Influence 8.4.24

When I was in high school, I was best friends with this guy named Dominic Shaw. He’d wait for me at my locker every morning, and we’d walk together between classes, then walk home. We’d grown up in the same little tenement housing in Northeast Minneapolis, up by Kordiak Park, and met on the first day of preschool— he was this skinny, awkward kid born without volume control, but the kind of smile that made mothers want to adopt him off the street like a lost dog. A sweet guy, sensitive as all hell.

Summer before freshman year, Dom’s dad died serving overseas. Closed casket funeral and all. After that, Dom started spending a lot of time with his uncle (dad’s side, older brother). I didn’t know much about Dom’s uncle, except that he still lived with his parents, and the few times I’d met him, he smelled kind of strange, and he didn’t like wearing shoes. He had a lot of funny ideas about a lot of things, and as I’d learn later, he got into acid in a big way. And once Dom was fifteen, he started getting Dom into acid in a big way, too.

Then Dom got weird. Really twitchy. Nervous. About all kinds of things— strange things, paranoid things. He’d start talking at me, real loud about whatever conspiracy his uncle had told him, and it’d get to a point where I didn’t want to walk down the halls with him and have people hear him or see me with him. It was damn embarrassing. And it didn’t matter if I told him he was talking stupid— that only made him double down. He was so sure the guy was right, and I didn’t know why.

I went with Dom to his uncle’s after school once, down to the basement where he slept on a futon. The whole place smelled like feet, and he sat me and Dom down on the couch and let us play Grand Theft Auto while he and Dom took drops. I couldn’t focus on the game, though. Half because of the smell, half because of the acid, and half because of the big Third Reich banner up on the wood panel wall that nobody mentioned. After half an hour, I called my mom to pick me up, saying I had a stomachache, which was true. But mostly I just didn’t want them to see me cry.

There’re a million stories I could tell about Dom, and for the most part, a lot of them would actually be good. But the day I want to talk about is the day things kind of ended.

We were seventeen, at the park, and Dom had just shaved his head bald. It was all shiny, and I entertained myself by slapping it. I had some music playing on my speaker- Lou Reed. And Dom was talking at me, but it was a nice talk- the kind that made me feel like we were twelve again, and the only thing that mattered was music. He was talking about Lou Reed, and he was talking about Bowie, and he was saying Bowie was better than Lou Reed. But I figured nothing could top “Walk on the Wild Side”.

Then these boys came up to the basketball court- I say boys, but we didn’t think they were boys at the time, all being a few years older than us. Tall and strong, and they started playing their own music as they passed the ball around, warming up. This loud tune with bumping bass— not singers, but MC’s. Don’t believe the hype, don’t, don’t, don’t believe the hype…

It drowned out Lou Reed. They didn’t do it on purpose or anything, but all the same, we’d been there first, and it had cut off Perfect Day, which was Dom’s favorite. He watched Nelson 3 them, frowning. After a minute, I slid off the bench and said, “C’mon, let’s go over by the pond. I wanna see some ducks.”

But Dom put his hands in his pockets and said in his nasal, whining voice, which had once been as familiar and reliable as a “Velvet Underground” record,

“I hate these Goddamn—”

I won’t tell you what he said, because I don’t feel right repeating it. But I’ll never forget it. I didn’t say anything.

“Y’know? We were here first. I’m tired of them taking up our fucking park, man,” he continued. “I’m tired of fucking hip hop- it’s not music, it’s just noise.”

I stood there, useless, just watching him run his mouth, wishing he’d shut up. Just shut up, Dominic.

“It pisses me off. It’s like it’s cool to be black these days or something.”

“Yo- what’d you just say?” They heard him— it would have been impossible not to. Dom jumped like a rabbit, turning around all wide-eyed. The tallest of the boys, who had his shirt off, toned, athlete body on display, skin like polished ebony, was walking towards us.

“Huh?” Dom said. “Nothing- I didn’t- I was just saying.”

“Say it again,” the boy said. “I want you to say it again.” His friends all turned, watching us with heads cocked to the side. Not even mad yet, just curious. Dom looked at me, like he wanted me to say something. He swallowed. And for a second, he looked familiar— awkward and nervous— and I thought, or maybe hoped, there’s Dominic. But then he doubled down.

“I just… was… saying I hate that it’s cool to be-”

I turned away, not waiting for him to finish. I just started walking, and when he called my name, I pretended I didn’t hear him.

He was out of school for a few days— not that they beat him up bad, they didn’t at all. Mostly just shoved him around a little, yelled at him some. But he scared easily. Like a small dog with a big bark.

“Sup,” he said the morning he finally showed up at my locker again.

“Sup,” I said.

And we never talked about it. He never asked why I left; I never told him. Maybe I should have. Maybe it would have mattered. But the worst part was him coming up to my locker every morning and seeing him every day. And even though he was right there, I missed him so much it hurt.