Hood rats. A tragic moniker for such beautiful people.
Monica and I were not stereotypical hood rats, but we played it up when we were together because, who doesn’t have a little Joe Dirt in em’?
Just short of wearing my Ratt concert tee outside of the bedroom and teasing my hair, I would characterize myself as more hood rat (mentally at least) than anything else right here, right now! I can say that because by the time I was 19, I had been to several parties with legit Hell’s Angels in attendance and it wasn’t even at the Bach Dor! (Not a typo)
I digress, this isn’t about my brag.
Monica and I drifted apart for a few years in high school. We had separate groups of friends. While I was dodging teen pregnancy like a stealthy ninja and being deeply moved by R&B music, incidentally “baby-making music”, Monica found a group of lovely hood rats to occupy her time and developed a love for Pink Floyd and Ozzy Osbourne. Of course, we still saw each other living two houses away. There was no negative event that pulled us apart temporarily, it was just a natural course that often happens with young people.
We picked right up where we left off after high school though. It was 1994 and I had finally learned to appreciate a proper hood rat myself when I met the Jarvis sisters. I was going to dental assisting school with B and working at an orthodontist office with J.
I haven’t spoken directly to either of them in decades, but I love them no less and they too, loved Monica.
J contacted me just after Monica’s passing. I haven’t responded. If I acknowledge it, it’s more real. More final. I’m not ready yet, but I’ll get there, J. April 8th is around the corner so I’d better buckle up, my CT trip is coming up. I’m going to have to dig deep and inevitably wear my heart on my Ratt concert tee sleeve. I’ll need to wear waterproof mascara and double up on my Cymbalta to simply walk into her mom’s house. Crying… I dislike crying more than any other bodily function, but I sure have been doing a lot of it.
Don’t any of you remember walking into a childhood friend’s home, smelling their smells while learning the acoustics of the home itself?
I can still hear Monica walking through the interior garage door *slam*. Up the two steps into the kitchen *skip, skip*, four solid, stern footsteps through the kitchen *thud, thud, thud, thud*,— hollering about her mom making her brush her teeth with baking soda and peroxide.
Monica was an old soul in my opinion. She would use phrases like “pray tell” a lot. “What in pray tell do you mean?” So now, wouldn’t you know, whenever I find myself in the throws of a cry fest remembering Monica without fail I hear her voice,— “Why… in prey tell …are you being such a pussy about this?” I stop crying immediately because Monica wouldn’t want me to be sad. I know that, I feel that.
Besides, Cheri makes a 7 layer dip that’s pretty impressive so I’ll be there, tears or not.
~Shetucket Drive Hood Rat
