That’s how Brad, Justin, Mikey, Terry, and I became friends. When you are little, think kindergarten or first-grade age, you only meet the people you live closest to. Or you make friends at school and hope their parents can pick you up or drop you off to play. But as you get older, say in your late teens or early twenties, you connect with friends of friends.

Brad was slightly paranoid. His general demeanor reminded me of someone who did too much acid, had a bad trip, and thought everyone was out to get him. Every cigarette he smoked, the butt was tucked tightly in between his index and middle fingers, his lips appearing to touch the palm of his hand. It was that, or he gripped it so tightly between his index finger and thumb that it would take an act of God to pry it from him. The other thing that made me think he did too much acid? His eyes would dart from person to person, almost like he was expecting someone to grab him and cart him off to who knows where. Not that it ever happened to him. It was just how he acted. Besides his smokes, Brad loved his coffee. And he never cared for cream or sugar. Black was fine with him. If there was sugar and one hundred percent natural cream? Then he’d doctor his coffee. Otherwise, black was best.  

Justin was intelligent. Was he smarter than the rest of us? I don’t know, but Justin was very educated. He and I would talk through physics problems that Brad, Mikey, and Terry didn’t quite grasp. Not that they weren’t intrigued by the conversation, but they definitely weren’t following our logic. Most days, Justin wore a trenchcoat. Living in Portland, it seemed appropriate, and none of us thought much about it. It was the closest thing we had to the Japanese flowing dusters we saw in various anime films. Justin also had comedic timing, as long as I didn’t look at him. If I did? It was game over, all of us laughing hysterically at whatever Justin was pontificating about.

On the other hand, Mikey was our group’s theoretical ‘bad boy.’ Even though he was Caucasian, he appeared Asian, almost Mongolian or Russian. Somehow, he connected with an Asian gang that inducted him. My first thought was his dad’s connection to law enforcement. Maybe they thought his dad could be bought. I don’t know. But out of all the Asians that got caught doing felonious things, Mikey went down for all of it. Breaking into cars. Various acts of vandalism. Theft of property. Thirty-nine counts in all, which his mother, a highly connected criminal attorney, was working to get expunged from his record.

Terry and Brad were school friends before his parents moved to Hawaii, but Terry and Mikey were cousins. Terry didn’t look anything like Mikey, and it was a fact that Justin rubbed in his face often. After Terry moved back, he said he wasn’t an Oregonian, even though he was born in Beaverton. But Brad and Mikey got in trouble together, Brad moving a bit faster, which was a result of playing as a wide receiver for Glenco High School’s football team. It was hard to miss Terry. He was a genuine ginger with freckles matching his dark red hair and pale complexion, which made him an easy target, so he dropped out of school a year before graduation. The Pacific Northwest’s heavy, regular cloudiness was perfect for his skin. It meant sunburns were rare, unlike his stint in Hawaii.

I met Terry at Round Table Pizza one afternoon. I was looking for something to do with people my age. And trying to find people my own age who weren’t working. That was tougher. But on this day, it just so happened that Terry decided to quit.

“Not on your life, bud!” Terry shouted. “That is never going to happen. I quit!” Terry threw his apron at the girl standing behind the cash register. “You can all go to hell!” I lit a cigarette, walking out behind him. I didn’t know Terry, didn’t know the situation, but I figured what the hell.

“That sucks, man. Sorry about the job,” I opened the box of Marlboro Reds and let him pull one out. I didn’t know Terry smoked. I assumed.

“Who are you?” Terry asked, pulling one out. “Thanks. Got a light?” Flicking the lighter, the flame touched the smoke, and Terry inhaled. “I asked you a question.” Terry wasn’t one to mince words with people. Redhead and hot temper? Yeah. That’s a thing.

“I’m Jon.”

“Nice to meet you. You just hanging around, waiting to see some drama today,” Terry asked, pointing back to the restaurant.

“Nope. Looking for something to do.”

“Well, I know this pizza place looking to hire a new employee. Have any interest in food service?”

“For that guy? I don’t think so.”

Terry laughed. “Yeah. Probably not.” He sucked hard on the Marlboro, exhaling just as quick. “Thanks for the smoke. I’m going home.” He bolted across SW Allen, walking down SW Murray Boulevard toward Braemont Terrace apartments, where he, his stepdad, and his mom lived. Terry’s stepfather worked at Techtronics, doing what exactly Terry couldn’t tell me. His mom worked as a receptionist at a dental office. “You lift?”

“What? Like weights?”

“Uh, yeah. Duh!” Terry rolled his eyes. “Can I get another one of those?” I shrugged, tossing him the pack. I was wanting to quit anyway.