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Show 44 others in the pavilion until Lane asks me if I want to go one with him before we take off. I don't know the best way to say this so I'll just say it like this: I hate Lane. When I complain about him to the other guys they say I just don't like him because he's new, which is maybe a little true. He moved here eight months ago with his family from California into one of those huge Ivory Homes up on the mountain. We have to wind through a private driveway and park behind two SUVs just to get to his house. There is a pool table in his basement and he owns every video game system ever created. Besides that, he wears bandanas all the time and talks about California as if it's the Garden of Eden. Until you see the Pacific, you don't know the immensity of water. If you want to see real hardcore, go see a hardcore show in L.A.-all the best bands go through there. Mormonism is just, different in California. I think it's simply that you see diversity all the time. And a lot of it was that I've never beat him at boxing. I already know I am going to lose, but agree to fight anyway. He holds his gloves up in front of his face like I can't see him back there. I am too frustrated to wait for him to do anything, so I just try to hit him as hard as I can between the gloves on the chin. He blocks it, he's fine. He hits me a few times playfully, asks if that's all I got. Like I mentioned: it is. So I take a few more wild-ass swings at him and he hits me back, still playing. There's nothing more frustrating than tasting blood in your mouth, throwing your fists as hard and fast as you can only for the dust to clear and reveal the target of your fury smiling back at you. |