By Angie Neatby
We had a song:
Drugs, drugs, drugs
Some are good, some are bad
Drugs, drugs, drugs
We get them from John,
Rona’s dad.
I had become quite skilled at knocking over Port-o-potties, making prank collect calls to Barbados and setting construction sites on fire. Thing is, you can only set off so many chlorine bombs (Montclair bottles were the best) before you start feeling a little lonely–even annoyed at yourself. I needed inspiration to press on. A fellow warrior to slap the weapon back in my hands when I inched dangerously close to reverting back to my former wimpdom. I found her– and her entourage of drooling virgin boys–swimming carelessly and vibrantly in the dirty waters of the locker bay. Rona. Like a female Braveheart, this girl had fought legions of teachers (verbally and otherwise), rode citybuses for free (in Quebec–unheard of!), smoked electrical tape and often wore just underwear in public. One of our best times together included the “house climb.” We got on the roof of one of those ritzy, new log homes up in the Gatineaus, found a skylight and upon peering in, discovered a little girl’s slumber party in full fuckin’ swing. We smoked some of her dad’s weed and began horking all over the window. I remember a glistening globule oozing down the transparent dome. Rona immediately took it to the next level–she was just so good at just ripping the bandage off where others hesitated.
“Tock, tock, tock” went her knuckles on the parabolic plexi-glass.
“Tock, tock, TOCK, TOCK!”
“Ahhhiiieeee!” went the little bitches between bites of Crispix and talk of whatever little girl’s obsessions were in ’94 (seriously, I had the New Kids on the Block when I was that age. What did they have? ). We laughed our asses off until the “the dad” came out and started searching for us. Again Rona took it to the next level, pitching clumps of pine needles and cones at him from above.
Weird how you can give ONE person credit for having taught you to be a hellraiser. When I think about Rona making prank calls and pretending to be a cop, burning down phone booths or yelling “PENIS” or “FUCKIN’ DIAPER” in grocery stores, or walking around the mall, dressed in a nightie and showing a photo of her butt-naked stepfather to strangers and asking “Have you seen this man?” I realize she was a real little shit. But a creative little shit.
Why can’t I get her out of my head? I see her ghost everywhere. I remember her face and her campfire orange hair. Looking back, the night of the Pearl Jam concert, she seems to burn like curtains lit at their base. If I could go back to that moment I would have taken more time to look around at my history unfolding. All the Alice in Chains t-shirts, plaid long sleeves tied around the waists, Kurt wanna-bes from Hull, Guatemalan knapsacks, purple docs and rotting friendship bracelets. We sat on the arena floor, waiting for the opening band. I was probably wondering if my army pants made me look fat or how I’d swoon when Eddie Vedder sang “Even Flow.” Not a place for a reflective 25 year old version of my self to stare lovingly at her best friend, grab her face, begin to well up with tears and proclaim “You are the keystone of this moment. You will become frozen in time and eternally burn as a 13-year old anti-goddess in my most delicate memories.”
I don’t listen to Pearl Jam anymore, but never play “Black” and expect me to stay in the room.