In 1968, a new kid was introduced in one of my 7th-grade classes.
He was tall, dark-skinned (California sun), athletic, and fearless.
Most of my friends back then were always up for some trouble, but none more than Scott.
He and I were two of a kind, and we knew it almost immediately.
Once they were up on the roof, Scott and I pulled the ladder away.
After some yelling and a vicious snowball fight, those two guys started running around the roof.
Both of them sucked at basketball anyway… And from that moment on, we dropped our real names and started calling each other “Crazyboy”.
We often stunted, and we took out a lot of defensive ends and tackles that way.
Lipstick-covered glasses, it didn’t matter, we drank from every glass we could get our hands on.
I had never been drunk before, but after that night, I could no longer say that.
We both got shitfaced.
Problem was, I got bronchitis.
One of those glasses had some bad germs on it.
I ended up missing all the practices before the big game, and I almost didn’t play.
The night before, my father asked me if I felt good enough to play…
I said I felt fine and I could play.
He was the fastest kid on the team and a real deep threat on offense… One night we got drunk and hitchhiked to the Dunkin' Donuts in Stoughton.
We were always trying to one-up each other, it was the nature of our friendship.
I looked at him and said,“What the fuck, Crazyboy!
“He just laughed…
It wasn’t long after I put my thumb in the air that an MG pulled over.
We were up for some fun, and Crazyboy got in the back, and I rode shotgun.
The driver was a guy in his late thirties-early forties, and drunk as hell.
He was drinking beer from a can and spilling it all over himself.
“He said he’d buy the beer if we took him to the party.
After he turned the car around, he was all over the road.
He said his name was Sonny, and he was in the Mafia.
Either I’m driving, or we’re gettin' the fuck out.
It was an incredible car…
He was in his own world.
I eyed Crazyboy in the rearview mirror, and we both shook our heads… Sonny was drunk when he picked us up, and three beers later, he was becoming obnoxiously inebriated.
Then, without provocation, he pushed me and said he wanted to fight me.
Sonny didn’t like hearing that, and that’s when things got tense.
One time we split a six-pack ofMaximus Superon the way to school.
If beer was equivalent to regular gasoline, thenMaximus Superwas high test (7-8.9% ABV).
Then, we began body-slamming kids onto mats.
Finally, one of the kids said,“I smell alcohol!
The next day nothing happened to us…
I normally drove when we went out; Crazyboy was happy to ride shotgun.
Whenever I was pulling out into an intersection, I’d ask him,“Is it clear?
“He’d say,“Nope.
I didn’t think it was funny, but Crazyboy laughed hysterically.
And, he would’ve been the one who got the worst of it.
Scott’s father was even crazier than us, and we nicknamed him"Crazyman”.
As long as we didn’t leave his house, he let us drink with him.
He drank cheap beer;NarragansettandBlack Labelwere his beverages of choice.
We always ended up listening to Crazyman’s favorite music on the turntable/stereo he built himself.
He liked swing and jazz, and he played guitar and trumpet too.
I learned from one of the best…
They were making the drive cross country in an older Dodge Dart station wagon.
“My father would’ve killed me.
The Dart was towed to a body shop, and they moved up their departure time by a week.
My mother offered to put the three of them up in our house, but only Scott stayed over.
He was an incredible writer with a rich vocabulary I could only dream of.
Years passed, and I lost track of Crazyboy.
In 1983, Crazyman passed away.
He was only 53.
It was an incredibly honest story about his father’s life.
I did make a connection with Scott’s namesake and a publication calledThe Ester Republic.
They said they gave me temporary Esteroid status and that it was a one-time privilege.
It’d start with one of us texting,“You wanna have a beer?
He convinced me, a non-fiction writer, to start writing fiction, which I did.
My writing paled in comparison to his, but that didn’t stop him from helping me out.
Just sit down and start writing, you don’t need to be motivated!
Then, when it was complete, he said to"edit the fuck out of it!”
When I’d call his house on a landline, his wife would yell to him,“Crazyboy!
“It was so cool having the same nickname, and one that was so deserving.
My wife was fine with it.
I flew out ofT.F.
Green Internationaland landed atJohn Wayne Airport.
I asked him if this car had an overdrive button, and after he said,“definitely not!
“we laughed hysterically.
He was working with the publisher’s editor and had already started his second novel.Life was good!
California is very different than Massachusetts, but I can’t say I didn’t like it.
His spacious home inDana Pointoverlooked a valley, and behind it, the ocean.
It was an incredible view.
I would’ve called someone, but not Crazyboy.
He decided he could do the job himself.
After three hours, Crazyboy killed it with a shovel.
He hadn’t changed very much.
He was in great shape for a 55-year-old.
He said there was a possibility that he may need surgery.
The wedding was great, and I had a blast with his family and friends.
I spent nine days there, and at one point, we started arguing aboutArchie Manning.
Crazyboy seemed to think he was better than Peyton and Eli.
It was just like old times, we were arguing and trying to one-up each other.
Weeks passed before he started to warm up to me, a little…
It was Brett, Crazyboy’s younger brother.
He said to call him on his number…
I assumed Crazyboy had shoulder surgery…
I waited till 11:30 am, figuring it was 8:30 in California.
Then he went on,“I have some really bad news…
I was in a state of shock.
(GREAT FUCKING READ!)
https://www.amazon.com/Salvation-Beach-Scott-L-Allen/dp/130449991X
I miss Crazyboy tremendously, and when he died, so did our nicknames…
When I’m writing a blog, I constantly think about him.
He was so much more talented than me.
This one’s dedicated to you,Crazyboy.
