Audiobook: excerpt from Radical Phil by Marcus Wagner
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Chapter one. It started in the woods. I was 12 and Anton was 13, but he was actually only four months older than me. An important distinction between us at the time, we were camping out at a small clearing. We called the old hunter's campsite. It was about a half mile deep into the woods behind my house. Both our homes were in the woods. A fact that caused Anton and I to share a bus ride to school that took over an hour. We were the only two boys our age for miles. It never occurred to either of us back then. That simple logistics was at the root of our bond. We thought we were best friends. Anton cried while playing his pocket video game. A crude dance of lines and dots that passed for electronic football. Back in the autumn of 1983. I think you were out. All my batteries reno No, you just suck. What's a reno? I asked? Not taking my eyes from the New England Vampire novel. I was reading by flashlight. You don't know what a re knob is. No. What's a re knob? A re knob is ***** spelled backwards. Why I asked why? What, why would anyone want to spell ***** backwards? A downward crescendo of pings meant Anton had been intercepted. Niche. I don't know. It's a code word for what du for ***** you ***. What did I just say? If you see a kid with a bone wrap at the board, you just yell re knob and everyone will stare at his freaking pants. I feigned indifference. But my real reaction was one of panic, a visualization of my own reno being called out while I circled a prepositional phrase up at the blackboard. And in this paranoid fantasy, Anton though he was my best friend was the one leading the pointing. I didn't hate him for it. I blamed his looks. I was a tall lumbering kid and Anton was handsome in a way my mother called swarthy a trait I felt had something to do with his being 1/4 Lebanese puberty had already groomed me to believe that good looking people were naturally cavalier with other people's feelings, disliking them. For this fact would be like disliking a blind person for wearing socks that didn't match. Plus I knew Anton would always back me up in a fight. He had told me so many times, shamefully, my greatest fear at 12 years old was that if called upon, I would not have the nerve to return the favor even though I was almost a whole head taller than my cocky swarthy. And loyal friend Anton said again. I made up that word. You know, you're so narcissistic. What the **** does that mean? It means you're a show off. Well, why didn't you just call me a show off? Then you show off to that. I had no answer. So I ignored him and returned to the blood suckers of Salem's lot. I was always sure to retort with Anton despite the fact he was section D dipshits and I was in section B brainiacs of seventh grade at Maston junior high. Anton's confidence stemmed from his uncanny ability to just be himself at all times. He simply looked past anything he didn't like or understand when playing risk. He always first conquered the United States worth seven men because taking Russia worth 12 men would be unpatriotic to him. The best part of D and D wasn't playing dungeon master. It was painting the small metal figurines of orcs and elves and girls were something to be tickled, tortured or ignored. Never feared. I however, was a hopeless introvert who overthought everything and hid my angst behind a surly unibrow. I was jealous of Anton's easiness. Everyone sought his approval. Never the other way around. He was so magnetic. Most kids would happily take getting picked on by him if it was all they could get. This is exactly why I was immensely proud to be known as his best friend. At least his best friend at home, which is not to be confused with his best friends at school. A loud and dangerous lot, highly prone to detention.