An American Life
"O, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we Practice to deceive!"
-Sir Walter Scott
The gensis of the 8A phenomenon begat a profusion of peculiar characters, the least of which is not a certain Brian Richford. Brian was the youngest of the the intial 8A crowd, and quite the storyteller. You see, it seemed young Brian had emigrated from sunny florida-bringing along with him woeful tales of his devious past. Apparently the West Coast-based gang of street toughs known as "the Crips" had set up a branch in the resort town of Fort Lauderdale, Florida- and brian, their young recruit, had been one of their most promising members. Yes, Brian had forsaken the insipid, ho-hum life of Eddie Punchclock, and the tedious nine-to-five grind- so as to become the fearsom, Tony Montano-esques menace we came to know him as. Indeed he was the bane of Johnny Law- quickly establishing himself as a seething, volatile ruffian who nobody in Worcester would dare trifle with, lest they find themself staring at the sisister gleam of a cold, sharp blade. An unmerciful warrior of the city streets, if ever there were one- this is his story:
Brian Richford was not long for the 8A scene- in fact he disappeared as abruptly as he had arrived. It was almost as if God, while casting the pilot episode of the 8A saga, had signed Brian on to play the part of the loquacious, hip-hopping, teenage street thug- only later to decide to recast the role with Nick Ertsgard. When I first encountered Brian, he was compulsively puffing on the Newpot cigarette and talking- a lot. My first impression of him was that of a loudmouth, punk-ass, teenage suburbanite. I couldn't have been more wrong. You see, unbeknownst to me, in verity Brian was a callous criminal- indeed a dangerour man not to be taken lightly. It was soon after that first encounter, that Brian's true nature presented itself.
His profound degree of deadliness was undeniably evidenced by his accounts of cold-blooded murder perpetuated by his own hand. Though these tales were born out of Fort Lauderdatle, Florida- a long way from Worcester, Massachusetts- and therefore unable to be corroborated, they are nonethelss true, Brian was a beacon of honesty.
My first experience with Brian in a social setting involved a gathering in a certain Amy Holton's basement, following a feast of delicious Chineese food. En route, Brian whipped out a small plastic bag- ostensibly filled with premium-grade Columbian cocaine and asked if i wanted to share a line. I declined on account of the assured purity and potency of said illicit material, for a man as well-connected as young Brian would surely have only the finest the drug trade had to peddle. At a subsequent incident at 8A, I was further impressed by Brian's resourcefulness. After watching him snff several lines of "cocaine"- and make really cool drug faces, I took a dot of the aforementioned powder and put it to my tongue. the results wer remarkable. "What genius!" thought I, "Astounding!" Brian, ever the adept street pharmacist, had managed to create a batch of high-quality cocaine that lacked the telltale tingle on the tongue, but instead tasted like a bunch of crushed-up Tylenol. This was truly a testament to his acumen with narcotics. If ever he were in a jam, the police would think that his high-potency cocaine was harmless headache medicine. Kudos to you, Brian- whereever you are!
As you may or may not know, aside from visiting "the snowman", Brian had danced precariously with Lady Herion during his tenure in Florida. In fact, between slaying "Slobs" (to us laypersons: members of the notorious West Coast street gang "The Bloods"- who evidently also had a For Lauderdale franchise), Brian would indulge in a plethora of decadent and dangerous illicit drugs. So much so, in fact, that he ended up in rehab. Indeed, detox is a bitter pill to swallow after a lifetime of hard living. but he made it through the experience owing to the strength of his character. Brin had been an alcoholic, a drug addict, a criminal, a murderer, and most notably a gangbanger. yes, Brian had seen it all, done it all, and lived to tell the tale- which made it so utterly surprising to see him, on os many occasions, stumble around in a stupor- and then vomit for hours- after drinking two wine coolers.
The early days of 8A surely were not truly great unless an important combination was realized: Brian Richford and fruity girl drinks. He was so much a jack-booted hooligan, that he had no need to quaff the drink of a man. So sure of his masculinity was he that Brian, like any true hard-ass, could hold his liquor along with the most virile of he-men. In fact, drinking seemed to make him wiser still. I can remember many an occasion where i was beckoned out to Bello's patio to share a cigaretee and listen to his diatribe about "real life". It was then that i finally understood that i was extremely sheltered and niave. I came to realize i needed the experience of a hard-scrabble youth to achieve the level of sagacity and street-savvy that Brian has merited. I guess i have a lot of growing up to do.
A bonus to having spent time like this with Brian was the inordinate pleasure of keeping company with his comrade Steve. Steve was also a cold-hearted Crip from Florida (albeit from an outfit in yet a different resort community). Oh, the wonderful times we'd have watching them dance around so gay and free, speaking in their Crip "sign-language", whcih usually resembled eagle shadow-puppets. Steve was obviously a very "bad motherfucker", as evidenced by his teeth visibly rotting out of his jaw. unfortunately, Steve's claim of illeteracy (thus alloting him furter "street cedibility") was ultimately proved false when i caught him audibly reading a Chineese-food menu.
If i had to chose Brian's best quality, it would have to be the fact that he had no car or indeed, driver's license. this afforded me the pleasure of driving him everywhere, thus being able to spend time with him and absorb his pearls of wisdom. You see, Brian had lost the legal privilege of driving ater an arrest in Fr. Lauderdale for grand theft auto. (among other charges that only a true bad-ass could rack up!) His method for avoiding incarceration was unduly clever. He apparently demmanded that the judge release him to his mother's custody in Massachusetts. When the judge supposedly refused, he then claimed to shout out "Go fuck yourself!" To which, she quickly and rightly comlied to his request, most likely out of fear for her life.
In summary, Brian Richford is a true Amercian hero- at least he's my hero. For those of you who doubt my sincerity in this piece, and think i make a mockery of his worth as a human being, I can assure you that is not so. For I am not foolhardy, therefore, i- like most of America- fear his wrath. if he were to think i was disrespecting (or "dissing"- as they say on the Fort Lauderdale streets) him, then I have no doubt he would use his cell phone to summon Crip fractions in Los Angeles to come down to San Diego and leave me a corpse. God bless you, noble Brian. We may not know what gas station you work at now, but we know someday you'll make assistant manager. You are truly the wind beneath my wings.
_DW
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