Time to Say Goodbye to the Future You Imagined
Nobody cares who you thought you'd be—and it’s who you are that matters.
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”
― E. E. Cummings
“Can you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be?”
― Charles Bukowski
“You grow up and you calm down, working for the clampdown.”
― Joe Strummer
Scott was an annoying kid. And weird, at a time when that trait wasn’t well tolerated.
I saw a lot of him in the mid-80s because we attended the same high school, and he lived directly across the street from my best friend.
But he was a lowerclassman, so I barely acknowledged him—even when our parents carpooled to Friday night football games, and I had to sit next to him.
Scott didn’t play sports, didn’t surf, wasn’t involved in student government or school clubs. In fact, he didn’t do much of anything until his junior year, when, out of nowhere, he formed a band with some classmates.
They played New Romantic music—an odd subset of England’s new wave scene—which had died in popularity years earlier without ever making much of an impact in the U.S.
An obvious choice for a strange kid like Scott.
Their first gig was during lunchtime in the quad, and it was terrible.
They weren’t just bad; they were excruciatingly bad—particularly Scott, who, having never sung before, was just plain awful as a lead singer.
Over the next few years, his band played the odd backyard party or beach bash, but other than that, I didn’t see much of Scott after graduation.
The last time we spoke was in 1987.
It was a Saturday night, and I was working a two-to-ten shift as a bellman at the Sheraton Newport, hoping to duck out early and meet my friends at our favorite watering hole, Hoagie Barmichaels.
But my shift ran late, and by the time I got to the bar, there was an hour-long wait.
It was a time before cell phones, so I went up to the front entrance, hoping to spot a friend inside and let them know I was going somewhere else.
When I got to the door, I saw Scott inside, casually chatting with a bouncer.
“Brian?” he yelled, coming out to greet me.
“Hey man, are you coming in?” he asked.
Scott was annoying, but Scott already inside a bar that I was waiting to get into was even more annoying.
“No, I’m leaving. The line’s too long,” I said.
“Don’t worry about the line. Come on,” he said, grabbing me by the arm and leading me toward the entrance.
What the hell is this kid doing? I thought. He’s gonna get us both thrown out.
As we got to the doorman, whom I was sure was going to kick my ass, Scott said, “Jake, this is my friend Brian. He’s with me.”
And just like that, we were in.
Being the dick that I was back then, I don’t think I even thanked him before peeling off into the crowd to search for my pals.
Not long after, Scott moved to San Diego with his band to take a shot at the big time.
I first met Maurice in second grade, and I can’t remember a time afterward when he didn’t have an instrument or a book of sheet music in his hands.
Both of his parents were classically trained musicians who wanted nothing more than for their son to follow in their footsteps.
Each day, he was expected to spend at least four hours on his music lessons, and every week, he seemed to be in a recital.
He was only allowed to play or listen to classical music. It was the only type of music permitted in his house—a rule I was initially unaware of but later ran afoul of when we were in high school.
“Are you coming over after class?” Maurice asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “And I’m going to bring my new record.”
When I got to his house, his father answered the door.
“Hello, Brian,” he said. “Are you here to see Maurice?”
“Yes, I am, Mr. Harker,” I said.
“We’re going to listen to a new record,” I added, holding it under my arm in a purposely evasive way.
“Oh, that’s fine. Whom do you have today?” he said, gesturing toward the album.
“Ted Nugent,” I said.
“Ah, Ted Music,” he replied. “That sounds great. Come on in. Maurice is in his room.”
To my knowledge, alongside the names of great classical composers like Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach, there is no Theodore Music. And I’ve often wondered what type of music Mr. Harker thought I was bringing over that day.
Ted Music? Hmm, it’s probably show tunes. I guess I can make an exception. Young kids love show tunes.
In any case, it must have been quite a shock to Mr. Harker when the opening chords of “Cat Scratch Fever” came blasting out of Maurice’s room.
After high school, Maurice left for the Berklee College of Music in Boston. Upon graduation, he moved to New York City to fulfill his destiny of becoming a concert violinist.
Craig ate my lunch all through grade school. He didn’t just take it—he asked.
Politely.
And he didn’t want the good stuff like tacos, Sloppy Joe’s, or Salisbury steak. He wanted what I left behind: the refuse.
The vegetables.
Craig was unusually big for his age—any age, for that matter—and it served him well in his sport of choice, football.
He had played since he was old enough to suit up, and his dad—rumored to have been a member of the Lombardi-era Packers—was 100% focused on getting his son to the pros.
Craig and I continued our shark-and-remora-type relationship until sixth grade when we attended different middle schools.
By the time we were reacquainted on our high school football team, he was a 6’4”, 275-pound giant whose sole focus in life was to play pro ball.
In his senior year, a group of sportswriters named him a nationwide First-Team All-American, and he didn’t disappoint, dominating every opponent he faced that season.
My lasting memory of Craig is watching him knock down three defensive linemen at once, creating a hole at the line of scrimmage you could drive a bus through.
Glenn was in the same graduating class as Craig, but he was an enigma.
He looked odd, even by the loose standards of the '80s—rumpled clothes that never fit, frizzy red hair that refused to behave, and a perpetual air of someone who’d just rolled out of bed.
And he was quiet.
Oh so quiet.
Preternaturally quiet.
Almost to the point of being meek
So much so that if the smallest kid in class went up to him in the hall and punched him in the stomach, he probably would have winced, then turned and walked away.
But the truth was, you almost never saw him in the hallways. In fact, you rarely saw him on campus at all.
One rumor had him hanging out in smoker’s field all day. Another said he regularly cut class to go to the beach. Yet another claimed he’d already graduated a few years earlier but came back from time to time because he had no friends.
In any case, in the three years I spent with him in high school, I only saw him a handful of times.
And at 6’5”, he wasn’t easy to miss.
But unlike Craig, who looked chiseled from stone, Glenn was pear-shaped and fat.
Really fat.
The doughy type of fat.
In the end, Glenn made little, if any, impact during his school years, playing no sports, joining no clubs, and leaving no lasting impression beyond his occasional drift through the corridors—an apparition of sorts, albeit a doughy, disheveled one.
Greg was my next-door neighbor for as long as I could remember. He liked guns, tanks, and anything to do with the military—particularly airplanes.
He plastered his bedroom walls with posters of jet planes the way most teenage boys in the 80s covered their walls with posters of rock bands or swimsuit models.
His goal was to become a fighter pilot, and there were no two ways about it.
Since his father was an astrophysicist at Northrop Grumman, Greg regularly visited the plant, immersing himself in every aspect of the jets being built.
He could tell you everything about them, from their thrust capacity to their guidance systems—even the armament packages they carried.
Greg knew every model backward and forward.
So, it was no surprise when he joined the Air Force Junior ROTC his freshman year of high school, eventually rising to the rank of Cadet Colonel by graduation.
Ty was by far my smartest friend. He was also the most focused. When he put his mind to something, no matter what it was, he always excelled.
And though he was my friend, this combination of traits could be irritating.
It allowed him to hang out and party all night long, then show up to school first thing in the morning and ace every test—while the rest of us failed miserably.
It also enabled him to practically will himself into the starting lineup of our football team.
Weighing 185 pounds soaking wet and holding a brick, he somehow managed, as a sophomore, to take the center position—on a team whose average lineman weighed 230-plus pounds—away from a senior.
This kind of drive made him successful at everything he cared about, whether it was school, sports, or life in general.
One thing I never heard him express any interest in was the military.
I don’t think he ever mentioned it once in all the time I knew him.
So, while guys like Greg—and other friends of ours—dove headfirst into ROTC, Ty never even gave it a thought.
Last week, I was in a bedroom at my house, disassembling a massive three-piece IKEA wardrobe.
When I bought it 15 years ago, it was so big that I had to build it in the room.
Even though I logically knew that someday it would have to be moved, it always seemed like that day would never come.
But my kids are getting bigger. They’re growing up. And that means moving things and rearranging things so everyone can have their own space.
My son came in to watch me take the behemoth apart, and after a while, we got to talking. The changes taking place prompted him to ask about “growing up.”
I asked him what he wants to be when he grows up, and he thought about it for a few minutes.
“A baker,” he said. “Or a miner. I’m not sure yet.”
My daughter chimed in from the next room.
“I want to be a therapist. I’m good at giving my friends advice on Discord.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Plus, therapists make good money.”
“Oh, I’m going to do it for free,” she replied.
Welp.
Then my son asked, “How do you know what you’re going to be when you grow up?”
“You never really know,” I said. “Sometimes you think you do, but it doesn’t always work that way.”
“You never really know,” I said. “Sometimes you think you do, but it doesn’t always work that way.”
Greg had a passion for jets but not for studying, and his low GPA made an appointment to the U.S. Air Force Academy impossible.
He never joined the Air Force or flew a plane, and now owns a military surplus store in Barstow, California.
John “Ty” Thomas graduated second in his class from the U.S. Air Force Academy, went on to Harvard, then deployment, and logged over 4,000 hours in eleven different aircraft.
In 2021, he retired as a three-star General.
Craig was heavily recruited out of high school, choosing to go to the University of Oregon, where, after redshirting as a freshman, he started three years in a row for the Ducks.
He was a late draft choice by the Vikings in 1989, but was cut in training camp.
He now sells real estate in Daytona Beach, Florida.
On a dare, Glen Parker walked on the football team at Golden West Junior College and later transferred to Arizona State.
He was a third-round draft pick by the Buffalo Bills in 1990.
During his career, he played all five offensive line positions and appeared in 16 postseason games, including five Super Bowls—starting in three of them.
Maurice spent years trying to earn a chair with the New York Philharmonic, then attempted to do the same with the Boston, Chicago, and Cleveland Symphony Orchestras.
He eventually developed arthritis in his right hand and put his instrument down for good without ever playing a professional note.
He now lives in Omaha, Nebraska, with his wife and writes a blog about organic gardening and the benefits of composting.
Scott Weiland went on to sell over 20 million records as the lead singer of Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver. He died on December 3, 2015, from an accidental drug overdose.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” my daughter asked.
I paused, considering her question as I lifted the wardrobe door off its hinges.
Over the years, I’ve been many things:
A busboy, a bellman, a businessman, an entrepreneur, semi-retired, a full-time trader, unsemi-retired, a financial services executive, unemployed, a fintech executive, unemployed again, a writer, an unemployed writer, and a senior content manager.
None of which I could have predicted when I was growing up.
“I don’t know. I didn’t give it much thought,” I said.
I still don’t.
The average person can read 250 words per minute.
If you made it this far, you’ve taken just over a nine-minute break from an increasingly chaotic and unhinged world.
Come back here next week and we’ll do it again—or stay on break and check out The Best of ‘The Anecdote.’
Another great peice, Brian.
Malcom Gladwell should use your High School as a follow-up to Outliers focused on the factors that influence success. That's quite a range of professional achievement in your hometown.
I always get to the end of your Anecdotes. And enjoy them