you ain't no friend of mine

Boy, I sure had this uncanny knack for choosing jerks to be my friend. Not all of them, of course. I had some pretty good friends when I was a kid. But there were certainly some people I numbered among my friends that — today — makes me question my choices.

Just after I finished elementary school, there was a shuffle among the next stop in the path of higher learning. The high school had eliminated seventh grade in an effort to alleviate the problem of overcrowding. My brother — four years my senior — had gone right from elementary school to high school when his time came. Me? Well, the School District of Philadelphia had to scramble to find a place to put my entire graduating class, as well as our counterparts from at least three more elementary schools. The School District was in the process of building something called "a middle school," that would offer Grades 6 through 8. But, construction was slow and the building wasn't ready for the new school year. So, for seventh grade, my classmates and I were sent to a new school for one year, where we were mixed with other students who would be experiencing the same School Board miscalculation. We were sent to a school well out of our comfort zone that may have been in another country, as far as we were concerned. (In reality, it was just twenty minutes from our elementary school.) 

At the completion of seventh grade, the new school opened its doors and I was thrust into a classroom with another new bunch of kids from other schools. These strangers would be my eighth grade classmates, whether I liked it or not. One of the students was Aaron Goldman. Aaron was a jerk. I still — to this day — can't figure out why I hung out with him. We had relatively nothing in common. He lived far from my house. My other, long-time friends didn't like him. He seemed to go out of his way to toy with trouble. He smoked in eighth grade, purely to appear "cool." (It didn't work.) He always had some kind of "school contraband" hidden in the deep pockets of his faded US Army jacket (Something else he sported in an effort to appear "cool." That, too, failed.) One day, he'd produce a switchblade from his jacket pocket. Another day, it would be firecrackers. Always something he knew he shouldn't have... but, of course, that's why he had it. 

In April 1975, shock-rocker Alice Cooper was bringing his Welcome to My Nightmare Tour to the Philadelphia Spectrum to promote his current namesake album. I loved Alice Cooper and I owned a few of his albums including the malevolent concept story of "Steven," the main character in the songs on Welcome to My Nightmare. A few of my friends had already attended concerts. My brother, at 18, was a veteran of many Spectrum shows. I asked my mom if I could go to see Alice Cooper. My mom — a cool mom before such a thing was acknowledged — agreed, on the condition that I could purchase my ticket with my own money. It took some scraping, as $6.50 wasn't easy to come by for a 14 year-old. My mom was gracious enough to provide a ride to the South Philadelphia venue on the night of the show. She would even give dinner to my fellow concert-going friends.

I went to see Alice Cooper with three companions, one of whom was Aaron Goldman. On the night of the show, parents dropped their sons at my house a little before dinner time. My fellow 14 year-olds filed in and took a place at the Pincus kitchen table. My mom doled out huge helpings of spaghetti, generously covered in her homemade spaghetti sauce. My mom loved to make her own spaghetti sauce and it was one of my families favorite dishes. For my brother's Bar Mitzvah, my mom asked her brother to address the invitations, as he had beautiful, swirly, calligraphic handwriting. Her brother agreed, and requested a meal featuring my mom's spaghetti sauce as fair compensation.

My friends dug right in. My mom supplemented the meal with a big loaf of crusty Italian bread from a local bakery. Midway through the course of dinner, my mom asked each of my guests how everything was.

"Great, Mrs. Pincus" was the reply from my first two friends. I, of course reiterated the sentiment, as I had dome many times before when my mom served her "famous" spaghetti sauce. When it came to Aaron's turn, my mom repeated the question: "How is everything?," she asked.

Silence.

Aaron didn't even look up from his plate, He continued to shovel gobs of spaghetti into his sauce-stained maw. "Eh... I've tasted better.," he said. He actually said that — out loud — to my mom. My other two friends — my actual friends — froze. The room was silent. My mom frowned at me and said nothing. As a matter of fact, nothing was said from that point on. We got into the car in silence. We drove to the Spectrum in silence, When we arrived at the Spectrum, my mom briefly instructed us where to meet at the show's conclusion. 

And my mom drove away.

After eighth grade, I sort of lost touch with Aaron in high school. I saw him in the crowded hallways, but he had a new set of friends — ones that smoked and wore Army jackets and carried concealed switchblades and tried to be cool.

Years later, when my wife and I needed some small home repairs, someone recommended Aaron. He was now in the handyman business. Our phone number was forwarded to him and he called. He left a voicemail outlining his services, but explaining that he really wanted to do home inspections. (We didn't need a home inspection.) He ended his recorded message by saying: "I bet your daughter is growing up real fast. Hope to hear from you soon."

I have a son and Aaron didn't hear from me... soon or otherwise.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com