Tales From Home Pt. 7: "I Like Her Hair, Man!"

Before delving into my current entry, I would like to apologize for my inactivity. I was on vacation in Egypt two weeks ago, and then I went to St. Petersburg last week, leaving little to no time to actually do any writing. Of course my vacations shouldn't have applied to the other contributors on my blog, but for one reason or another they also decided to take a break! Of course, I now intend to get them back to work. In fact, Julie and I are working on a joint entry that should be available for all of my incredibly patient readers as early as next week. In any event, I've decided to stick to an old standard to ease myself back into the swing of things. So without further ado, I give you the latest installment of the incredibly popular "Tales From Home" series!

Northwest Pennsylvania is an anomaly not only within the state of Pennsylvania, but in the whole United States. Despite its regional placement firmly in the northeast part of the country, it prides itself on having the customs (and the test scores) of the southeast. Needless to say, the similarities can be positively traced to back to the fact that both areas have descended into economic depression. In fact, my hometown displays all of the standard hallmarks of uneducated escapism, including the love affair with real (or imagined) Native American heritage, country western music/being a cowboy, NASCAR, hunting (a sport of such importance the region gives children days off school for the beginning of the season), and fundamentalist views on religion. In fact, an interesting study for any sociologist might be the relationship between "mudding" (driving your car really fast in dirt for the expressed reason of kicking up dirt and getting your vehicle dirty, don't ask me why its perceived as fun) and living below the poverty line. It was in this seemingly inhospitable climate that my friends and I enjoyed a generally positive adolescence due to nothing more than each other's company. Of course this was not easy and occasionally we needed a little luck in order to sustain our wills. One of these gifts was an individual named Dustin Dashner.

Dustin Dashner had always been someone that commanded attention, albeit for the wrong reasons. As a result, even before we actually knew him we had been aware of him. About five to seven years older than any of my friends, he was known as the guy who curiously chose to wear a cowboy hat in all of his school photos. He insisted on the tightest black wrangler jeans imaginable and oversized belt buckles (this and the previously mentioned cowboy hat reveal another example of the all pervasive and unexplainable desire of many people in my hometown to present a cowboy image while living in the forests and rolling hills of the Northeastern United States). This "cowboy" was also not the brightest guy alive. Naturally this caused him to have incredibly low self-esteem which inevitably resulted in sporadic aggressive behavior. All of this coupled with a high voice (probably one of the most damning misfortunes in any male high school student's life), made him the object of an intense policy of derision. He eventually left high school early, and my friends and I resigned ourselves to the fact that any further discussion of Dustin on our part would most likely be relegated to the realm of laughing at old yearbook photos. Despite this, Dustin had other plans. He was determined to have a huge impact on our lives, and a few years later, he did just that.

When I was seventeen, I decided to get a job at a quaint little sandwich shop called Subway. I had already cut my teeth in the fast food industry (I had worked at Burger King for eight months), and decided to see what lie ahead in greener (as well as fresher and supposedly healthier) pastures. As with many Subway's, the ones in my area were franchises, so it was with great pleasure that I met my new boss, Doug Dashner. As soon as I heard his name, I perked up instantly recognizing the name of a former cowpoke I had known in the past. Of course I had to show incredible restraint when asked if I had known his son. Naturally, I replied that I was too young, (which I was), and we left it at that. The first few months of the job seemed normal, and eventually I found myself working most evenings alone surrounded by friends who had come just to enjoy my company (and not for the very good chance of receiving a free sub or cookie).

As my time at Subway continued, I found myself growing weary of the constant monotony of the job. Despite this, I kept on going under the assumption that it would last a few months, and then I would be free to continue on with my life. It was one day, in which I was feeling particularly miserable that I stepped through the door and felt my whole life change for the better. Behind the counter, I saw a face that I had long believed would be lost to me forever. He stood there, sporting a work shirt that had already been stained and a smile that divulged his intelligence. I knew him immediately, it was Dustin Dashner. I could hardly believe my eyes. Dustin introduced himself as the boss' son and then proceeded to tell me about his wife and baby daughter. I pretended to listen but I was more amazed by what appeared to be a total lack of aging. Sure he had put on a few pounds and was balding (of course he could have been balding earlier, but this was the first time I'd seen him sans cowboy hat), but overall it was the same face that had brought me so much joy in my youth. I realized that this gift was just the kind of thing I needed to rejuvenate my desire to come to work. As I would later find out, I wasn't going to be disappointed.

Working with Dustin Dashner was one of the most interesting experiences in my life. His voice remained unchanged since high school, but since then he had added a penchant for ending all of his sentences with the word "man", which was usually an octave higher than the words preceding it. This resulted in an almost glass shattering pitch that had me dreaming of ways to reduce the amount of sentences he spoke during any one shift. In addition to this, he was usually in a bad mood due to a number of things ranging from arguments with his wife to the misguided idea that he could have had a lot of sex if he hadn't gotten married. I generally bore the brunt of these bad moods, but I did it with cheer because he was such a ridiculous character. It was due to my patience with him, that he began to see me as someone he could talk to about whatever was on his mind. Naturally, this was coupled with a desire to look cool in front of my friends who still frequently came to wait for me to finish my shift. Dustin's ease with me gave him the freedom to tell me about every single woman he found attractive (which usually was anyone showing cleavage), including the one's who were obviously (way) underage. These vain attempts at being cool would reach their pinnacle in a night that has gone down in history as one of my favorite memories from home.

It's funny how people will jump at a second chance to attain any degree of popularity which they may have squandered in their youth. In this respect, Dustin was not unusual. As high school students who weren't particularly popular, he was wasting his time, but who were we to spoil his delusion? In any event, his attempts at winning us over to the idea that he was cool resulted in one of my fondest memories of home. During one fateful night, my friend Ric and I were discussing music, when Dustin walked into the room, a big smile on his face. As if out of nowhere, Dustin announced, "You know who I like?" Realizing he was talking to us, we happily turned and asked him who tickled his fancy. Looking at us his smile growing, he replied, "Pink! I like her hair, man!" Perhaps no other singer could have possibly made us laugh harder. After all, who likes Pink? Naturally this question opens up a whole world of new questions, notably if somebody does happen to like Pink, who likes her just because she dyes her hair? All of this was too much to deal with, and we openly laughed in his face. Fortunately, he didn't seem to notice and just laughed with us.

Since that night, this story has been told countless times. It never seems to impress whoever hears it, and for that purpose I figured it was time to share it with the world. As for Dustin, it’s hard to say exactly what he is doing. One thing is for certain though; he is probably no longer a fan of Pink. Last I saw, she had changed her hair, which naturally negates (in Dustin's mind) any artistic merit her music may have contained. I only hope that he has found someone who can whet his appetite for crazy hair. Of course, even if he hasn't, I'm sure that somewhere, somebody is enjoying the pleasure of knowing and conversing with Dustin Dashner.