"Dude..."

 

"What, dude?"

 

"Dude.  Seriously, dude..."

 

"DUDE!!!"

 

"Yeah, dude!"

 

Kyle and Al said the last "yeah, dude!" in unison, exchanging a high-five and an elaborate handshake behind the truck while they did it.  Gary stared at them, speechless, as they kept nodding enthusiastically, saying "dude" every three or four nods.

 

Finally Gary looked at me with a look of panic and amazement in his hung-over eyes.  "You know what's fucked up, Matt?  They actually just had a full conversation with nothing but the word 'dude'."

 

"I think we just witnessed history..." 

 

I was totally wrong.  That "historic greeting" was the first of an entire summer's worth of conversations centering around that one word:  "dude."

 

Kyle was from a family of Tent Men--in fact, he was another one of those guys whose older brother had worked at the company during the late 80's, the golden age when the tent company resembled backstage at a Motley Crue show.  Kyle's older brother was a legend for his wild lifestyle and a veritable Hall of Famer in the Tenting World.  Legend had it that he had actually gotten laid during a job once.  With a woman, even.  Coming on board in his brother's shadow, Kyle had pretty much kept to himself.  That is, until Al joined the crew.

 

We were never one hundred percent sure what brought Al to the tent company.  His dad ran a thriving fruit business, and as much shit as we gave him for being the son of a Fruit Man, we could never figure out why you'd leave an air conditioned warehouse full of strawberrys and papaya's for the cab of some shitty truck.  It must have been the free flow of weed and the escape from the cutthroat pressures of the produce aisle.

 

Anyway, Kyle and Al were best buddies from way back, friends who had reached the point where you no longer needed words to know what the other guy was thinking.  Just, apparently, a well timed "dude" or two.  No one was ever going to mistake them for rocket scientists in hiding, but, hey, they were great for a laugh and could swing a mean sledgehammer.  And needing only one word to express the entire range of human emotions was pretty damn efficient, if you think about it.

 

One morning, though, Kyle missed his "dude" cue as he walked into the shop. 

 

"Dude!  Why are you late, dude?..."

 

Kyle didn't say anything.  He just walked right by, and Al just stared at him as he passed, at which point he muttered a frustrated, "dude, what the fuck?..." 

 

Still, not a word--never mind a "dude!"--from Kyle.

 

The rest of us were nervous, edgy.  Something was amiss in the dude-i-verse, but Kyle wasn't feeling too chatty, despite Al's increasingly concerned "dude's".  The prep work took a while that day--there was a bunch of shit going on, so we had to get every truck ready, even the fucked up ones that probably shouldn't have been sitting on the lot, never mind flying down the highway at 70 miles an hour full of poles and stakes.  Throughout all that time, Kyle didn't say a word--by some counts, he owed Al at least ten "dude's!" 

 

Finally, he broke.

 

"Dude..."  Kyle said it slowly as he wiped the sweat from his head, like he was still warming up the "dude" cords.

 

Al was visibly relieved, "Finally, dude.  What the fuck's wrong with you?  You're all mopey-assed and shit..."

 

"Dude..."  This time, a little more energy.

 

"What?"  Al came by and knocked on Kyle's head like it was a door.  In a flash, Kyle grabbed him by the arm.  He wasn't amused.

 

"Knock it off, dude, or I'll break your fuckin' arm."

 

"OK, dude.  Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you, dude?"

 

The rest of us just stood there--their consistent pot intake aside, both of them were athletes with college and pro potential.  In other words, it would have been one hell of a fight and we sure as hell didn't want to miss it.

 

"Fuck off, dude.  I got shit on my mind."

 

That was the last thing anyone ever expected Kyle to say.  Like I said, no one standing there had ever confused Kyle for Socrates or the strong sensitive type.  Ever the cocksucker, Mikey laughed out loud just long enough to realize that no one else was laughing.  I think he hurt himself stopping mid-laugh.  He would have kept laughing, but he knew that Kyle could kick his ass with his free arm while he kept his grip on Al's wrist. 

 

Kyle shot Mikey a look before spilling the beans.

 

"Dude, Terri's pregnant."

 

"Dude..."

 

"Yeah, dude."

 

"Dude.  Is it yours?..."

 

We lost it at that point.  Even Kyle laughed as Al deadpanned the question.  He finally let go of his wrist and wiped his hands through his hair.

 

"Dude, I'm pretty sure it is, dude."

 

"Dude..."

 

"Yeah, dude..."

 

"Wow, dude.  That's nuts, dude...."

 

"Yeah, isn't it?"

 

"You know, for five bucks, I'll kick her in the stomach for you, dude..."

 

"Nah, dude.  We talked about it last night and we're gonna keep it."

 

"Oh, OK, dude."

 

"Thanks, dude."

 

"No problem, dude."

 

"Anyway, that's why I been so quiet today, dude.  Fucked up, huh?" 

 

"No shit, dude.  Still, think of the positive side..."

 

"Dude?  What fuckin' positive side?"

 

"At least you know your boys can swim."

 

Kyle smiled silently for a minute before making a swimming motion towards Al.  "Yeah, dude--my boys can swim, huh?"

 

The two exchanged another elaborate handshake.  It was all "dude" for the rest of the day.

 

---

 

As the summer wound down, it finally occurred to one of us to ask Kyle how his girlfriend was doing, anyway. 

 

"Good, dude.  Thanks for askin'.  To be honest, I'm kind of getting into the idea of being a dad.  She even told me that I can come up with the name if it's a boy..."

 

We took the bait.

 

"Really, what have you come up with?"

 

"Dude, I fuckin' hate all those yuppie names like Tyler and Hunter and shit.  So I'm going to go with something old, you know?  Traditional."

 

"Yeah?  Any ideas?"

 

"Well, like I said, I did some diggin', you know, to get the ideas goin'..."

 

"And?"

 

"Well, my top pick is 'Zeus Mercurius,' but I'm not sure Terri is cool with that one..."

 

That was the last summer we worked together, so I never did find out whether they had a boy or a girl, never mind what they named the kid.  I almost don't want to know, because in some nook in my brain, I'm hoping to someday lose my shit laughing when I read about some kid named Zeus Mercurius punching another kid out on a Little League field.

 

 

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