That Boy Fu

When I was a junior in high school, there was this guy named Fu. Every morning, I'd see him playing hacky sack with a few of the trombone players from the marching band. I don't know why hacky sack was so popular with that group, but they'd be there every morning, rain or shine, hitting that little hacky sack back and forth until the bell rang.

I never had Fu in any of my classes, but I liked his name. Fu. Simple. Concise. Sounds like 'foo.' Every morning as he'd kick around the hacky sack, I'd shout out "WHASSUP, FU?!" and he would just look at me and nod.

As the year progressed, my greetings would become louder and more elaborate. I'd say something like "IT'S THAT BOY FU FROM THE H-TOWN REPRESENT IN THE 7-1-3!" Or "LITTLE BUNNY FU FU WALKING THROUGH THE FOREST WHAT UP FAM!" He wouldn't ever really say anything. Fu would just nod.

One morning in May, I went up to the circle of hacky sack aficionados and put my arm around Fu's shoulder.

"WHAT'S GOING ON MY MAIN MAN FU FIGHTER BROTHER FROM ANOTHER MOTHER HITTING THAT HACKY SACK LIKE IT AIN'T GOT NO SLACK!"

He looked at me, pushed my arm off his shoulder and with a look of utmost contempt said "Man, I don't even know you."

Moral of the story? Stop frontin'.