(There is language in this post that may be offensive to some. I am quoting when I use it. I thought about how best to post it and decided to spell out the word fully. It is for the emphasis of the moment as it actually was.)
If you are a guy who’s 25 years old or younger, according to My Beloved, you are a “Little Dude.” This is NOT a compliment. It is not an endearment. It is always uttered with disdain, a shake of the head, a curl of the lip.
How to tell a Little Dude? You can’t go just on looks. You might think you can, but you really can’t. This is how you will know you’re in the presence of a bona fide Little Dude:
He will think he is brilliant when he is actually deeply, desperately stupid.
I now work with several bona fide Little Dudes. They are some of the most idiotic boys I’ve ever known. Yesterday, one of the LDs — having just attained the ancient sagacity that comes from being 20 — was venting loudly:
“I was so STUPID when I was 17!! These tattoos are so LAME!!” He thrust out his arms, palms up, so I could see the tattoos snaking down from his upper arm to the underside of his forearm. I’d noticed them before, but they were always partly covered by his sleeves. He continued:
“I mean, LOOK at this one!”
I did. It was not an image. It was simply words: “Never Forget.”
“‘Never Forget,'” I read aloud, my heart swelling a little. “Is that in reference to 9/11?”
His look had such disdain, such HATRED. He seemed to swagger.
“NO WAY! FUCK 9/11!!!”
The look in his eye did not fade as he stared at me and I stared back.
Oh, you stupid, STUPID Little Dude. You picked the WRONG person to blast with that little phrase.
Inside, I was smoldering. My body felt instantly hot. I actually think I could have turned his phrase around on him, substituting “YOU” for “9/11.” It was literally the closest I’ve ever come to saying that to another person. Somehow, though, I kept my gaze steady on his as I said, with the most careful enunciation I could muster:
“Well, you may feel differently if you ever have family members killed in an act of terrorism — as I have.”
I couldn’t breathe, but somehow these words came out.
He slumped right before my eyes. The swagger was gone. His head hung down and his gaze went with it. He would NOT look at me. I have no idea WHAT I looked like when I said this, but if my face was as blazing as my insides, well …. I may have looked a little scary. I was utterly still. I just looked at him. Finally, he spoke, looking at me, looking away, looking at me, looking away. His voice was barely audible, a mumble:
“Ohhh …. God ….. uh …. I didn’t know …… I’m …. sorry …. uh ….. sorry.”
I said nothing.
The Little Dude tiptoed off, boxers hanging out his pants.
I just stood there, trying to breathe again.
