There was a new punk in town. His name was Ray. Tall and strapping, with dark, heavy good looks, Ray had recently been in a documentary called Rude Boy, which followed his experiences as roadie for the English punk band The Clash. Rachel discovered the young Brit at a local party, and brought him back to the house.

Ray, it turned out, had a unique ability: he used the f-word in more ways than anyone I had ever met. It wasn't just a matter of quantity; Ray's boundless innovations took it well beyond the limits of a mere cuss word. It was utilized as an adverb and an adjective, as a conjunction and a preposition. It expressed not just his anger, but the whole gamut of human emotion. Ray could dice, splice, scramble, broil, bake and fry that word. He was a master chef of profanity.

One night Ray decided to go to a party in the Valley, and he offered Maggie a lift; he later left her, and returned alone. Maggie called a short while before he arrived; she was stuck out there, with no way to get back. As Malissa worked on arrangements to bring Maggie home, I grew more and more angry at Ray. Whether out of malice or ignorance or just plain indifference, there was no excuse for leaving her stranded; that was not our home turf, and finding yourself on your own in the Valley could quickly turn dangerous if you ran into a drunk jock with a bone to pick.

When Ray finally sauntered in, carefree and oblivious to the tension he had created, I lost my temper. Or rather, I felt like I should lose my temper, so I marched right up to him and demanded to know why he had abandoned Maggie. It was probably unrealistic to expect a detailed explanation complete with apology, but still I wasn't prepared for what I got: a brief gesture, a slight raising of the leather-clad shoulders, at once casual yet utterly dismissive, with a message that clearly declared So What.

I couldn't believe it. He shrugged me!

That did it. I wanted to slap him. I knew I should slap him. Unfortunately, I had never hit a guy, and I hesitated. For a good five seconds we faced each other -- I working up the courage to strike him, and Ray deciding what he should have for dinner. Then I opened my hand, and smacked him. As it turned out, the end effect of all that righteous anger was a bit of a letdown; the soft sound of skin against skin was barely audible. He looked surprised, I'm sure no more so than I.

"Fuck," he offered.

I couldn't have said it better myself.