“Hey, Fletch, I’m still punk rock, right?”
He glanced up from his Kindle and snorted over the rim of his chardonnay glass. “‘Still punk rock’ would imply you were ever punk rock.”
(This was from our ‘80s costume Zoom theme night during the pandy. The trench is a nice water-resistant Land’s End and the bag lock on my dog chain is Fendi.)
This felt like an insult coming from the person whom I’ve seen perusing step-in Sketchers more than once. (“But they’d be so handy at open houses!” he exclaimed when I’d busted him.)
“You know what I mean,” I insisted.
“Do I?” he replied, removing his reading glasses. He then reminded me of the time I decided to tag along to see Ratt at the House of Blues, where Fletch caught me shooing headbangers out of my way with dismissive wrist flicks as I returned from the bathroom. (Apparently I stood out as the only person clad in a pink Lacoste and green capri pants.)
He said, “Is there a time you were punk rock and I didn’t know? Like, back when you were part of the Huntington County Teenage Republicans?”
(To be fair, I did get to network with Dan Coats.)
“Have I lost my edge?” I asked.
He laughed hard enough to make his eyes crinkle. “Again, that would imply you ever had edge. But you’re clearly getting at something. What’s the problem?”
The problem was that I have become obsessed…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Meet the Mess to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.