You've Got The Wrong Stuff

I was about 15 years old. A sophomore in high school. Short and lanky. And very shy. I had two close friends that I hung around with. One ended up becoming my girlfriend during my senior year, while the other was my best friend Anthony since sixth grade where we bonded over The Legend of Zelda and Bruce Hornsby & The Range. But this story happened during the night of our school's Winterball Dance of 1989. And I wish that it was a story that I would forever forget. But as time marched on, I can now at least laugh without cringing at the thought.

This sordid tale of Coke, 7-11, and a New Kids On The Block song started when my best friend asked if we left our dates and just chilled outside the hotel. He always got his way, so we asked our dates to stay put for a bit.

Outside was a cool December night. Anthony's mane was getting long. He got it long enough so that our private Catholic School did not deem his hair “too long for boys.” He got heavily into mod music and his idols were Robert Smith, The Smiths, and more than likely another "Smith.” I looked at Anthony and saw his fingernails painted black and I was sure I saw eyeliner around his eyes. He got out his Marlboro and started smoking.

I wanted to ask him to not smoke in public as we might get in trouble. (I was the uptight friend in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, except my family couldn't afford a Ferrari.) But I knew that if I had, he'd just put three cigarettes in his mouth to prove a point, so I decided not to whine and just kicked some imaginary rocks on the ground.

"Fucking nice night, eh?" he said.

"Yeah. For sure. Little bit chilly." I robotically replied.

"You're always cold, Chilly Willy!"

Oh God! Throughout high school, people always managed to call me "Chilly Willy." It's supposed to be a reference to some vintage cartoon. I remember wishing people called me "Bugs" because I always found Bugs Bunny to be a freaking cool dude.

So, under the nice chilly night of Honolulu, I watched my best friend smoke two cigarettes while I randomly practiced my hip-hop dance moves. I was doing the Happy Feet and a very subdued Running Man.

I then heard booming laughter, and I knew immediately who it was. It was Ronson and he was one of the largest students in my class. People knew that he was going to be a lineman at Hawaii Pacific University and would one day go pro. I looked at him and I did not doubt it one bit.

"Yo, Will, what you up to? Why you dance out here? No like dance inside?"

(That's how we spoke in Hawaii. It was pidgin English. In fact, if it wasn't for pidgin, I don't think that I would have learned how to speak English properly.)

Besides Ronson was Elizabeth. She was one of the "pure-blooded." (Writing that down makes me feel like I was in some Young Adult Twilight novel.) In short, Elizabeth was one-hundred percent haole. One-hundred percent Caucasian.

She was gorgeous and quite possibly the most beautiful girl in school. She spoke perfect English but could switch her accent to pidgin instantly. There were rumors and questions about why she hung around with a "brute" like Ronson. It's as if it was a Beauty and the Beast syndrome as prescribed by Moana, one of our school's premier Oprah Winfrey or maybe Ricki Lake. I remember this rumor continuing on until we graduated high school as both Ronson and she continued to date in college.

"Hey Anthony. Hey Will. How are you guys?" she asked. Her voice was as sweet as a malasada.

"Not much. Smoking and Chilly Willy here's dancing," Anthony said, choking in every second word from his cigarette.

"Say, we were wondering if you guys can get some Coke and beer at 7-11?" The way Elizabeth asked it, you just couldn't say no. And the way she said “beer” was so adorable.

"I don't have a fake ID," Anthony said.

"I do," Elizabeth slyly said. She took out a card from her pocket and walked towards me instead.

"Will, this sorta looks like you? Yes?" as she placed the driver's license beside my freezing head.

I looked at it, and it sorta looked like me. If I had a mustache. A beard. And maybe 20 years older. And a scar below the left eye.

“Brah, I tol’ you we got no luck in finding someone else. Got a bad deal wid dat fake license,” Ronson complained. I remember staring at his round gut heaving hard behind his tuxedo.

“Shit. Yeah.” Elizabeth was about to give up, but then I saw a sudden shift in her attitude. From a playful high schooler, she changed into a seductive siren.

“Will, you can do this, right? It should be very easy,” she whispered.

I looked at her, then I looked at a very intimidating Ronson. I couldn’t say no today, so imagine if I was able to say no back then? That was an impossibility.

I took the ID and looked at Anthony. My eyes were either begging for mercy or help or possibly euthanasia. It did not matter. The results were all the same.

Anthony just laughed and was excited at his adventure and my impending doom.

7-11 was not far ahead. Elizabeth held on to my left arm while I tried not to shiver as much from the cold. I looked at Ronson, as I tried to act manly and tough.

Once we arrived at the 7-11, the beauty, the beast, and the joker slowly moved away from me as if I had toe fungus sticking out from my worn-out zoris.

My heartbeat had defeated the speed of sound that I wasn’t even sure what I was nervous about. I knew that I was going to go in, so I took a deep breath and walked in.

Inside, I heard New Kids On The Block playing on the sound speakers. It was “The Right Stuff” and it got me pumping like Nike Air Pumps. I slowly danced towards the drinks section and got a 12-pack of Coca-Cola. But the moment I neared the Budweisers and Coors, I froze.

To this day, I could feel the sweat dripping down on me: It was like burning in hell while being frozen by piercing icicle sweats.

I said “Fuck it,” and got a 12-pack of Buds and went straight to the cashier.

I placed the beer first so that it didn’t look suspicious. I then lazily put the Coke as if it were more of a bother than anything.

The cashier didn’t even look at me and just automatically asked for an ID. I stared at his two earrings (which was a bold statement at the time, especially on a man).

I gave the ID with a surprising amount of confidence.

The cashier man with two earrings stared at the card then stared at me. He did this at least about 6 to 7 times as if he were playing Pong.

To my surprise, he rang the register, and I paid cash to the man wearing womanly jewelry.

I walked out with a methodical walk so that I did not look suspicious. But the walk from the cashier to the exit door was excruciatingly long.

As I opened the door, expecting a cavalcade of police and DEA waiting to arrest me for my heinous crime, I saw the trio who happened to be even farther away from the store. As the door closed behind me, I stopped hearing Jordan Knight’s voice.

Fuck yeah, I got the right stuff!

As I walked towards my excited friends, I started dancing the Charleston Shuffle where I twisted both feet as I walked. I could see Anthony dancing as he smoked his possibly fourth cigarette, Elizabeth smiling uncontrollably, while Ronson punching some imaginary birds up in the sky.

Fucking hell, that was easy. You got the right stuff, baby. You’re the reason why I sing this—

BAM! I fell face-first on the cold cement. I felt the wetness. I wasn’t sure but it was either one, two, or all of the beer bottles that had shattered upon impact.

The canned Coca-Colas were safe from my fall.

I stood up immediately, trying to salvage what pride I had left. Elizabeth was first and the only one who came to my aid, and she was legitimately sorry about my accident.

I couldn’t say the same about the bear and the monkey though.

My tuxedo was completely ruined and it most definitely reeked of alcohol. There was no way I was heading back to the Winterball Dance of 1989.

Elizabeth assessed the situation, and she gave me the warmest of smiles. I mouthed a thank you, as she blushed.

“This is my fault, Will. Thank you for doing this. Forget those other two. You were really cool to do this.”

“That’s why they call me Chilly Will!” (I cringe whenever I remember saying this line to her.)

“Boo-Yaa! Chilly Will!” Ronson yelled at the cold night.

And that’s when I remember that I wished it was Ronson who held me with his hands. I wanted to be near him so badly. I wanted to feel him. I wanted him close to tell me that everything was fine.

But at that moment, I had to pretend that I was someone I was not.

So I continued to smile at Elizabeth, feigning attraction to the opposite sex, while my eyes would briefly look at the lovely Ronson who was right by my reach but would be eternally far away.

Even in regrets, I was not who I was.