In 8th grade, my friend Vic broke a window with his fist, snuck into a house, and unlocked the front door so a gang of us could walk in. And, it happened a block from my house.
And, yes, highly illegal, I know.
Bear with me.
Vic — I won't give you his last name, but we called him Grelle (Grell-ey) — was the coolest.
He was to me, at least. To everyone else, not so much. And I couldn't understand why, and my friends couldn't understand why I hung out with him.
I met Vic in kindergarten... probably. Maybe in first grade. I don't remember. I grew up in Gladstone, Oregon, and he grew up five minutes away by car, and we went to the same school, same grade, and had some of the same teachers, too.
I started hanging out with him in seventh grade, and I think I was his only friend. I don't remember how it happened, but I just started coming to his house and he started coming to mine. And every one of my friends were oblivious to how cool he was. Instead, they made fun of me for even talking to the kid.
Now, this is how cool he and his family were (still are).
When I first walked into his house, the wall on the left, and the wall in front of me... unbelievable... out-of-this-world. A full-on mural painting of a scene in the Lord of the Rings, painted by his mom. Like, majestic. Professional.
All of them, Vic, his younger brother (one of my favorite people), his mom, and dad, all artists. His younger bro was unbelievable at art. Could draw comic characters better than comic artists, and I'm not lying about that. And he was a grade below me, so he was doing THAT in sixth grade.
Their cats... named after Lord of the Ring characters.
Need I say more!?!
Vic and I would talk Science Fiction, about Area 51, and write stories. We'd invent things, create Mech Warrior characters, study Mech Warrior mechs, and create Mech Warrior mercenary groups, and study Battletech, and if you don't know what that is, well, it's a role playing game, and we loved it. We played board games. Talked strategy. Created more stories. And I could keep going.
At that time in life, we were made for each other, and had a blast.
Yet, he wasn't liked. And I couldn't figure out why, and by eighth grade, I couldn't keep him to myself anymore and had to show my friends how awesome he was, that he deserved a million friends, that he deserved their ears for his stories, for his cool ideas, for his smarts, but little did I know, that on the night I decided to show my group of friends — known as the popular kids in school — that Vic was badass...
...that he'd rip off his shirt at 2 in the morning, roll the shirt around his fist, and punch through a glass window, crawl through the window, and unlock the front door to let us inside.
Hell, I had no idea he'd do something like that!
Back then, I lived a block away from a forest. Less than a block, actually. In that forest stood an abandoned house owned, and watched, by parents of another friend of ours, someone who wasn't with us that night.
And we'd always wanted to get inside that abandoned home, explore it, and tell everyone that it was us, the 8th grade crew, our crew, that did it.
We grouped at the large boulder that sat under the burned out street light that night. It sat near the forest. Everyone ignored Vic. He'd say something, they'd look at him, probably think bad thoughts, and talk amongst each other, leaving him out of their little discussions. Yet, Vic, he played it cool.
Because he had to. This was an interview of sorts. An audition. I didn't know it was, but to him, it was. To me, I just wanted everyone to like the fellow.
A few friends came up to me...
"Why'd you bring Vic?"
"He's a dork."
"Are you serious? Vic?"
We ventured into the forest, through the dark shadows under the trees, over the small creek, and up the hill where there was a clearing. Old barn nearly fallen over. Rusty car decades old. The red house, the one we always wanted to take a peek into. All of them stood in front of us, and we stared, huddled up, and thought of ways we could get inside, all of us knowing we'd never, ever get inside, but we were cool because we wanted to get inside. So we discussed.
At 1:45, I'm outside one of the windows, I think Bo or Denny by my side, talking about something, and Vic takes off his shirt. Says nothing. Rolls the shirt around his fist. Says nothing.
Denny knows what he's about to do and says, "Holy shit."
He cusses. Catches me off guard, but that's okay, because Vic starts walking toward the window.
"What's he doing?"
"What's going on?"
Another buddy, Jack, now standing next to me, the rest of my buddies grouping up to my left and right, and Jack says: "No way he's doing that. You've got to be joking. No way."
Vic rears back, throws a punch. The window explodes.
Crack! Smash! (All those glass sounds)
Vic doesn't look at us. He simply pushes the rest of the glass shards out of the window frame, off the sill, like he's done a B&E a dozen times (Breaking and Entering), and slips through the window.
Just then, the clouds in the night part, and the light of the moon halos the house (okay, that didn't happen), and we hear his footsteps through the house, and finally the front doorknob moves, and the door opens.
Our jaws are on the forest floor. We stand there, stunned. Then Denny looks at me, Willy looks at me, Rick looks at me, Scotty looks at me, Jace looks at me...
(Those aren't my friends' real names... I don't want to get them in trouble, or out them, or whatever, so I'm not naming them)
Someone says, "Whoa, he's freakin' cool. Holy crap... no way he did that!"
They rush the house, circle him, smiling as if breaking and entering is actually a good thing, and after a few minutes, they venture inside.
Ten minutes later, someone with a flashlight walks into the forest and heads our way.
"Out! Out!" Vic yells, though in a hushed, loud whisper.
We rush out the house and jet toward the back forest shortcut, one we've run a million times and could do so blindfolded, and hit the main road, race toward Denny's street, and from that day forward, Vic was the cool guy, hung with the cool crowd, and since Vic was one of the smartest kids in school, he helped transform my friends from blubbering idiots to some who could logic their way into, and outa just about anything... within reason.
And that's the thing about Vic. The window was just the beginning.
After that night, when he opened up and my friends actually listened, they realized the kid was sharp. Like, wicked sharp. He made them think. Made them ask better questions. Made them argue smarter. Made them think again. And that stuck.
He and a bunch of those friends of mine ended up at the University of Oregon together. Go Ducks! Woop! Woop!
None of us turned out to be criminals, by the way. Not a one. We're parents. Business owners. Coaches. People who show up for their families and communities, and, yeah, people who once did very stupid things as kids.
Vic moved out of the state, eventually. So did most of my friends. We all have families now. Some have actually died. One just six months ago.
So, the moral? If there is one?
I guess give someone a chance. They may surprise you. And, I mean, I'm not condoning B&E's or anything. But deep down, we're all very similar, if we just step back from our judgmental minds and take a few minutes, even seconds, to listen. To really pay attention to what someone is saying, and why they're saying that, and why they're doing that. And if you're lucky, really lucky, they'll stick around and make you better for it... minus the breaking and entering thing.
