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Category:
Humor
Publisher: Lulu
Pages: 124
The precarious Joe Nichols is John Bapts High Schools’ most outrageously witty and cocky underclassman. He is a juvenile prankster alongside fellow neighborhood cronies Jake Kahler (Bangor Maine’s most infamous bully and vandal) and gay, fake British intellectual Ian Holm. It is the end of another school year in Bangor Maine, preluding a final summer of adventure amongst Joe’s best friends. All lending support in organizing a solid, bone crushing team to play in the annual freeze football game.A three decade-rich tradition facing extinction from Bangor's religious right.Joe is also in predictament over romantic advances by nerdy, teacher's pet "Pigeon-legged" Lucy .All the while trying to cope with his best friend Lenny’s battle with cystic fibrosis and chagrin over his Mother dating a geeky insurance klutz.Deeply represented are many uprises and pitfalls challenging young adults today, while illustrating why this is ‘The Way Life Should Be.’
Juvenile Adventure/Comedy & Drama.
Excerpt
Friday, the last day of school-thank god-or should I say, the last half day of school-and dam, has it been a boring one. Instead of giving my oral report in Ms. Waggoner’s literature class, Principal Whitfield made me sit the full hour in his office and forced me to remain after school two additional hours to listen and personally grade my oral report on my favorite American Literature writer, Richard Laymon. Man, was Principal Whitfield hell bent from the beginning, citing that the novelist Richard Laymon is not classified ‘American Literature.’
Geesh!
The guy owns a home in both Seattle and Hawaii. As far as I know those were American. I almost doubled over laughing when Principal Whitfield asked me if I would rather give a report on the film ‘Of Mice and Men’ that we got to see in the school auditorium last week. I declined, citing that I already knew a Lenny in real life and would probably strangle Lucy Austin, like the character Lenny did to the bosses’ wife in the story if she ever tried to kiss me in front of any of my friends again. Principal Whitfield made me sit in a lonely corner of his office silently for an hour, thinking I would finally cave in and do my oral report according to his specifications. He tried torturing me playing Ingle berg Humperdinck and Tom Jones songs to no avail.
Those guys freak’n suck.
I just sat there for over an hour pondering how awful sounding losers like them, Gary Glitter, Rick Springfield, Buster Poindexter and Bob Dylan ever made it in the music industry?
Brawznolez! If I were Richard Branson or Phil Specter, I would have stuck with banging Janice Joplin, Cher, Carley Simon and Courtney Love, while making the other entire beached whale sounding men change the bed sheets.
Ok, Carley Simon is kind of baboon faced, so I’ll substitute her for Stevie Nicks. As my fake British, real-life gay friend Ian Holm says, “Eh, she’s good shag.”
School had let out at noon and by 1:30pm, I could hear Principal Whitfield’s stomach growling just as Nirvana’s song, ‘Come As You Are’ was entering my mind’s play list.
“Ok, young man, what it will be?” he dared to ask.
As if I were holed up in solitary confinement in Leningrad
Brawznolez! There is no way I am giving into this pork-rind on the last day of school.
“I am prepared to give my oral report on either, Richard Laymon’s ‘Body Rides’, Michael Slade’s ‘Bed Of Nails’ or Whitley Strieber’s ‘Communion.’ Sorry, but that’s all I’ve read this year.”
Hey, wait! His stomach was growling. This could be an advantage?
“Or….I adventured, it is a beautiful spring day outside. Why don’t we grab a large pepperoni pizza smothered in extra cheese at Big Fred’s, walk down to Broadway Park-where I was already late meeting the fellas-and enjoy this fine weather in the blissful sunshine?”
I’ll never forget the look Principal Whitfield gave me as long as I live. His stubby little fingers pulled down his small glasses down to the bridge of his nose and he peered at me with a ravenous sidelong look of the upmost repulsion.
“Mr. Nichols, tell me. . .” He began. “What are your future plans and where do you see yourself in five years?” His eyes deadlocked in frustration.
Geesh! I hate that question.
During every student’s final week of school, every teacher, counselor and principal asks that same stupid question.
I’m not even in my senior year yet, asshole!
The best response is always to be sarcastic, witty and stern.
“Well, Sir…I received word earlier this week that Cambrige has accepted me into their top notch medical school. But as you may already know, that is way across the Atlantic. Not only would I miss my Mother, though figuratively when she does eventually advance into her elderly years, a free hip replacement from her son would come in handy…”
Wow, his face was getting just as red as Lucy’s last night when Lenny’s Dad walked in on us smooching.
“…Lately I was heavily influenced by how our beloved President believes he has some special prophetic anointing from God to wage war against Islam and battle evil terrorists in weaker, third world nations. So perhaps it would be better to attend law school or be a Political Science major at Yale, get into Skull and Bones, tithe ten percent of my future wealth to NATO children’s charities, etc… of course also invest a lot in sweat shop labor in Asia, join Club Med in Manhattan and then corruptively blaze saddles right into The White House. But start small, possibly clean the oval office drapes for seventy-five grand a year and adopt four to six orphans through the actress Angelina Jolie’s people about six months before announcing my bid for Mayor of New Orleans.”
Man, was Principal Whitfield stone faced and looking pissed!
His stomach growled a fourth and fifth time as he removed his glasses to massage his face and neck with his free hand.
“Mr. Nichol’s.” He began, looking absolutely drained. “The truth is I do not care whether you are prepared or not to give an oral report as specifically assigned with specific guidelines. Infact, I am sure Ms. Waggoner doesn’t care either, since she asked me to remove you from her classroom for the remainder of the school year.” He informed.
Oh, big whoop, two days.
All the seniors automatically get the day off. Jake Kahler is forcing all the other athletes at John Bapst to skip the last day of school to run drills at Broadway Park in preparation for this years’ freeze football game and I estimate that even Lenny’s Dad let his son have a personal fun day of skate boarding, pizza and ice cream.
“Further more, you are probably the laziest, most non committed student I have seen in a great many years…”
Hey, watch it ‘Mr. Chubby’, Jake was the one who set the all-time record for failed courses. Also caused over twenty thousand dollars in vandalism and deflowered you and Ms Wagon Wheel’s prized pupil and this years Vale Victorian, Mimi Pendleton behind the shed on our schools’ Lacrosse Field well before Mimi’s family became rich and sophisticated.
“Which is a shame, considering who your Mother is…”
Hey, watch it, Pal! Leave my angelic Mom out of this!
“…All I have left to say to you is I couldn’t care less about any gore or trash you have read this school year and certainly do not desire to sit and endure an oral report that I am sure will only be a waste of the remainder of both our afternoons…”
Woe! Is he insulting my favorite authors?
Does he even know what torturous acts occur in the novel ‘Bed of Nails?’ How about the fact that I know about fifty fellow students who hate you even more than I do and would love to hammer a few nails into your skull?
Brawznolez! I need to contact Whitley Strieber and see if he or Art Bell know of any beneficial HAARP uses to vaporize a High School Principal?
“So, Mr. Nichols. In order to not continue dragging on mutual discontent for one another and waste as yourself has pointed out-a lovely spring day, I bid you and your family and friends all a wonderful, safe summer and I almost look forward to seeing you next year. I certainly will if you have matured any by then. You are officially dismissed and off the hook. Have an enjoyable Memorial Day Weekend and please give my best regards to your Mother.”
Yes! Victory! Score one more for the impressionable jackass.
* * *
I bolted out of John Bapst High School and nearly flew the few blocks to Broadway Park, which was packed and festive as always on any given Friday, especially the last day of school for all Bangor school kids. Several cars clustered haphazardly along French street and North Park Street, as Frisbee games, football scrimmages, youth soccer and scores of pocketed sunbathers shared the enormous field with various samples of celebrative music blaring. I even spotted a group of teenagers cleverly tie a tight rope ribbon between two large trees and amuse as each of them attempted to walk its length.
“Hey, look who decided to finally show up.” Shouted Jake from thirty yards away.
I ran at full speed toward him and Lenny, who was standing beside him.
“Where the hell have you been? Did I not make it clear we had to start scouting for talent right away?” He scolded.
“Hey, sorry, man. But Principal Whitfield kept me after school for over two hours. There was nothing I could do.”
“Yeah, Joe was funny as shit the other day in Ms. Waggoner’s class.” Lenny supported.
Jake stood down. He was obviously all business today and didn’t want to make a big deal over anything other than recruiting the toughest players for this year’s game.
“No shit? That old nun is still kick’ in? Dam, I bet her cobwebs are stretching from her cunt to her pinky toe by now.”He grotesquely joked.
Lenny burst out laughing.
“Cheerio, Mate! Bloody beautiful afternoon isn’t it?” Called out Ian, who was about ten yards away near mid field facing French Street. He measures all the small lumps and bald patches to survey how much ice we will need.
In addition to the field’s overall buoyancy and ground temperature, Ian also jots in a journal certain areas where some of Jake’s most prized secret plays will most likely have the greatest effect on the opposing defense. Real scientific stuff that I will never understand, but both Ian and Jake religiously believe will give our team an advantage.
“Hey, Ian.” I called out. “How’s it looking turf wise?” Was all I could think of saying.
He shot up from his kneeled position, tucked his notebook eloquently beneath one elbow and marched over to join the rest of us.
“Well, to be honest…” He searched. “I am quite concerned that one particular area over there between the two elm trees has gained well over an inch of soil. Which means not only will it give the opposing offense more tracktion and speed, but bloody well may even be a slick spot to defend when muddied late in the game.”
Ever since Jake played in his first freeze football game nine years ago, his team-our team-has only lost once to a returning class of Bangor High School jocks. All of whom were fresh out of Spring Training for their respected Big East Powerhouse College Football Camps. Every year since, Jake has commissioned Ian to scientifically grade the field with a surveying technique incorporating physics. He has also established the firm rule that our team always gets the South Park Street end of the field in the game’s first half.
“It’s like surprising a bunch of gooks with a rice pattie full of landmines from the get-go!” He croons.
All of our attentions suddenly snapped, locating a very athletic teenager catching a pass in the middle of the field. He caught the ball quite ballet-like in the air, stumbled over a defender without going down, spun twice to avoiding a second tackler and high stepped into a blazing full speed dash past two more ensuing defenders.
“Touchdown!” Yelled the guy who threw the pass. No other than Bangor High’s senior star quarterback Matt Duff, who had only lost one game this year in over-time.
“Woe! Did you see that? Amazed Lenny. “Who the hell is that guy?”
We all pondered with our jaws dropped, askew with astonishment.
The receiver was a very tall, lightly tinted black teen with short, curly red hair and crystal eyes like a Boca Raton beach wave.
“That fella is our deepest threat.” Studied Ian. “His name is Marl Kibentzka. Everyone calls him Marley for short. You may have read about him last winter in The Bangor Daily News when he came to America from Zimbabwe. I shit you not; he’s connected somehow to that actress and former model, Iman. A distant Nephew or something? I don’t right, bloody have all the details, chums. What I do know is he won the State track finals in three events here in his first pair of American sneakers. All without having time to train before hand. This semester he was a junior at Bangor High and is expected to tryout for the next Olympic Track and Field team once he earns his citizenship.”
“He’s really fast.” Admired Lenny
“Yeah, not too shabby in the looks and body either.” Lusted Ian.
I could tell Jake was getting mad just watching. Perhaps even worried.
“You mean to tell me the freak’n little wetback isn’t even an American citizen?” Jake fevered with disgust.
No one laughed.
“Well, technically he isn’t a ‘wetback’ coming from Africa. But yes, it will be a long process before he becomes a full fledged citizen.” Continued Ian.
“Damn, he’s good.” Again praised Lenny, watching Marley’s ensuing kick off coverage.
Jake wouldn’t admit it, but Lenny was right. This African kid, whoever he was related to displayed superior quickness and athleticism.
“I don’t like him.” Bitched Jake. “Isn’t there some rule about only American Citizens being eligible to play in freeze football?” He wondered, visibly worried.
Ian shrugged. “Not from what I know. I believe the rules are simple regarding players. Any local High School student in Bangor or alumni of a Bangor High School under the age of twenty five may return to play.”
“Including dropouts like you, Jake.” Laughed Lenny.
Jake just stood there watching the star track and field athlete from Zimbabwe excel at learning the game of football.
“I was expelled, then later decided not to return.” Defended Jake.
Lenny just smirked, rolling his eyes.
Clutching another surprise death grip on my shoulder, with no warning, Jake pointed toward Broadway Street. “What the hell is he doing? Isn’t that Mimi’s car pulling over?”
Ow! Jesus, Why me!
Sure enough, Marley sprinted over to where Mimi Pendleton had pulled over her new graduation gift, a dark blue BMW Convertible. She sat up in the seat, leaned outside the passenger side door and Marley sped straight into her lips, greeting one another affectionately.
Simultaneously, Lenny, Ian and I all turned to look at Jake’s reaction. His grip tightened on my shoulder unmercifully.
“What the fuck is going on?” He vented. Is Mimi seeing that…that…”
“That’s Mimi’s new boyfriend.” Beamed Lenny.
I knew he knew all along. Last night at dinner, Lenny had a smug smile on his face. An uncanny grin every time he has a good secret bottled up.
Lenny loves it when Jake loses control and starts destroying things.
He let go of my shoulder-thank god-and we watched as Jake suddenly ran as fast as his two pack a day cigarette addiction permitted. Marley was already strapped into the passenger seat of Mimi’s car and she started to pullout just as Jake was closing-in on them. The engine roared in first. She honked twice at Jake and Marley flipped a quick raised peace sign with his hand, calmly shouting “See ya, my good man. Peace be with you.” Mimi screeched the BMW into second and third gear, quickly rounding Stillwater Street on a yellow light and burning all four tires like the opening scene in ‘Basic Instinct Two.’ Jake ruefully, yet fruitlessly chased after them almost to Acadia Hospital, but collapsed to his knees just past Dartmouth Street to relentlessly pound his fists into the ground, any plastic trash can, road sign or any poor, unfortunately soul who happened to be walking on his side of the street.
By the time he returned to the park, I had long since shared my idea of a large pepperoni pizza with Ian and Lenny and we were immediately gone in a bee line to Big Fred’s. Whatever trouble Jake got into that afternoon, none of us wanted to know or be around to witness. My shoulder was severely bruised and killing me.
Unfortunately at 6 pm that evening, I received a phone call from Jake, sounding quite intoxicated informing me that he was calling an emergency meeting at ‘The Hallow’ in an hour. I informed him that I was literally walking out the door to have dinner with Lloyd Starling and couldn’t get out of it. His reply was, “Just be there by seven, asshole! And bring Lenny.”
Click…
Brawnolez!
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