It was the summer of eighty-five. My friends seemed to always be looking for something when they went out at night, trouble. They usually found it and I was usually along for the ride, like an oblivious journalist following a rock band.

They had heard of someone throwing a party, like every other Friday night, but this one was different. This time, one of my friends, Timmy, was having a rivalry with some other kids at the party. I was absolutely clueless to what was going on. I was riding in the back seat of a two door car and could not hear their maniacal plan through the howling wind and six by nine inch, oval speakers blasting Van Halen’s, Jamie’s Cryin’,  in my ears. We arrived at a house in a newly constructed neighborhood and parked in the dimly moonlit yard next to a Suzuki Samurai. Timmy and Mick yelled into the now completely quiet back seat telling me to stay there as they went into the two story, upper middle class home full of smoke, music, whiskey, and beer fumes. Their command was the first moment I sensed the malcontent behavior of this particular evening. Within minutes they were coming back from the house in a hurry. Our car started and Mick  jumped in as Timmy opened the door on the Suzuki Samurai that was parked next to us. He unzipped his pants and proceeded to urinate all over the interior of the vehicle as Mick was yelling for us to escape, “Let’s Go! Let’s Go!!” And we went! I’ll never know what took place inside the house. The Suzuki Samurai loaded with three angry kids soon caught up to us as we raced down main street. There were a lot of flying finger gestures and taunting verbal insults as I decided to join in and engage my own hidden talent from the back seat, not acknowledging any danger or repercussions for my actions.

This specific one of my unique hidden talents originated years before with a tickling accident and a pickle jar involving my brother. I think that is self explanatory, but if you need more explanation, I’ll suffice. I was being violently tickled by my brother on the kitchen floor when he opened the refrigerator door, grabbed a jar of pickles, and pretended to drop it on my face. Only he forgot to pretend to drop it, resulting in a chipped front tooth that left an eight millimeter gap like Alfred E. Neuman for many years after. It bestowed upon me the talent of being able to spit a stream of liquid about 12 feet through the space between my teeth.

I filled my mouth with beer, leaned up from the back seat, and squeezed out the passenger side window. I was brilliantly streaming a line of beer spit at the Suzuki Samurai. They scientifically deduced that since I was orally projecting a liquid with so much vigor, that I was the culprit that covered their interior with a piss-like substance. They also unanimously decided they wanted to murder me.

As we sped through town, Timmy and Mick , who were much more proficient street fighters than I was, chose to stop at a dimly lit, obscure, city park, in a quiet sub-division to engage in battle. As soon as the car came to a stop, Timmy and Mick  were out, and posed, and ready as the Suzuki Samurai sideways skidded into the parking lot behind us. The angry kids were also quite prepared as they bounded from their vehicle. As they all started beating the crap out of each other, my vision became very narrow and dark. I was holding on to the door of the car as some angry kid was trying to pull me away. He was intently saying something about it being my fault and I should fight. I was not prepared to fight, in fact, I had given up fighting in the fifth grade when a tiny Mexican kid almost choked me to death in a fight that I started. I was being accused by the other angry kids as well. I could hear their voices through the scuffling and punching noises. I needed time to think. Luckily, a scientific hypothesis of space and time relativity kicked in. I have found that Time usually slows down for me in these intense situations. As my arms were being strenuously tugged and stretched, I calmly thought to myself, “I should just explain this whole situation. If I could get everyone to take a little break, I could explain it rationally. Oh, but then I would have to reveal what the liquid actually is, and I honestly don’t hate these guys enough to tell them they’ve been riding around in human piddle. I don’t even know these dudes. It also could potentially cause some disapproval with Timmy if I tell on him”. I concluded that when the angry kid eventually pulled me off the car door, I would just take my beating like a wimp rather than try to explain anything or actually fight back.

As Time began to re-clock itself and become normal again, the blur was lifted and I could see again. Timmy was centered fifty feet in the distance under the romantically lit city park lights, trading punches with angry kid number three. Mick  was twenty feet away to the left, exchanging blows with angry kid two. Angry kid one was standing in front of me with limp arms at his side, staring at me like I was a spilled bag of the last buttered popcorn on Earth. He was very disappointed in me for not engaging in the overall brutality.

In an instant, it was over with the sound of distant sirens and bouncing shadows of red and blue lights. Everyone scattered back to their peed on, or non-peed on cars, and whisked away into the night. Recess was over.

I remember being courageously vengeful in my thoughts and dreams for months after the incident. I envisioned sneaking up to their house at night, and draining the oil out of all their vehicles as revenge. I hope no one ever really did that. I absolutely hated kids who had stuff, and things, and decent families. I never knew who the angry kids were, or why we conflicted with them.  It felt imaginary at the time and still does. It seemed like it was already a memory when it happened. There are more of those nights. So many more.