Why my knee makes that “clicking” noise

Every young man will go through a period of life where he finds a fraternity of brothers. I am not speaking of a house close to a college campus, adorning Greek letters, and harboring the worst possible representation of the male species. I am talking about a common bond between young men that will engage in some of the most asinine, dubious, and incredibly immature behavior that other humans occupying this planet would never think for a moment to engage in, because they have this quality…self respect I believe it’s called. I am lucky enough to have had multiple bands of lowbrow brothers; but on one particular night, I was with the right people, at the right time, doing all the wrong things, and it was beautiful.

We all met in really peculiar ways during our time in college. I had failed out a few years before and just ended up sticking around. I was the towny street trash that everyone knew but didn’t want, until this devilish brood decided to take a chance on me. In those days it was so much easier to see each other. Buy a few cases of beer, nacho fixins, bring said materials home, plop on living room table, see friends. Literally. That simple. But after college things obviously became complicated. I move here, these two move there, this guy joins the military, this guy moves in with mom and dad, blah, blah, blah. Even with all the new ongoings of adulthood however, we still made time to get together. I think this was in large part due to the dynamic we had. We were almost like a jumble of fictional characters that had been mashed together as a sort of literary experiment.

Chad was a little bit older than us, thus he would accomplish things faster and then report back to the group. He actually did provide us with a lot of insight. Because we were still trying to avoid responsible adult life, we often made jokes at his expense. He always had little nuggets of “advice” and “wisdom” to bestow upon us, without us asking for them of course. We would say “thanks for the fatherly advice” and give exaggerated eye rolls as he exclaimed how serious he was. He wasn’t a heavy drinker because his responsible nature, so this was always a great target for emotional darts. He was great to have around though, because he always did everything right. I don’t think I have ever seen him make a misstep in his life and he is now a great husband and father of two beautiful baby girls. I think we keep him around to see if we can get him to fuck up. He keeps us around so he can say “at least I’m not those guys”.

Next was Durant. He was/is one of the manliest men I’ve ever met that looks like a twelve year old boy. He is also incredibly loyal and full of conviction. You can believe if he says something will be done, this act will indeed be, mother fucking done. The real problem lies with the fact that, not all of the acts he’s willing to commit should be done. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard him utter the words “If I start some shit tonight, you got my back right?”. I promise you corralling a drunk man willing to die to prove a point is a difficult art to master. But at some point he just started peeling off of the group to spend the night chatting with older men that had served the country. He now serves us and does one hell of a job. If I knew he was playing for another team I would move to Canada right quick.

Next was Dodrill. Dodrill is the most handsome, tall, great head of hair, and some incredibly piercing blue eyes. Which is probably why he has one of the most interesting brains on the planet. You see, when people are made there’s only one rule…you can’t have it all. When we lived together it was like waking up in a Rambo movie, there were booby traps everywhere. Was the stove still on? Was the front door left open all night and an intruder had entered? Was there a knife on the floor? Do we have an electric bill we can’t pay this month because the TV was on for thirty straight nights? These were real life questions that we could only answer after it was too late. He was for a great stint, my partner in crime. If I was doing something, he was doing it too, no matter what it was. We became really close because he is very much a student of the world. He is so interested in gaining knowledge in new areas and achieving new things. Every time I see him I am inspired buy his curious nature and his fearless pursuit of everything life has to offer.

The Indian chief, the alternative mind, the odd one out, the black sheep, my boy Nathan. Nathan is easily one of the most interesting people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. He would complain for HOURS about how the toilet paper roll needed to be set so the paper was over-handed and never ever ever underhanded; and in the same breath he could tell you that he hadn’t showered for three days, yet he had been to the gym all three days. He was the smelly kid in class, but he had so many other things going on that it was easy to forget. Just the two of us lived together for about a year, there has never been a dwelling people lived in that was filthier than our one and a half bedroom apartment. Yes, one and a half bedroom apartment. It was a bizarre year, but also incredibly insightful. I can tell you with the most confidence in the world, if Nathan was given a paint brush, a chess board, a camera, a guitar, he would blow you away. He has possibly the most artistic brain in the history of man, I would pay money to watch him draw, even if it was the very first time.

Jesse, aka J-bone, aka the bone, aka the king, aka the kingpin, aka the bear. This man will forever hold an incredibly large place in my heart. I’ve never seen anybody make more friends and smoke weed more gracefully in my life. I mean, the guy is all time. He’s knows everybody, there’s not a single person that doesn’t like him, and you will never beat him at wrestling. When meeting new people there’s a very standard J-bone procedure. Introduce self, “Hi, I am Jesse”, find a common connection “Oh Dan Boden!? Yea I love that guy!”, start a party very subtly “Do you smoke?”. There are only two things he’s ever been bad at, deciding which of seven thousand play lists he would like to play at a party, and staying in America. Miss this guy pretty much every hour on the hour. Teaching English in Korea is cool, but who’s going to listen to NWA with you there? Come home.

Marcus. I only have four best friends in this world and Marcus is one of them. He is quite, keeps to himself, and is a master video game player/husband. I would consider myself a pretty tough guy and during my best man speech at his wedding I turned into Honey Boo-Boo after not getting dessert. My fondest memories are getting him to open up. When he decides to partake in the firewater he becomes a complete party animal and that is when the real Marcus comes out to play, but more important for me were the real emotions we shared. I was there when his grandfather passed and he confided in me, one night when only the two of us lived together we talked about how much it meant for us to be close friends like a tween slumber party, and finally when he tied the knot with his wife he asked me to be there. I am proud of him everyday and I can only hope I am as good a man as he someday.

This group as a whole made up what we liked to call “The Enzone”. So here we were, assuming our roles a few years later. The location, Oregon City, the objective, Get. Totally. Annihilated. The most common vehicle for our debauchery was beer. Its cheap, does its job, and is one hundred percent fattening. Drinking is one of the very few things I have ever been good at. I can put away the hops and barley like a gold medalist in the Olympic village. I have a really thick (I am talking Kardashian/Jenner) thick lower body, I call this “My trough”. The trough is where all the extra calories go, where things get processed, and most importantly, where the party reserves dwell and marinate. I wanted my trough full as fuck for the evening so I suggested a drinking game about two weeks in advance for our night in the OC. Lets actually take a moment to talk about the bizarrely amazing place that is Oregon City.

The OC is neither, a place for snobby people, or anybody that drinks any sort of beverage with their pinkies elevated. It is very much a blue-collar town, with blue-collar establishments. No fancy restaurants, no doggy day cares, no coffee shops worrying about the acid levels, just good old fashioned mom and pop places. The one thing that the OC does have to offer in abundance is the dozens and dozens of dive bars. This town was built for men and women to destroy libations at a rapid rate, within environments that have very loose standards on cleanliness. For myself and the Enzone, this was the purgatory between college debauchery and adult responsibility. We could walk to every place, have our fill, and crash at Dodrill’s 4 bedroom house afterwards. So many of these nights had taken place, they sort of all run together, but this one stands out more than the rest.

As stated earlier I am a little bit of a drinker, thus many of the drinking activities and, pressuring others to drink, fell upon my meaty shoulders. Our drink of choice was Busch Light, disgusting now, but back then we literally called it “Melted Gold”. As a collective we destroyed more cases of that domestic dog piss than people have cried watching The Notebook. We decided on a game called “Wizard Staffs”. If you don’t know this game, you’re going to really enjoy it. All the beers that one lays to waste are then stacked and duct tapped together. In general, the person with the biggest staff, wins the game. We however aren’t incredibly competitive with each other, so it was just important for us to have some amazing staffs to take pictures with before we headed out to the bars…before we headed out to the bars…before. With staffs so high they touched the ceiling, and transformed into tridents for this very reason, we were ready to venture out into the beautiful OC.

There was an incredible trail from the house all the way to what you might call “downtown” Oregon City. Houses lighting up the sidewalks and streets while happy family’s got ready for a nice night in…that we would kind of ruin, but not completely. I think the second house we passed I threw my staff to the ground, looked back at this group of beautiful life long friends I had made in the past couple years and yelled in all seriousness “ LET’S CAST SOME MOTHER FUCKING SPELLS”! I dragged my trough up the peaceful stairs and could see a pleasant family playing some sort of board game and I thought to myself “Aww that’s so nice…NOT TONIGHT MILLER FAMILY “ I rang the door bell like a child filled with glee asking if his friend could come outside and play. Then I sprinted down the stairs consumed with the image of all my friends standing outside having to explain why they rang the doorbell.

Every member of the Enzone was now on their own. It was so early in the night before we literally fucked our brotherhood over and all because I wanted a 5 pronged wizard staff that I believed made me more powerful than “That bitch-ass Ariel’s dad”. So everyone one of us is running, shoving, bumping, trying to make our way to the head of the pack and I stepped off a curb, felt what I can only describe as a piece of glass landing inside my knee. Ladies and gents I had twisted my shit, not only that, I did about 4.5 barrel rolls on the street that gave me some scar shaped memories. Now in most cases when a fellow brother falls, it is your duty to stop and pick that brother up; however in item B of rule 287 it clearly states “If thou brother be the mother fucker that started the bullshit that made you sprint. Leave that asshole behind to learn a lesson.” I looked up and saw nothing but dust and my friends had already out paced me by at least half a block while I baby deer’d it in the middle of the street. I couldn’t be prouder to see them following item B of rule 287.

As I grew up in the 90’s I dusted myself off and tired again, tried again. I somehow made it to my feet to hear obscenities being hurled towards me like giant vintage mortar shells. I honestly thought about just continuing to barrel roll for the rest of the night, but I had my favorite jacket on. After finding cover from the verbal assault I checked my knee out and it was the size of Peyton Manning’s head, which has got to be in the 99th percentile. This presented a real problem, because now the worst thing imaginable had happened. The trough was compromised. How would I drop my thickness to the ground, sweep the floor, and then reshelf it, if I had a bad wheel? The answer is simple my friends, whiskey.

When I finally caught up to the rest of the crew I regaled them with the tale and welcomed the punishment that came with being a clumsy moron. The rest of the night went immaculately, we drank, we laughed, some of us cried, some of hugged, some of us talked to old men that served our country, some of us said we were meeting at a bar called “The couch” when in reality the bar is called “The living room” and it just happens to have couches in it; but if you don’t know that it’s hard to get there. But above all else, we were together. It hadn’t been that way for a really long time. We had kind of lost touch. This night brought a lot of things full circle.

As we walked home that night I could feel the swelling of my knee start to subside. I avoided a pretty serious injury by prescribing myself liquid painkillers, which I am fully licensed to do. Something else kept creeping up though. I realized on the way home that for all of us life had really slowed down. We were more responsible and everything was changing, everyone was getting well adjusted for the big life thing. I instantly had this sudden Hook like breeze of Peter Pan syndrome. I didn’t want these days to end, not even for a second. I have always been the last to grow up, but this was just a real kick to the nuggets. I loved these guys, these guys took me in like a homeless no-legged cat. I just wasn’t ready to say goodbye to hangovers and hello to mortgage payments. I had no choice in the matter. Everyone was packing their marbles and getting the fuck out of Neverland. I’d be the only boy left to sing racist songs to the Native American princess and her family.

We woke up the next day and started a toilet conga line. After those two hours had passed, we decided location for the greasy breakfast we had well earned. As I walk around the house gathering my clothes, I notice a slight tick in my right knee. I had never heard or felt it before, but it was apparent in the morning that I had made an adjustment to the precious joint supporting my trough. It didn’t hurt or feel like a real threat, but it was viciously loud and grinding. On the one night in a year I enjoyed the company of some of my best friends I produced something that would go on to follow me throughout life. For the next few years the rest of life felt the same way as we all drifted apart and continued down the paths of our individual lives. It didn’t hurt, or feel like a real threat, but for me it was vicious and grinding as those nights became less, and less, and less. Enzone 4eva.