Today I was at the soda shop downtown with Jack.
He likes looking at all the vintage Hollywood 8×10’s framed on the wall, pointing out John Wayne and Shirley Temple every time without fail.
A large group of junior high students came barreling into the front door, prompting me to wonder whether I was that irreverent and annoying at fourteen. I felt sorry for the girl behind the counter, who had one sandwich and seven (free) waters to serve. Ugh.
Soon after they entered, Jack and I squeezed past the group and walked outside. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a skinny kid crossing the street with a mop of bright orange hair: shaved on the sides and flopping over one eye. And seriously? This hair was the color of orange that you see in magazine features about “coral” nail polish. Really, really orange. Traffic cone orange.
Thundering steps and a flinging open of the door caused me to reflexively put my arm around Jack’s shoulders and pull him to me. It was three of the kids from inside the shop: Two girls and a guy. The guy called out to the kid crossing the street, “Jason!” The kid stopped, and flashed a peace sign. “Dude, seriously?” yelled the guy, as he turned and walked inside.
“Ugh,” one of the girls said to the other, “it’s so orange. Nice way to memorialize your dead father!”
I mean, SERIOUSLY? Fuck You.
I hate those girls, and I wanted to run to Jason Coral Hair and give him a hug.