Teenage Boys: A Completely Objective ObservationOk. It's a nice day. I'm outside reading about the pros and cons of censorship in my scholarly pursuit for a mark that's at least passable on my huge five-page essay I'm never going to be able to complete. I reach for my key lime soda, and spill it all over the ground with the sudden -thump- of a football and an immense pain in my left breast. I tore myself away from my Hedwig-serenaded paradise of censorship debates and looked up at my assailants.
Them. A swarm of them. The most feared species on the face of planet. Teenage boys, of the "thug" persuasion. They looked at me, their pants hanging at their knees, the strips of leather around their waist loosely fastened as though they were prepared to use them as weapons, their decorative clothing proudly proclaiming their numbers [which I presume to be an identity of sorts], their baseball caps shielding their hungry eyes from the harsh lighting of their environment. They had taken me completely by surprise, and I was outnumbered.
Knowing that my predators were of a very hostile nature, I picked up the ball slowly in the awkward silence that followed my apparently unintentional harm, and set out to return it at a calm, steady pace. I held it at arm's length, trying to communicate with my body language that I was not going to use this weapon in retaliation, that I came in peace, simply to return it. I picked out the leader by the large glittering trinkets on his ears, stopped before him and held out the ball as an offer. He took it, and then examined me carefully. He turned away after a minute, hesitated as though he was making a decision, and turned back around to face me. He opened his mouth. "So, are you, like, a goth?" As the rest of the tribe laughed in an eerie, thoughtless unison, I stared at him. Could we speak the same language? Perhaps these creatures were not so savage as I thought. I decided it would not be in my best interest to disagree with them. I smiled, hoping that I hadn't really answered his inquiry wrongly.
This was quite obviously the wrong move, as he was soon flanked by two strong-looking boys. Their numbers proclaimed "46" and "78" respectively. The eyes of 46 found the headphones around my neck. "Were you listening to Marilyn Manson, goth?" The laughter filled the air again. Thinking it would be best not to chance my life on their intelligence, I didn't insult them, simply smiled and nodded. 78's eyes found my backpack, and the buttons and patches on my backpack. I squirmed internally under this scrutiny, knowing I had been identified as an enemy of the tribe. I turned and walked quickly back to the tree, trying to undo the damage I'd done. I picked up my book, and put my headphones back over my ears, but did not turn them on. The leader seemed to be calling a tournament of sorts.
A ball hit me in the head. 78 laughed loudly and ran out to pick it up, muttering apologies to me with a grin on his face. He must not have understood what he was saying, for soon it hit me again, in the stomach this time, and again it was retrieved. They appeared to have some sort of scoring system, and they all took turns throwing balls. I knew if I left they would just follow me, so I stayed in my prison of battery and humiliation until the bell rang. Taking this as a symbol, the winner was decided. 78, with a total of 78 points. He looked down excitedly at his shirt, proclaiming "78!" as though this was the one thing that had given his life meaning. The leader looked at him, laughed, and said "Nice goin', Chris." As they left, 78, or "Chris" as he is newly called, tore off his numbered shirt and threw it to a girl standing not far off, who cheered.
As their congregation dwindled, I lamented on what I had just witnessed. Through the proof of his superiority in not only hitting targets but making intellectual connections far beyond the expectations of the tribe's mental capacity, he had been presented with a title. The gift of identity, a namesake much easier to pronounce than the number which had been once his only form of identification. And he had used this identity to choose his mate. In conclusion, the opportunity to witness the blessing awarded to only the most elite warriors of this race of teenage boys is by far reward enough for the temporary swelling that will make my chest significantly lopsided.
My only wish is that they'd hit the other side as well.
