“Okay, I get the fanny packs,” I said. “They carry the stupid glasses, right? What I don’t get are the Crocs. Have you ever seen so many Crocs?”

“Oh, I totally get that,” said Holden. “They’re comfortable.”

“No, walking around my bedroom naked is comfortable. Wearing Crocs is just obscene—in public, no less, Jesus!”

“Crocs are comfy as shit,” said Holden. “Deal with it. If you want to get mad about something, get mad that these bastards are commercializing outer space. Next thing you know, they’ll be selling real estate on Uranus. Like, who the hell owns Uranus? God, it makes me so mad!”

To demonstrate his madness, Holden clenched his fist, aiming his fury at a low-set construction stop sign—clearly a symbol of capitalist socioeconomic oppression. But because Holden was five foot nothing—no shit, roughly the height of a really tall hobbit—he still had to give it a running jumpstart. He bolted, jumped, reared his fist back, and unleashed it like a spring-operated can of whoop-ass. The impact of his fist gave a sharp metallic clang that seemed to echo for blocks. This earned us plenty of startled and annoyed looks from the tourists crowding around us.

Holden barely landed on his feet, staggered for balance, and crumpled.

“Shit,” he said. He recoiled his fist, cradling it to his chest. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Easy there, Fight Club. You okay?”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Holden continued, in worlds of pain. He brought his fist to his mouth and started sucking on it like a gigantic Tootsie Pop.

Meet Holden Durden—the biggest idiot in all of Jackson County. Also, my best friend. He technically earned this honor by being my only friend, but I liked to think that his merits outweighed the clear and utter lack of competition. And because his name was rich with pop-culture potential, I liked to call him Fight Club—or sometimes Caulfield—depending on his mood, which was like a Green Day album. It ranged from lost, alienated soul seeking connection to anti-consumerist anarchist reaping destruction. And I guess there was a weird middle ground that appreciated Crocs.

But despite his height—as well as his aggressively nonconformist behavior—he was actually kind of a stud. He’d had at least seven girlfriends over the course of his high school career and probably twice as many flings. He may have been short, but he carried those five feet and zero inches with Napoleonic confidence.

“Jesus Christ on ice!” said Holden. “Why are there so many fucking people?”