People I still hate - #1 Perry Simone (Part I)

Because of a combination of my awkward social skills and my father continually moving us, I ended up going to four different high schools between 1972 and 1976. Two of them were in Connecticut, one in Ohio, one (very briefly) in California. Two of the four were Catholic schools. School mascots ranged from an Elk to a Mustang to a Hatter. No shit, a Hatter.

But no matter how many times I switched schools, or how seemingly unique or alike each of these bastions of public education were, each of the dusty locker-lined halls had one key ingredient they shared - I hated each and every one.

Why? Probably because I mostly loathed myself. Or at the very least I had no fucking idea who I was, and so it was impossible for me to seamlessly slip from one high school aquarium to another. Different if I had been able to associate myself with some accepted pre-formed high school group - jock, stoner, honor roll, gay, nerd, whatever. Unfortunately for me, I was none of those things. In reality I was nothing, in part the result of never having stayed in any one place long enough to figure out what I did well or what I didn't well, and not having had the luxury of finding other people similar to me I could associate with. Even a band of nothings is better than nothing at all.

I began my high school journey at Immaculate HS in Danbury, Connecticut, a private catholic school complete with a stone Mother Mary on the front lawn and uniforms. My mother by the way purchased my uniform from the school the summer before classes began. We didn't know you could buy the damn things from anywhere - they were grey slacks, regular old standard issue grey slacks. Well the pants arrived in the mail and they were not only made of some material without a whisper of natural fiber, they were huge - oversized in the waist and the legs were wide enough for an elephant gam. "We paid for them," my mother said in response to my "you've got to be kidding me" protest. "You'll wear them." And so I did. And I looked like a douchebag. Welcome to high school. Catholic-style.

So began a four-year (actually three years and change) journey of extreme awkwardness and generally bad results. I entered this supposedly crucial phase of young adulthood already at a deficit. I was 14 years old and was working on my third location already. I had no friends. I had no real interests, and I would do or give anything in the world to just fit in, quietly fit in.

And then came Perry Simone.

Perry was a thin little weaselly guy with straight black hair that fell just to the crest of his eyebrows, which gave him an excuse to develop a habit of continually pressing his palm across his forehead, using his pinkie as a comb to move the hair to the side. I believe he was Italian. I also believe his father owned a local insurance agency, because I recall seeing the name SIMONE posted on billboards in Danbury, quietly stalking me even in the car.

I met Perry quite unexpectedly one afternoon as I was trying to catch my bus home from school. Understand, it was early in the fall term of my freshman year and I literally knew no one at the school. I already disliked the place which seemed to me to have attracted all the snotty upper middle class kids whose parents could afford a private school education, or just young Catholics with built-in superiority complexes. For the most part they ignored me, seeing the nothingness I exuded. I would welcome that now as an adult, but as a 14-year old with a catatonic hard-on and self-esteem issues, I had been hoping maybe, just maybe I could find a niche.

That afternoon I had somehow ended up in a strange hallway of classrooms on the first floor of Immaculate, so I was running late for the bus. Not that I was in any great rush to get home to my terrific and loving family, but to give you an idea how out of place I was, even home was a welcome distraction to school. Every afternoon the school bus would drop me off about a quarter mile from my house - at the corner of Birch Road and Fox Den Road. I would get off alone and sprint home, my oversized grey uniform dress slacks flapping at the sides, my plaid tie over my shoulder like a panting tongue. I just wanted to hide, to run, to get out all the energy that was stored inside and had nowhere to go. I would barely acknowledge my mother if she were home, then go into my bedroom, take off my shoes, close my eyes on the bed and disappear.

That day, however, there was nowhere to hide. In my bus haste, I'd pushed through a pair of heavy metal doors heading to the lobby of the school where I at least knew the way to the buses when, wham, there was Perry Simone on the other side.

I had no idea who he was. I would find out later only that he was a sophomore and a complete and total self-absorbed asshole and bully. My first high school acquaintance.

I was a little stunned someone was on the other side of the tan industrial strength door, and worse yet that I'd actually hit him with it. It was not on purpose. Nothing I did was on purpose. And Christ, the absolute last thing in the world I wanted at that moment in my fledgling high school career was to draw negative attention to myself in a strange and potentially savage (my mind) environment.

But there it was, the door, the wiry Italian guy, the tension. I stopped, still holding the door open. Instinct, pure instinct. I was embarrassed, scared, unsure. So I did what I had always done. I made things worse.

"Get the fuck out of my way," I said to the black-haired boy on the other side of the door. It was not the first time I had spoken before I thought, and would certainly not be the last. This was one of those times though that I would pay for the sins of my mouth.

He stood still and stared at me. His eyes were dark brown turning to black. There was something about him that hinted of an old man, the way he put his hands to his hips, pushing aside the blue Catholic school blazer.

"You're a freshman, aren't you," he said? Oh boy, I could feel it already. I was hoping for a nice "sorry" or an "excuse me," some way to duck past my quick trigger stupidity. That's all I ever wanted. A second chance. No luck. Never any luck. Maybe he smelled my weakness from the start.

"Apologize to me," he said. Apologize, like I was a child who had impetuously stomped on his foot. "Apologize."

I didn't. I couldn't. I didn't know how to.

"Go fuck yourself," I said and pushed past him heading to the bus and the sprint home and the only glorious moment I had each day when I tried and I tried to disappear.