In my day, we had Bucky Beach.

I shit you not. That was the name of my high school guidance counselor. Bucky Beach. Bucky FUCKING Beach.

His real name was James, but for some bizarre reason went by Bucky.

He was an old hippie who had long hair and little round John Lennon glasses and he always wanted to "touch base" or "have a sit down." Sometimes, he even wanted to "rap" about things.

In school, I was always in trouble. I kept skipping and got into fights and smoked weed out in the parking lot at lunch. I could have been just another loser except I got good grades, so I was all over everyone's radar. If I had been a D student, no one would have paid me any mind.

So I had to constantly go and talk to Bucky FUCKING Beach.

Every conversation with him was like this (I'm paraphrasing for honesty): Bucky: "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Me: *shrugs shoulders, looks out the window*

A couple years ago, I searched for Bucky Beach on Facebook, but didn't find him. He'd be in his 60s now. Maybe even 70s.

I remember liking going to see him because it was something different, different than sitting in class. He seemed like he cared, but what the hell do I know?