Free Crazy Enough by Storm Large Page A

injuries, car accidents, wicked fights, and oodles of drugs. I was part of a small crew of kids that the dealers loved. They would say things like, “Hey, Storm, I think these are Quaaludes, will you take one and tell me how you feel in twenty minutes? Oh, and don’t drink.”
    My punk-rock beggar friends and I all hung out at the Harvard Square T stop. There is a brick, circular, patio-type structure there where we could sit around and complain about society, talk about how punk was dead and harass passers-by for spare change. The boys would do skateboard tricks, and the girls would smoke and put on black, black eyeliner, using little circular mirrors on their superpale pressed powder compacts. It was where we heard about parties, fights, who was fucking who; the T stop was a great hangout.
    On one particular day, to our collected rage and disgust, the city of Cambridge had festooned our hangout with blue plastic port-o-potties. Five of them, in a row, along a low wall, which happened to be my favorite sit and bitch place.
    It was Harvard’s 350th anniversary and the whole area around the campus had become a fucking glut of blue-blooded, overly entitled douche bags snobbing around in their maroon blazers talking like Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island, and they were all peeing out their gin and tonics in our hangout.
    We were appalled.
    The cops kept trying to roust us from the area, but like bees to a barbecue, we all buzzed back and continued our very important loitering. Since the public crappers were stationed where we normally all sat, a couple of us climbed to the top of the T stop itself. One of the guys was my buddy Starchild.
    Imagine a featherless and emaciated turkey with a crooked, baby curl Mohawk and put a motorcycle jacket on it. Now, set its head on a swivel, so the head constantly swims on its neck as if trying to break free of it, and you might get a picture of poor Starchild.
    He had done more drugs than Hunter S. Thompson. He was so completely brain-damaged; it sometimes seemed like he had been trepanned (when a hole gets drilled into your skull so you’re high forever). Mental stability aside, he was a complete and total sweetheart.
    The day of the reunion, he was very quiet. He sat up straight, eerily staring at everyone below our little rooftop perch.
    My friend Keith and I were snickering at the preppy bastards tiptoeing around, trespassing on our land. We started to play a little game we’ll call “Audacity Tag.”
    As in, if you have the audacity to come into our house, then tag! You’re it.
    As soon as some poor sucker would get all situated in a port-o-potty, we would jump off the roof and knock on the thing, shake it and yell into the vents, literally scaring the piss out of them. Then, we’d clamber back onto the roof and duck down, so the sad sack wouldn’t know from where the attack had come. When a corpulent man in a craptastic red-and-white Hawaiian shirt stepped into one, we launched our attack, trying to outdo the fear factor of the last.We pounded, yelled, and pushed, and suddenly it rocked at such a treacherous angle, Keith and I backed away nervously.
    â€œWhoa,” Keith giggled, as we heard a muffled expletive from inside the thing.
    Just as it was wobbling back to right itself, with Hawaiian Punch still cussing inside, we heard a scream. We looked up just in time to see a low-flying, peeled swivel turkey sailing quite beautifully through the air.
    Starchild had suddenly launched himself from the station roof onto the roof of the Johnnie on the spot, screeching, “Kaaa-yeee-haaa!” sending himself, Hawaiian Punch, and the port-o-potty crashing over onto the bricks, the latter landing on its door, trapping its ill-fated occupant.
    Starchild sprinted down Dunster Street cackling. Keith’s and my mouths hung open and time froze for a second. We were about to start laughing when the bottom of the Johnnie splooshed out