La vida pasada

I walked outside at the end of the Hives concert in Nashville, looking for the group of friends I was with.

“I got stabbed!” a kid yelled, sitting on the ground nearby where I stood. I walked over to investigate, as most of the crowd petered on by (yeah, ‘peter’ is a verb, I checked). “I got stabbed!” the kid exclaimed again. I searched for signs of blood on his shirt, but found none. His blonde hair was buzzed, and revealed no cuts or gashes.

“What happened man?” I asked.

“I got stabbed!” the kid said once again, and held out his hand. On the back was a small wound and a trickle of blood.

“How’d that happen?”

“I was in the mosh pit,” he said, “and a broken glass sliced my hand open!” He kept talking as if he were a WWF announcer, or one of those guys who does those monster truck commercials that always advertise “Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!”

“Well,” I said, “let’s go back inside and have the bartender pour some vodka on it, or see if they have any hydrogen peroxide.”

“No, you don’t understand man,” the kid replied. “I’m 19, I’m drunk, I got stabbed, and I’m freakin’ out man! I’m freakin’ out!”

I never took any counseling courses, but I figured I’d seen enough tv melodramas to handle the current situation, so I bent down to his level and said, “That’s cool man, no need to stress. Let’s just chill out for a little, and once things settle then we can do something about your hand.” He seemed ok with that, so I started with my first question. “Where do you come from?” I asked.

“Arizona,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” I asked. “What city?”

“Tucson.”

“Really? That’s where I used to live,” I said. “Which side?”

“East side,” he replied.

“Dude, me too!” I said.

“No way man!” he said.

“Yeah, I’m serious. What high school did you graduate from?” I asked.

“Sahuaro,” he said. By now he had totally forgotten about his hand, and was really trying to see if I was messing with him or not.

“That’s crazy!” I said. “What year?”

“No way man!” he said. “2006!”

“I graduated from Sahuaro in 2001!” I exclaimed.

He leaned forward. “Do you know my cousin, David Franklin?”

This kid is about to get blown away, I thought. “Yeah, for sure man,” I said. “My 10th grade year we had a class together and our teacher had a heart attack and died halfway through the year.”

By now the kid had a huge smile on his face. “Dude, I know that story!” he shouted.

We talked for a little bit more, and then I talked to security and they got us something to wipe his hand with. The kid thanked me, I told him to say ‘Hi’ to David for me and he went on his merry way.

I caught up with my friends soon afterwards, and thought about what had happened. I know the kid would have been alright with or without me. I didn’t save his life, stop some gushing wound, or deliver any babies. I calmed him down to where he could think logically, and it just so happened that we’d both graduated from the same high school and had a mutual acquaintance. No big deal, right?

Why can’t I stop thinking about it then? Is it because we were in a random city, and yet had come from the same place? Is it because I really did have that class with David Franklin, or that we used to play poker together last year, or that my brother gave him his golf clubs and then wanted me to get them back from him? I don’t know.

After thinking about it long and hard, the only conclusion I can come to is that I’m still homesick for Tucson. I miss knowing lots of people from all walks of life, and having lots of things to do at any point in the week. I miss knowing exactly where every store and restaurant is, and where to hike, and my favorite pizza place and Mexican fast food and…well, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I miss the Old Pueblo.
In the words of Stephen King’s Mid-World, “I miss it big-big.”