Features

Last summer my then-14-year-old daughter Liana and her friend Jen walked up to Telegraph Avenue to participate in the all-time favorite teen pastime: hanging out. As defined by Liana, “hanging out can mean anything. Going to a friend’s house and sitting around, watching TV or playing video games, going in the backyard or just talking about stuff. Basically, hanging out is this: 

“Going somewhere to do whatever there is to do there, whether it’s nothing or whatever.” 

End quote. 

The girls walk around the avenue doing whatever for awhile then end up at La Val’s to do whatever. Actually, they wanted to shoot pool—an activity that defies time by defining cool—and waited for a table to open up. As they began to play, Liana noticed that the two guys at the adjacent table kept staring at them. Liana glanced their way to see if she knew them. “They were really old, like 28 or 35 and they looked scraggly.” 

“Hi, Princess,” the one with the gold tooth says. 

Liana smiles and quickly looks away. The decrepit old guys keep looking but Liana and Jen ignore them. They eventually hobble out of there only to return a short time later. “They each took one of us and started talking.” Liana grimaces. 

“Hey, how ya doin. Do you smoke? Really? You don’t smoke at all? Not even just a little bit? Do you drink? Not at all? Really? Well, me and my friend want some company to maybe smoke a little, drink a little. You know, have a good time.”  

“Um, yeah. We’re 14.” Liana looks at the guy like he’s some kind of perv.  

“Aw, for real? You’re really 14?” 

The guy talking to Jen echoes, “Fourteen? For real? My man over here wanted to get with your friend. Please don’t tell me she’s 14, too?” The old fogies nudge each other, say “Alright,” then leave. 

How did you feel when they left, I asked.  

“We laughed. It was really stupid, those old guys trying to hit on 14-year-olds...It was weird. Actually, it was kind of gross.” 

And then some.  

A few weeks later Liana was hanging out with another 14-year-old girlfriend, Zee, this time doing whatever on Shattuck Avenue. Two guys they recognized as high school seniors were following them, repeatedly calling out “Excuse me! Excuse me!” After a block and a half of this, the girls finally turn around.  

The boys fall in stride. The taller one starts in on Liana. 

“What’s your name? Where are you from? Let’s exchange numbers so we can talk sometime.” 

“I don’t even know your name.” 

“My name’s (Creepo).” 

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t even know you.” 

“Well, we can be friends.” 

“I’ll be a friend.” 

“Friends with benefits?” 

Liana laughs. “No. I’ll just be your friend.” 

“Well, where are you guys going?” 

“Around to McDonald’s.” (I never feed my kids fast food, honestly! What a sneak!)  

(Creepo) returns to the issue at hand. “So, you wanna be friends with benefits?” 

“I don’t even know you,” Liana responds. “Do you go to Berkeley High?” 

“Yes.” 

“How about if I just see you next year?” 

(Creepo) laughs. “Oh man, c’mon.” He then turns his attention to Zee. 

“How about you? What’s your name? Where are you from?” 

Liana and Zee exchange looks. After a few more minutes, the boys take off. “Alright.” 

Yeah. 

What did he mean by “benefits”? I ask. Liana patiently explains:  

“Benefits means sex. Friends with benefits are friends you have sex with.” 

Oh my god. So, hanging out with friends can include fringe benefits. For whom? I remember navigating these same rocky waters as a teenager in the late ‘60s—early ‘70s. The terminology may be different but as my grandma used to say: “The more things change, the more they remain the same.” Here’s hoping my daughter is wiser than I was. So far, so good.  

›