Punks, Knuckleheads, and Me

When I realized I'd become Clint Eastwood

A few years ago, I pulled into a combination convenience store and gas station, and up to a pump. When I got out to fill my gas tank, a BMW pulled in quickly and came to an abrupt stop about 10 feet away.

The car’s passengers threw the doors open, got out, ran clockwise around the car, got back in, closed the doors, and cheered as the car peeled out, and they drove away.

The car was packed with teenagers. It was after school hours. They caused no harm to anyone and appeared to be having fun. In the convenience store parking lot, they had inconvenienced no one, including me.

Yet, as I watched them leave, I squinted, sneered, and muttered through gritted teeth, Punks. They have no idea what they’re doing. Then I snorted with contempt.

When I finished pumping and got back in the car, I thought, Well, that was pretty Clint Eastwood of me. Those punks got a double-barreled, get off my lawn, do you feel lucky, dyin’ ain’t much of a livin, go ahead, make my day blast, and they didn’t even know it.

Then I laughed.

The blast I aimed at them only hit me.

What was I so angry about?

I don’t think I was having a bad day or a bad week. The kids hadn’t done anything to me or even noticed I was there. They had no idea I’d condemned them to punk status, which is what I thought teen boys became after being tween knuckleheads and before becoming college dickheads.

Was it the BMW? I live in a town where, unlike me, people have a lot of money. Did I resent their probable unearned wealth and privilege? Their devil-may-care attitude? Their lack of accountability with daddy’s money? Accountability for what?

I didn’t know their circumstances. How could I? And why should I?

Maybe the driver’s parents were out of work and were leasing the car to keep up appearances with the Joneses. Perhaps the boy wanted a Gran Torino, but his recently deceased grandfather left the BMW to him in his will. Or, maybe the boy had worked as a stock clerk in a grocery store, saved his money, and bought the undriveable 175,000-mile BMW himself so he could work on it and make it roadworthy.

Regardless, what I thought about those teenagers said more about me than it did about them.

I wondered where this low-level, just-below-the-surface anger came from.

I thought about my circumstances: I had a good job doing good work for a good company; I had a family I loved who loved me; I was paying off a mortgage on a modest house; I had food and water and clothes and shelter and heat and air conditioning and lights that came on when I flipped the switch. I was respected and looked up to, even, and I had plenty of friends.

I wasn’t exactly happy, nor was I particularly sad. But I was a little surly, and a lot dissatisfied. Why?

I thought back to childhood, where most of these difficulties began.

To begin with, everyone in my life constantly criticized each other. To them, people were stupid, lazy, crooked, gullible, cowardly, promiscuous, fat, weak, slow, unmanly, cheap, talentless, classless, and ignorant. No one could do anything right, and because of that, they deserved to be criticized.

Between every sentence, there was an unspoken, what, are you stupid?

The people doing the criticizing, in contrast, thought they had no negative attributes.

I didn’t realize until later they tore others down to feel better about themselves.

So why did they feel so surly and dissatisfied with their lives, they had to act that way toward other people?

I had enough to worry about without thinking of them. But they did play a huge role in my formative years. Back to me.

Upon reflection, a few things made me pull a Clint Eastwood that day:

With no one around to criticize me, I did it to myself. And I subconsciously gravitated to people who could do it for me.

As a kid, I was driven to survive, get out, go to college, and graduate. I was driven to be the best I could be in football and baseball, and driven to be in the best possible physical condition. I was driven to read and learn as much as I could about the world.

As an adult, I was driven to find a job, a good job, a better job, and the best job. Same thing with playwriting—write plays, good plays, better plays, and the best plays.

Driven.

But at some point, I had the nagging feeling I was driving toward the wrong destination, and once I arrived, it wouldn’t be enough. Despite that nagging feeling, I kept driving. Faster. Harder. Deeper. More.

The more I ran toward these self-imposed destinations, the further away I got from myself.

I think I knew that inside. That’s why I had that low-level, just-below-the-surface, punks, you-have-no-idea-what-you’re-doing surliness.

I wore that simmering surliness like long underwear made of impenetrable armor.

On the outside, I smiled and projected confidence, charm, humor, talent, intelligence, dedication, humility, generosity, effectiveness, wisdom, and honesty.

But on the inside, it was gnawing self-doubt, insecurity, low self-worth, lack of identity, heaviness, and shame. Being driven masked it all.

I’ve become more accepting of myself through meditation, therapy, prayer, helping others, and awareness. I’ve become more self-reflective through reading, writing, observing, and listening. I expect to make mistakes; I learn from them and grow.

I am still motivated to be the best I can be. But I’m not going to whip myself into doing it. And I’m not going to chastise myself when I fall short.

I will continue to write books, plays, essays, articles, screenplays, and speeches. I will keep doing voiceovers—hopefully more! I’ll keep helping people and organizations tell better stories and communicate more effectively. I expect I’ll be an imperfect, artsy-fartsy, empathetic, talented, humble, grateful, generous, and kind egghead.

It’s a cliche, but it’s true: I am a work in progress. I won’t be done until God or the universe or the great whatever says I am.

Finally, if I see another carload of teenagers having fun, I will smile and silently wish them all the best life has to offer, for they will have made my day.

Punks or not.