During recess, when, as is the weekly
afternoon given, Patrick, VonBehren, Hale, occasionally accompanied by Lynnford
Collins and sometime Buster (Who admittedly has a hard time hoisting himself up
the paint chipped rungs of the Monkey Bars and who usually spends recess in its
entirety helping Ma’ ‘Good Lookin’ Marilyn in the Kitchen, listening to fifties
music while helping her dispose of the leftovers. This became a matter of concern
since the CLS pantry and grade school kitchen used to donate the leftovers from
each luncheon to Suzie’s Soup Kitchen down the street, which, because of Marilyn’s soft-spot not to let a beefy-cheeked and perpetual florid
looking kid go hungry, has gone bankrupt, leaving Suzy, a one-eyed Nun to covertly take up gin. During recess DeJuan will almost always play
B-ball with the other jocks and continues to astound them with his non-ghetto
‘Suburbia-Supreme’ methodology of ball handling. Jeremiah Noelle often takes a
good fifteen minutes after lunch to clean his bib and floss his braces, which
Nurse Nancy needs to help him every day, in her Nurses carrel, near the Smoking
teacher lounge lest some Varsity Basketball player, windmill him upside down
and lodge his head gear inside the toilet-with head still intact. This is
called the human Ostrich and four times this semester, Jeremiah has been lodged
in his own feces, unable to move, the headgear stuck with head in tack, until
Mike the Plumber, who has been giving Bev Pinesol the eye lately, finally makes it
around to wrenching him out. The boys inner cadre belongs to a euphemism based
off of Jeremiah’s constant Ostriching, called the ‘Ostriches’-or those who have
been Ostracized. So far Only Hale and DeJuan have successfully evaded being
windmilled after lunch and having their own heads lodged in the toilet. Of the
five toilet stalls, three of them had ostriches in them one day (the other one,
coach M. was utilizing for undisclosed purposes)…..Jeremiah was windmilled and
lodged in stall number three after he kindly asked Aron Browman if he could
please, by chance, help him with his zipper. Buster was next, Rutherford and
Javon claiming that, in stall number one, someone had dropped a perfectly wrapped
Twinkie before the entire basketball team, plus several cheerleaders, grabbed
his ankles and lifted him up. VonBehren and Patrick were both next, but only
because they somehow, seemingly, appeared out of nowhere, like from behind the wall
panelling, with baseball bats and a rake and continued to pummel their weapons as
if they were swinging curve balls out of the park, Patrick accidentally nailing a double
Louisville sluggered VonBehren in the back of the head with his rake when he
was swinging first for Bushman. Patrick was immediately lifted up, windmilled,
creepered, and then finally ostriched. VonBehren also the same. Hale surely would have
fought to curtail the Ostriching had he not been out on his little whew-hoo,
afternoon gathering with his girlfriend, Cabbages, inside the tube slide, for a
little quickie. Coach M. appeared out of the last stall, telling his starting
five and their cohorts that they performed a job, well, done, slipping them
each twenty dollar bills and telling them that they were excused for the
afternoon, encouraging all of them to go up to their allotted skyboxes and get
some much deserved rest and pent up ghetto booty before the Kankakee Invite
this weekend. Once gone Coach M. personally depants each of the boys, stuck and
Oscar Meyer wiener in each up each of their bums and took several Polaroid’s of
the school annual before Coach M. then continued phone plumber Mike, informing
him that he had an urgent message form Bev Pinesol at her own address, who needed
extreme help maintaining her own plumbing. Coach M also plans on placing the
pictorial on the official program of the Annual Loveable Lutheran Losers
Exhibition Games, which he has plans to ask old crackpot Warren McReynolds, to
coach the visiting team this year. Hale was a bit addled
as he entered the Junior High CROWN section of the Cross planked hallways and
felt like he was entering an Alaskan gold-rush ghost town, disconcertingly
called out the names of all his loved ones and it wasn’t until he heard
Patrick’s linoleum-muffled curses and saw the skybox lights blink on and off
that he realized what in Christ’s name had in fact occurred. Hoisting Patrick out first, restraining him
from cutting loose right away, now at this space-time anyways. Patrick spent
the next three and a-half weeks in elongated therapy sessions with Social
Worker Kennedy Marshal discussing what she felt was his propensity for public Ostriching.
“So, Patrick, if I am hearing you
correctly, you feel that the success of the boys basketball team here has
indeed, coerced you into plunging your head face fist into a squalid toilet,
along with three of you closest friends.”
“No, once again Miss Kennedy,”
“Call Me Doctor Marshal, please.”
Doctor Marshal points to three frames certified and stamped pieces of paper
placed in-between the numerous rainbows on all the walls much in the same
fashion as Warren, Helen or sister Amy points so the sensory alighted GUESTS
FIRST placard, which hovers over Warren
“Okay, Doctor MARSHOOL, once again, I
didn’t shove my head into the shitty toilet on my own volition. My anatomy was
coerced, rankled, windmilled, and to use the grade school vernacular, ‘Ostriched,’
headfirst into the toilet.”
“So, Patrick,” Doctor Marshal crosses
her legs sensitively, as if she has a penis. “What I hear you saying to me is
that the reasons you and the Dave’s feel compelled to plunge into the toilet
was because of your own phobia of ever making it someday. You felt that all of
you and the ‘dave’s’ as you refer to them, dreams have gone there as well. So
you figured to just go ahead and reenact the metaphor out for yourself.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO.” Patrick says a long,
outdrawn no, making a little martini olive with his lips. “Once again you weren’t
paying keen attention to me Doctor Kennedy,”
“Marshal. Doctor Marshal. Please.”
She points once again.
“Anyway, Doctor, the problem is that
of good old fashioned school bullying. That’s all there is to it. You know,
it’s like what that one rapper all the Varsity five are always quoting, 'You
don’t have to be down with OPP to realize that you being extremely oppressed',
and Doctor Marshal, this just so happens to be a textbook case of oppression,
which me, along with the Dave’s, Buster and that Islamic kid feels has, in
recent years gotten rather out of hand.”
“You sure it’s not your
father’s crackpot failure and stifled ingenuity causing friction with the
force of your collective unconscious, as we talked about last week,”
“Doctor Marshal, if I may be so blunt
with you,”
“There’s no reason to be blunt with
me Patrick. I’m your personal counselor and social worker. I’m here to help
you.”
Patrick says the word right, very
much in the same fashioned as he said the word no three minutes earlier,
biting the T off the end in a similar fashion as Buster’s dog Nads always rips into his victims codpiece.
“You’re here to help me.”
“Yes, I help all of those who
are socially challenged—or, in your case, involved in a social dystopia, unable
to distinguish the difference between the outside world and the inner world.”
“This is Bullshit!”
“No, it’s your inability to
decipherer the differences between reality and the simultaneous realities you
have clicking away inside your head. If I pinch you right now you would be
unable to tell exactly which reality your are in,”
“Listen, Dyke Freud, I know exactly what
reality you are in,”
“But Patrick, it’s so obvious that you
don’t. Your psyche is engulfed in a plurality of realities-you can easily
traverse across simply by blinking your eyes,”
“So your point is...”
“I’m simply saying, to be blunt, that you
don’t know who the fuck you are, young man,”
“Thank you for your unconditional candor.
I think I’ll excuse myself. I still have some shit lodged in my left earlobe.
Thank you. Goodbye. Come again.”
“Patrick, to find out who you are you need
to discern which pocket of which pluriverse you are currently hiding in and
then erase that pluriverse…”
“Which I am currently doing, Au revoir,
Alfiedersein, Bunos Nocos,”
“Patrick, you need to come out of your
closet. Slough your exterior skeleton as it were and wake up. Realize that you
are not this martyred oppressive victim of societies extreme upper class
hoity-toityness, as you informed me at our last session,
“Faretheewell, cheers, later, catch you on
the flip side,”
“Patrick, you are afraid. Your collective
anxieties attributing to your own insecure sense of failure is quite
noticeable. And what is also noticeable is the methodologies in which you
utilize to egress these emotions. Patrick, you flee them rather than try to
harness and ride with them,”
“Don’t let the door slam you on the ass on
the way out.”
“Fine, but if you walk out of this session
just meditate on this for a moment.”
“I am not gay. You always accuse me as
being a buffie and I’m not. I’m just not. After that one session we had we’re
you almost convinced me that I was just because the way God made me he
neglected me with the ability to shoot a free throw I seriously considered the
extreme possibility that I might be and I went home and watched twenty (count
‘em) twenty Jean Claude Van Damme movies in a row, and you know not once, not
once seeing his rippley chest and his canned English and spurring nipples
had absolutely whatsoever no effect on me as an individual at all. At all.”
“Patrick,” Doctor Marshal pauses, looks
down into the carpet, “I wasn’t talking about your sexuality. It’s been long
accepted here on the campus of CLS that all of you and the Dave’s are family,
if I may use that term, even though, personally, would never invite you to one
of my sisters firesides,”
“Good!”
“Patrick, listen. What I was trying to
tell you was that you can’t make a calculative decision in your life without
first consulting the oracle of the clattered dice, as you called it in our
second session. You know this. You are unaware of what reality you are
currently engrossed in because you have been shielded by so many,”
“Thank you, well, if you live in the so-called
real, bona fide world, I think I’ll keep my dice and my pixie dust, and
continue to book my own flight itinerary into the stratosphere of my own imagination, thank you very
much.”
Patrick kindly wishes the Doctor a good
day, referring to her as Doctor Kennedy, just to piss her off. As Doctor
Marshal tells him that she would like to see him first thing tomorrow she says
his name once more and Patrick looks around responding vindictively with a
what.
“Remember, you have no reason to be, as you
said in session number 1132, apparently pissed-off with me, I’m
only unearthing for you that which is already in front of you which you, for
some reason choose not to see,”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in
mind next time I’m being wedgied,”
“And Patrick, one more
thing,”
“Yeah,”
“That’s fairy dust to you—not
pixie dust.”
SLAM!!!!!!
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