Well, I try my best to be just like I am.
But everybody wants you to be just like them.

The Rotary Club Christmas soirée is always the event of the year, but it's an even bigger deal now than it has been in years past. Your mother is in charge. She's been going crazy planning since before school started. She's always running around going to different meetings or tying up the phone line talking to caterers or trying to talk other members of the Tulsa elite into donating to whatever cause it is they're helping this year. You couldn't care less. You're just grateful that your mother has something to keep her busy. She pays less attention to you this way.

You've grown your hair out long like the hippies, and you've taken up their uniform of ragged jeans and fringe suede jackets. Your parents flipped their lids the first time they saw you dressed like that. You told them it was just what's in. Everyone is dressing like this these days. It's partly true. Some version of the hippie style has caught on with almost everyone. You just take it to an extreme. They mostly leave you alone about your looks now. Your father makes an occasional crack about you looking more like a girl than Janie, and your mother just tells you that you'll need to change clothes in a hurry if any family ever drops by.

But it's not so much the clothes that you're worried about them harping on. It's how you leave school every day and go straight to the hippie house. It's how you don't eat dinner at home much any more. It's how you're out later than ever before on the weekends, and sometimes you come home bleary-eyed and smelling of pot. You don't know if they can't see through your paper-thin lies or if they just want to avoid an unpleasant conversation. It's not like them to avoid something like that. Maybe your mother really is that busy with her party planning, and your father is just that swamped with work. You're not in a place to question it. You wanted the freedom to be your own person, and that's what you got.

XXX

You were hoping that your mother wouldn't make you go to the Christmas soirée, but that is exactly where you are the first Friday of winter break. You stand off to the side and watch everyone mingle. You're hot and uncomfortable in your tuxedo and dress shoes that have gotten too tight. You can't stop thinking about the hippie house, and how you would much rather be there.

Mostly adults talk to you. They ask about your college plans, and you always reply that you're still undecided. A few offer their condolences about Bob, and you just nod your head. That was over a year ago now, but it still hurts like it was yesterday. You know they mean well, but you wish that they would just leave it alone. You wonder if they brought it up with his family too.

You watch some of your former friends trying to sneakily drink from a bottle of schnapps that someone brought in. A couple of years ago, Bob would have been the one smuggling in the liquor. You would have been drinking with the rest of them. But now you just stand and watch from a distance. Marcia is on Donald's arm, and you're not surprised. He's been knocking himself out trying to get her attention for a good month. You don't care any more. He can have her.

Your mother gets up in front of everyone to make her speech. It turns out that this event was to raise money to give needy families a Christmas dinner. Everyone is applauding and acting so pleased with themselves, but you're disgusted. You look around at everyone with their designer clothes and expensive champagne, and it all seems fake. Even when they're being altruistic, it's still all about them. You leave the room in a huff. The last thing you hear before you slip out the front doors is your mom thanking her family for all their support. You roll your eyes. There's a family you'd rather be with.

XXX

The front door is unlocked like it always is, and you find Mick, Daisy, and Susan sprawled out on blankets in front of the fireplace. The radio is on, but the station is only broadcasting dead air. A floorboard pops under your feet, and Mick sits up. He motions you over to him.

"What happened here?" you ask as you eye the two sleeping girls.

"They went to bed early so Santa would come," Mick replied with a smirk.

"Ten days early?"

Mick laughs and grabs the hookah. "This is the best weed I've ever had. Knocked them out, but I guess I just handle it better, man. I dunno."

You inhale deep, hold your breath until you're sure your lungs will explode, and then breathe out. You repeat the process several times. Mick is smiling at you.

"Good, huh?"

"Not good enough after the night I've had," you reply. You take another hit.

Mick snorts. "Yeah, you couldn't get me high enough to spend a night with those society people."

He takes the hose from you and takes a long hit. "Not that I'm trying to insult you or anything."

"I wasn't offended," you say. You take the hose back.

"Can't believe you used to be one of them, Randy."

"Hate that they still want me to be one of them. I mean, not the kids my age. They leave me alone. But my parents and their friends, y'know? All night long they were asking me about college and girls and talking about all this stupid shit. And all I could think was, 'this doesn't matter'. You know what I mean?"

"I know exactly what you mean," Mick says

Mick is from one of the poorest neighborhoods in Oklahoma City, and he left home when he was sixteen. He has no idea what you're talking about.

"No you don't," you say.

Mick laughs, "You're right. I sure as hell don't."

The two of you come from vastly different backgrounds, but you like Mick the best out of everyone in the house. You hang out with him the most, you can talk to him the easiest, and the two of you tease each other like you and Bob used to. You know you'll never forget Bob, but Mick does a good job of filling the hole that he left behind.

"You staying tonight?" Mick asks.

You look up at the clock. It's after midnight. You know that your parents have been busy, but you're sure that they've noticed that you haven't come home by now.

"I'm sure my folks are missing me."

"Let 'em miss you," Mick says.

You sigh and think about how miserable you were before you came here. You're in no hurry to go home.

"Yeah," you say. "All right."

"Cool," Mick says. He holds the hookah hose out to you. "More dope?"


Bob Dylan owns Maggie's Farm.

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