What do I know?
Okay, for one, we’re ahead of the leaders. That I’m sure of.
Well, in the theme of this well-endowed opinion, I had planned on typing the best thing of the year. About a young man and his unwavering life of best-ever moments. His stories did not interest anyone, yet he still had to live in them and do his best. And each day he awoke to more and more, better and better.
And how could he not?
Out of bed, he shuffled through the early minutes of the morning.
He made the coffee; he drank the coffee.
He looked out windows.
He opened and shut drawers. And doors.
“Man,” he thought. “This is the best.”
The car in his drive, the board in the trunk, the streets, the parks, and the friends. Oh, the friends! Always around when he needed them—they made things even more bester-er. And they laughed the hardest at stuff like the word bester-er or wrinkles in shirts. And other stuff, too. Trust me.
There’s other stuff.
Sometimes they all just went and back lipped El Toro. Or parked frontside inverts on some backyard mini. Once an acoustic guitar was picked up and an entire Thin Lizzy song came out of it—lead, rhythm, bass, drums, and vocals from one instrument. Another time, they drank light beer.
But even the young-man moments spent alone were great. The best, actually. Eating in front of the microwave with a spoon by the light from the hall. Grabbing the banister on the way down the stairs and smoothly descending. And even though it fits perfectly here, I’ll mention it anyway: Skateboarding. Yes, skateboarding. It was all the best. None more best. Best master. The best inside. The uncontrollable best.
As you’ve probably already figured out, lots of the best stuff happened to the young man, and a lot of the best stuff will happen. But right now when he, them, and everyone else does the stuff it takes to fill a moment—a blink, the end of a fart, the clearing of a throat, and the hearing of song—it’s all the best it will ever be.
But not the year’s best, just the moment’s best.
And then what?
Our young man has wondered if our momentary distractions keep us from their distractions—the best shots they have at their disposal. Spinach bombs and creepy congressmen and child abductors and people pretending to fix it all. Their stories interest everyone, yet he still has to live in them and do his best.
And how could he not?
So let it rain—hell, let it frickin’ snow—let the bills pile up, let the cop pull you over on your way to recycle your pop cans and your wine bottles and your cereal boxes. Because for right then, it’s just you swimming in the middle of a situation devoid of anything false or made up or manufactured.
It’s just you and the best you got.
And other stuff, too.