Dirk Necessary, A Man’s Man Journey:

“A real loser’s loser”. This is “Kid’s” self-assessment. All evidence points to the soundness of his conclusion. Smallest, weakest, cowardly-est, and a girl’s name to boot all seemingly seal his fate. From his vantage point, he is better off not even attempting a journey from boyhood to manhood. A life-altering decision with dire consequences if Heather Locklear and the other 1980’s icons hanging in his bedroom don’t intervene. A rural desert town and ’80's rock-n-roll culture set the scene for this humorous coming of age tale which tests the performative and ritualistic nature of modern man-making standards. Sardonically inspired by his family's motto, “a bad day can always get worse”, he stumbles, at times strides, through the gauntlet of his man-making list. His ever-present horse, Balthazar, steadies “Kid” between an undaunted enthusiasm and an inherent blind eye to criticism ensuring that no man-making quest proceeds without examination. Dirk Necessary: A Man’s Man Journey reminds both men and women that transformation and self-discovery are messy and treacherous paths, but if not taken, leave us devoid of the power that comes with authenticity.

EXCERPT…

A full school year had passed and I hadn’t grown even an inch. Still dead last. Smallest. Weakest. A real loser’s loser. A brutal verdict of my standing in the world.

On the bright side, the kids only remembered two names, the first and last on the list. History made by yours truly. Four years in a row. A name never forgotten. My legacy.

I hated it. My original name that is. The one I started life with. The one printed at the bottom of the list posted on the gym wall. My stomach in a constant ache from the knowledge that it could be written or spoken at any moment for all to hear or see. I hid from bullies and even teachers but my name was impossible to avoid. And, there it was staring back at me. I stood in front of the list, stomach acid boiling over, and contemplated a worse situation. A disciplined habit.

Each school year started and ended with the ‘Measure Up’ in gym class. Mandated by the President of the United State of America, this invasive physical assessment included, body height and weight, push-up, sit up, and pull-up counts, 100-yard sprint and one-mile run times. The results were posted, publicly, for god and everyone to see. To scrutinize. Someone had to be first. Someone had to be last. Logical. A simple truth. I knew the first position was not mine to hope for. Not to be last, that was a reasonable wish. If only I had a bottle from which to rub a wish-granting genie.

“Maybe next year, eh?” Jimmy Pockets said as he scanned the list. That wasn’t his real name. The Jimmy part was but the kids mostly called him Pockets on the count of how his hands were in his pockets most of the day. Pants pockets. Jacket pockets. Shirt pockets. His mom had even sewn pockets on clothes that didn’t have pockets to begin with. Including the t-shirts he wore in gym class.

Pockets had just found his name listed right above mine. Second from the last. Two more sit-ups than me. Like being a nickel short for an ice cream cone. Had I known, I could have found a nickel some- where just as I could have found three sit-ups. No time to muse about the would of, could of, should of’s. It was clear Pockets needed a cheerful confidence boost, after all, he was pretty low down on the list. My mother had a saying. She got it from her father who got it from his father and on and on through the generations. Kind of a family motto. A bad day can always get worse. Her comforting words for every challenge of a young boy’s life. Teased at school? Skinned knee? Poor test score? All made better knowing it could get worse.