My Apology To Drizzt

If Doug and Russel were the roommates from hell, then Drizzt was a roommate in hell with me. Before the Jailbird got arrested (thus creating a permanent vacancy for me to fill), presumably for something unrelated to this particular story, Drizzt came home to find that Jailbird had broken into his room and was playing the PS2. Drizzt didn’t make a fuss at the time, which he would have been well within his rights to do, but I can only imagine how much sleep he lost until that jerk left. Add that to the crap that Doug and Russel pulled and you have to hope that he finally found some peace in his new apartment.

Why do I call him Drizzt? Because he introduced me to Bauldur’s Gate, a PS2 game set in the Forgotten Realms universe. Drizzt Do’Urden is a dark elf character that you can unlock in the game and Chris would play Drizzt along side my generic female dark elf.

We had some other things in common. Drizzt and I had a lot of the same taste in movies and literature. While I wasn’t as skilled at drawing as he was, we were both pursuing careers in writing, although his passion was more directly focused on screenwriting and producing for film.

It was Drizzt who enlightened me to the presence of the creative genius who is Kevin Smith. It began when I was watching Dogma on Comedy Central. He told me he had the DVD and asked if I wanted to watch it in it’s entirety. Then we moved on to Jay and Silent Bob Strikes Back and from there we went to Clerks the Animated Series.

Although it was fair to say that Drizzt was a good friend, especially when he counted me as one of the only ones he could trust in a house with two ex-cons and a drug addict, there were times when I did not earn his good opinion. There’s no example of this that’s more glaring than when we finally got around to watching Kevin Smith’s first movie, Clerks. (Which is where you should start, otherwise you’re never going to get all of the in-jokes from the previously mentioned works)

It was getting pretty dark out and the neighborhood children were being, well, loud and obnoxious. They would run past our window and make noise. Sometimes they would throw stones at the door. The adults who were observing all of this behavior from their porches, which just happened to share a portion of the back yard, found this hilarious. The final straw was when someone lit a smoke bomb outside the kitchen window.

I got up and threw open the back door and in my early twenties, I became the crotchety old man on the porch telling kids to get off my lawn.

“Don’t worry about it,” one of the parents called back.

My brilliant and well thought out reply? “Next time I’m coming out here with a shotgun!”

In a neighborhood like Beech Street and all of it’s myriad side streets, no one is going to call the cops over a statement that wasn’t a smart idea to shout out, even in 2003, so for that I consider myself fortunate. But when the father of the brat brigade came over to confront me, it was Drizzt that had the balls to go to the door and face the music, while I went to the staircase and remained out of sight until the smoke cleared, so to speak.

If Drizzt ever reads this, I hope he accepts this as my humble apology for only adding one more log to a fire he was desperately trying to suffocate in the embers.

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