it by either of us. Like I was stating previously we talked but didn't hang out.

For some odd reason this boy had a fascination with knives and guns. He was known to never go anywhere without his knife, and towards the end of his 9th grade year you could say the same thing about his .22 caliber pistol. Everyone knew he had it and if he was cool with you he might have even pulled it out to let you see it. I cannot recall him ever having to threaten anyone with it, but I think it was more of a safety blanket and what he used to deal with the big uncertain world. I cannot fail to mention that all the popular kids thought he was cool and let him hang out with them. He had connections and could get beer and liquor. They used him as a tool and the ability to get them what they wanted. I really wonder how many of those dumbasses ever realized that? That's here nor there I suppose... if they don't see it perhaps they will learn it in their next life.

Well, with the drinking and the mixture of an ever present weapon into the mix there can never be anything good come from it.


On this particularly sunny afternoon the usual was happening, ten or twelve kids gathered at someone's house during the day while the parent's were at work. Drinks, and good times, were being passed about as per norm. The most interesting thing that happened was that Dusty had decided he was done with living. (Much later after this event a lot of the kids talked about how odd he had been acting that day, and how he was sitting by himself for most of the party.) At some point during the get together a group was standing around Dusty having a chat, and for some reason he decided it was the perfect time to do what he had planned. He took out his .22 revolver and stuck it to his head and pulled the trigger. The room got deathly silent as the hammer snapped and made the dead sound that only a firing pin can make as it strikes air. "Dude your crazy" one of them guffaws from his acne infested face. The conversation resumes and a short time later he takes the gun out again, says " Hey guys watch this", pulls the trigger and this time everyone jumps as pin hits steel and the firing cap explodes sending hot metal at point blank range into his skull. Ricocheting about, the bullet exits the upper portion of his cranium effectively spraying the two girls standing to his side with brain matter and skull fragments.

Slow motion, time has stopped. These little fuckwits were shown the power of a soul who knew he was being used and had seen enough. He was finished.

At his funeral I came to realize that the people who attend said services are for a lack of a better word "fake". Mankind looks for things to pity, and acts concerned, when in all actuality they truly are not. If their concern was so fucking great these kids should have helped him or at least known enough about him to find out what was wrong before it was too late. Instead two of the bitches got to wear his last thoughts as make-up, and shall always be tainted with his last kiss.