“Coca-Cola owns the world,” the boy sitting beside me explained
to his brother.
“.....”
“The more soda they sell, the more money they get, the more
companies they get, the more people they get.”
“.....”
“You know Eskimo's? You know all they drink?”
“.....”
“Soda.”
------------------------------
The “brothers” sat and conversed on all sorts of topics while the
three of us munched chicken wings at Harold's on Milwaukee one
afternoon.
I say “brothers” because this name most likely only applied to
these two individuals in name. Judging by their difference in age,
personality, and skin color; they weren't blood. They could have
been the poster siblings for one of those programs. You know, those
programs that pair an at-risk youth with a mildly successful young
adult, in which the latter is supposed to serve as a positive
influence in the former's life. I don't at all intend to diminish a
relationship that is potentially much deeper than my narrow-minded
assumptions; I am an advocate of such programs. I merely want to
establish that these two were randomly launched at birth into two
radically different life trajectories, but nonetheless sat next to me
enjoying lunch.
The younger of the two was born and raised Chicago and couldn't have
been a day over thirteen. He wasn't from the suburbs or one of the
“good neighborhoods” of the city like many of my friends and me.
Likewise, he wasn't coddled by the culture of shelter and contentment
that prevails in such places. Many are refused this luxury. That
lifestyle would be foreign to him.
His older brother knows that lifestyle. With one glance I could tell
that most of the hardship in his life came in the form of failing to
make varsity, cramming for finals, and trying to find himself. He
may have even been dumped a few times. Like most upper-middle class,
white young adults, his problems weren't really problems. He
realized all of this and seemed to like giving back.
As they ate, the older brother rambled on and on about his college
days, gave vocabulary lessons, and talked about places across the
country he had been. He styled his hair and styled his words. At
one point he compared a time he tried to eat insanely hot batch of
chicken wings in Buffalo, New York to the fall of Achilles, but was
interrupted promptly by his brother,
“Yeah, I know Achilles. That's Greek mythology.”
Later, he was talking about how good his wings were and about how he
forgot how “righteous” Harold's was, only to be cut off again.
“Righteous? You mean fly?”
This kid stuck in my mind because he had a gift for always getting
in the last word. He spoke like he had something to prove. You
could tell that he was trying to make sense of his situation. He was
trying to figure out why he was here with this man on his Saturday
afternoon instead of playing pick-up or video games. He was
digesting his food as well as his surroundings. He was trying to
understand a very complex scenario in a way that made sense to him.
What he lacked in age, privilege, and general life experience, he
made up for in attitude. Tipping back his coke, he flexed his
curiosity at every opportunity and delivered his insights with
authority. I admit that a lot of what he said was outlandish (i.e.
Coke and Eskimos). The fact remains, however, that he was able to
explain the lure of corporate America more accurately and succinctly
than 99% of the people I've ever met.
------------------------------
I don't know his name, but I wish I did so I could look him up in fifteen years or so.
He is going to be successful. I just hope society doesn't beat him down
too much on his path to achievement. He's determined to live life on his own terms, and I think
he will. Thankfully, I was privileged to catch one more insight as I
balled up my trash and tossed on my backpack.
“You're not eating your fries,” the older brother observed, “Oh,
I forgot, you don't really like fries right?”
He normally had such quick responses to everything, but mulled over this specific, simple question an uncharacteristically long time before responding.
“Yeah, fries are bad for you, and I don't wanna die too young.”
“.....”
“But, I don't wanna die too old either, ya dig?”
------------------------------
If only Coke could bottle that.
