By the time Mama McReynolds chalked
streaked cherry coated taxi delves into the CLS parking lot, screeching into a
generous u-turn, the Losers tardy bell has chimed three times, Jeremiah and
VonBehren being reminded that each toll of the bell is emblematic of one-third
of the trinity’s armor. The majority of the Varsity elite prowl in the
hallways, attired in their new warm-up jersey’s which Coach M. pre-ordered to
look like retro seventies throwback vintage editions, which correlate extremely
well with Marcellus Buck’s ‘Fro and Funk style of offensive. Total coast of
each warm-up ranging somewhere in the half-grand ballpark, which both coach M
and Reverend Morningwood will, if inquired, specify that the acquired funds for
the Athletes attire has absolutely nothing to do with the three intra-service
tithes and offerings, nor the seasonal seven-and-a-half tuition augmentation
for non-athletic students or, i.e., the Ostriches.
With a curled forefinger Patrick
swipes collected crust out of the corner of his eyes and takes a sip of coffee
out of a canteen he’s had in his possession since the late-eighties. Patrick
enjoys the challenge of early morning reconnaissance, considering it covert
military training to sleuth under his mother’s bed frame while she is in the
kitchen or Sara’s room, and pouring a salubrious swig of Bailey’s in with his
Maxwell house specialty, claiming that it makes him more astute during the
incessant hours of ostracizing that are to follow. He takes another sip, says
the word ‘ahhhh’ out loud like Mrs. Looney does after she sips coffee from a
jaundice Styrofoam receptacle, and opens the car door up, slamming it shut into
a thunderous clank.
As always Patrick is wearing
corduroy trousers colored in the same key of both his siblings. With his
camouflage book bag fastened around both shoulders, Patrick meticulously picks
the last flecks of crud from his eyelids, ingesting another healthy swig of the
spiked substance, before hitting the trophy hallway and making a mad dash for
his first class. Turning the corner, he trips over Aron Prowman’s foot, falls
into a somersault, immediately rises and continues, unperturbed, knowing that Prowman
is slurring insults about Patrick at his back. First class is knock-out Student
Teacher Lillian Wiltz, who Patrick can almost swear he saw one night through fizz
on Playboy on a documentary about Wet-T-shirt amateur contests. The door is
still about three-hundred meters from Patrick’s position and if he continues to
book ass and not look back, hopefully he can arrive to class today without
having an altercation with the Varisty elite that will coerce him to spend two
hours in Doctor Kennedy’s office. Last Wednesday, after being wedgied by
Marcellus Buck and Javon Worthington while trying in vain to fish Jeremiah out
of the toilet after lunch ( what is known via the Varsity Elite as ‘Ostriching’,
swinging a Loser by his heels upside down and planting them face first into a
toilet), Patrick was sent to Doc. MARSHALL Kennedy where he was told repeatedly
that the only reason the two Basketabll starters continue to wedgie him on a
nearly daily basis is because they must emotionally intuit that he greatly
enjoys such homo-erotic behavior and feel extreme sorrow for Patrick’s recent
romantic endeavor with the Cheerleaders, claiming that Patrick usually strikes out
not only without swinging but because he enjoys fondling the bat in his hand maybe
a little to much for a sports cock, or she means jock.
It is what is referred to as a.m.
in the splintering gilded eyed hallways of Narthex Central inside CLS when
Allan McReynolds, who is currently monopolizing the entirety of his fourth
grade year filming a documentary about tyranny endured by his precocious older
sibling and fellow avatar to the McReynolds throne of greatness Patrick A.
McReynolds, a diary of film chronicling the fellow foibles of the group
commonly referred to in the interior of CLS as the Ostriches, named so for
their propensity to find the bottom of their chins gorged inside the porcelain
concavity of various toilet bowls located within the vicinity of Christ
Lutheran Academy. Allan began filming mock documentaries the summer prior to
his fourth grade Frau Brackenhardt blow horn saturated year—Patrick, who had
Frau as his instructor the first year he transferred to CLS, claiming that come
the end of the first semester, Allan will be all but prematurely deaf from the
incessant blare of Frau’s blow horn in relation to his earlobes; Patrick,
stating that it is best for Allan to brush up on his sign language now since
the ringing and guitar feed back in his own ears still has yet to subside from three years ago. It
was during the summer of nineteen-ninety when the freak show next door, as
Warren deems the Flying Garcia Clan was hosting some sort of bumper car
tournament with a rival clowns clan from Walla Walla, transitioning the
parabolic swerved cul-de-sac loop of Downs Circle into some sort of a rink,
laughing to himself as French Luc, the eunuch semi-faggy paperboy from
Marseilles the morning he stealthily endeavors to deliver the Urinal Jar only
to be scarred shitless by the sight of a insomniac-overtly caffeinated clown
damn near plow him down in something resembling am officiated black and white
checkered hybrid between a bumper car and a zamboni. Warren, laughing his
corduroyed ass off, heckling in the bleeding direction of the morning sun,
asking a hard of hearing Harvey Liddles if he just so happened to espy the look
on the paperboys ashen visage as well as the tilted ballpark rectangular patch
of urine slowly filling the center of his crotch like a piece of organic fruit
dangling on the limb of a pear tree. Somehow Horatio Garcia ordained Warren and
McReynolds en famille to be the official broadcaster of what was assuredly a
highly-televised event among the carnival circuit, Warren, learning the hard
way that the rusty rhinoceros- and giraffe shaped weather vein rising up from
the top of the Garcia clan’s stucco roof like a steeple was some kind of long
range continental antennae broadcasting to the interior of fellow circus coated
clownsmen nationwide.
Christ Lutheran Academy is
configured like the vector of a cross, the Intersections of the Father and Son
planks colliding in the gilded interior of the Trophy cases, so bright it may
cause severe retina damage if looked at directly in the early morning hours
when the stippled orange radiation of dawn passes through the Stain glass
canopy of Coach M engendering a Basketball planet in the fashion of Michelangelo’s
God creating Adam. Flanking all four disperse parallel corridors leading up to
the gilded trophy plaza, the hallways of CLS are dotted with the severed Heads
of rival school Mascots. Each CLS Home victory guaranteeing the severing of a
fellow rival Mascot; Coach M, himself, donning a Beret and cognac and whistling
the Marseille through a cigar shaped kazoo as the tips of his fingers
orchestrate the gaping lips of the CLS Guillotine into court Central of the
Newly Refurbished Finance for eternity Gymnasium, coughing into the conch of
his fist as the Fuzzy caricatured visage to the St. Bethlehem’s Boarhead is
severed from the neon neck of mascot and
descended, into a miniature manger used, come Holiday excess, as the crib for
Baby-burp-a lot and the Nativity of Christ.
The Comet Mascot himself is purportedly portrayed by Peruvian Victor, a
life-sized shock of what looks like speedball sperm, monikered by the Comet
devout as SPERMY often making uproarious thrusting motions in the direction of
either the overturned cheerleaders from either squad or the Reserves seating
for Losers locale.
Patrick is
worried that as he slinks through the for some reason Sarcophagus shaped
entrance to CLS, shielding his arms over his vision as the autumnal sun ricochets
throughout the trophy cases, Patrick fears that Gayle Huermann, moribund
Secretary will indeed try to seduce him as he is requesting a Tardy Transgression
to attend Sgt. Kockout’s five six hour squat-dip and thrust fest. As Patrick
stares at the sick, almost dead Clownish smile of the New Jerusalem Jackass,
thinking of the whoopee cushion door bell of the neighbors next door at casa
McReynolds he hears a feint linoleum yelp emanating from the Men’s and,
realizing that Jeremiah Noelle has been Ostriched earlier today in a different
coated restroom, ducks inside to the nearest stall and quickly hoists his
friend and fellow Loser out from the Sodomized shit casserole Mario and Aron
left him to rot in. Every time Patrick
comes in late moribund Secretary elect scribbles out a tardy passes for Allan
and Sarah before asking him to shut the door, before she uncrosses her legs and
begins to give Patrick the old eye and begins to talk about the good old days
and hootenannies and the time she made it to third base with a Flamingo dancer
from Lawrence Welk show which Patrick will loll his head in the fashion of an
Otter trying to balance a beach ball on his nose again and again eventually
snapping the New Testament Tardy pass
from Heurmann’s desk and retreating back into the gilded coated hallway of
blinding light. Patrick would be much nicer to Gayle Heurmann although she is
Hollis Lionzinski’s maternal grandmother. Patrick is seriously beginning to
wonder if the pair of Depends Undergarments he found in his locker last Wed,
along with the glass of seltzer water and dentures belong to Gayle. A post-it
note, attached to the panties, claiming that, with the dentures out, there
leaves plenty of room for you-know-what to drive into the old handicapped
reserved parking space seriously wounded Patrick to no end. When he appeared
with his tri-daily session with Doctor Kennedy Marshal, the school
nazi-psychologist and social worker, the Doc already had somehow purloined the
dentures and seltzer water and, immediately handed Patrick an ear of corn,
asking his somehow to discuss the latent phallic possibilities of both items in
check.
Today Patrick finds Gayle clad only in her slip, taking long calculated drags from her Virginia Slim, winking her eye, informing him that she was expecting him. On Gayle’s desk are pictures of Hollis Lionziski in a cheerleading uniform with her torso slimmer than what Patrick is accustomed to expecting now a days. There are heaps of papers busheled on her desk and blueprints for additional SkyBoxes added to the Finance-for-eternity gymnasium. Seconds before Gayle Heumerman lifts her
septuagenarian damp cardboard colored limbs onto the desk he
can almost swear that he sees what looks like role playing notes from either
Von Behren’s or Tim’s campaign. She ashes her cigarette out into a mug that has
the name of a fine dining establishment on Western Ave. labeled onto it in
thick emerald font and the next thing Patrick realizes is that, cradled in his
arms like a limp wraith is Gayle’s slip and that her body is clad only in some
sort of diaper and her limps are trying to enter Patrick’s body by doing some
sort of a Piggy back jig.
“Shit!” Patrick thinks. As he runs out of the office still
trying to shake her elderly though tenacious grip. He feels the dry- scale of
what was once her tongue slink into his ear and when she tried to bite down
deeply there appears to be nothing but pink gum and saliva.
Allan is still waiting outside,
clad in the hard-hat helmet he’s attached a video camera to in an effort to
capture what Warren has dictated as the Verisimilitude as life as we know it, chides Patrick as he swirls
out of the office with a nude senior citizen attached to back like a hump.
Allan, insisting that he is optically taking tabs on snippets of life as we
know it inside the Academy
of CLS
The bell resonating the release of first period is about to ring.
The students continue to fling
their backpacks over shoulders while streaming throughout the corridors of the
Academy—Marcellus Buck cavorts through the hallways beneath the jarring rows of
gape-mouthed guillotine caricatured fallen mascots. Wherever Marcellus Buck
struts throughout the gilded, elongated Hallways of CLS a bubble of feminine
shoulders and weave and hi-pitch lip, surround him at all time. Patrick wonders
how all of these females have access into the Academy since Patrick has never
once seen them attend class. Two of the “Bitches” (as Buck addresses them)
appear to be in their second trimester while one, Shirlethia, is nursing a six
month old. The majority of the Varsity Elite this season, including Aron Prowman
and Mario Rutherford are dressed in Armani finest, a gift Coach M has
explained, is from an anonymous donor that appears to have strong ties to the
Vatican somehow—Coach M informing the Elite that there is more where that came
from if the players keep mopping the kitchen floor with the carcass of their
opponents night after night. One
students, Javon Worthington, seems to be going through a rather obsequious
Tommy Hilfiger phase, wearing alabaster trousers and knitted v-neck sweaters to
correlate with his corn-rows and cane, publicly espousing that it’s a g-thang
and that anything else would be simply uncivilized—strutting through the
hallways as if he has just been shot. Out of all the classifies Losers Hale
seems to have the easiest time squeezing past the loafing shoulders of the
Varsity elite between classes, partly because of his assigned position of
ferrying Mrs. Looney’s reusable Styrofoam coffee cup out of the classroom for
presumably the sixth refill of the day so far.
Mrs. Looney (aka The coaches Widow) has been reusing the same five-inch
Styrofoam cup since her student teaching days here at Christ in the early
seventies. Once, when Patrick thought no one else was looking, Hale, Von B and
himself each tweaked their noses and hawked some serious snot loogies into the
cup, only to be reprimanded by Eric the Red who, right when the Coaches Widow
was about ready to orally ingest her first sip after giving a lecture about the
difference between a Mac Beth and a McNugget (Primarily for Buster’s sake)
shouted out a caveat-claiming that, if she looked more closely into the top of
her Hillsboro’s finest she would notice that somebody more than likely blew
their wad in there and wouldn’t that someone more than likely be Patrick? Immediately upon hearing this assertion the Coaches Widow sniffed her biology pithy nose into the top of the cup before letting go of a shriek, spilling the content of the reusable coffee cup all over the paper-mache menorah Judith Goldstein placed in the top-left hand corner of her desk. Patrick stands up, his eyes focused at the little window in the door before Mrs. Mooney properly addresses him as Young Man. Patrick, as is an almost daily occurrence on the days when he actually shows up to class, gets sent to the newly rainbow christened Students Harboring Incorrigible Traits office where Dr. Kennedy marshal strongly encourages him to exercise his burgeoning homo-sexual proclivities on something more overtly gay oriented-like say, perhaps, mineral water.
The bells
to change classes in CLS always sound like the buzzer at the end of a Comet
quarter—only magnified to more or less the nth degree, Coach M insisting that
this blaring ear-drum imploding epitaph will subconsciously train the warrior
mind into taking control and hitting the last second shot from above the arc.
Patrick has no clue why Coach M bothers
with tardy bells since the Varsity Elite have permission to do more or less
anything the fuck they want all day. For being tardy to Rev. Morningwood’s first hour looser seminar
on the Meek, Patrick will have to stay after school and transcribe healthy
servings of SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF AN ANGREY GOD on to the black board in front
of a addled eye-lid Misses Looney who alights her coffee cup above her head in
a fashion reminding Patrick of Lady Liberty and Alice Island, quoting lengthy
portions of Robert Browning poems, asking where might Hale be in order to ferry
her yet another refill. Patrick rolling his eyes into his skull and informing
the Coaches Widow that Hale has left for the day, even though, Misses Looney
will continue to clack her way through the hallways in dire search of David
Hale, barging into classroom after classroom, inquiring if anyone has by chance
seen him.
For reasons Patrick insists are
just plain historically inaccurate, the central plank where all the streams of
trophies and mounted mascots intersect is referred to throughout the school as
the narthex where all the gilded refulgence of daily buffed kiosk sized state
and National trophies yield to a stain glass vignette of a very black Adam and
a rather voluptuous tea cup-faced and flaming a la Lilian Wiltz red haired Eve,
both replete with respective genitalia, nailing a bottomless peach basket into
the side of the tree of knowledge with the Latin words for IN THE BEGINNING scrawled
underneath in gothic-like font. A heavily bearded God overlooking the scene,
looking a tad Aristotlish, clad in what appears to be a cross between a toga
and a referee uniform. Patrick once got what he calls royally dicked up the olde Irish exhaust pipe
when, during the weekly all school Exodus, Patrick was overheard by Karen Pinesol
as he elbowed a rather bewildered DeJuan Shelby in the ribcage, insisting that
it looks like, indeed, Adam really was hung like a black man, a mock-metaphor which
had all but melted several hours later when Patrick finds himself once again
chalking passages of guilt culled from Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, a
book that Mrs. Mooney has more than once suggested, the puritanical author himself, will have rededicated to
Patrick, when the two of them have the misfortune of meeting in the world to
come.
The trophy
case is polished every hour on the hour, usually by Shithead, or his sibling,
Deeba both of whose English is extremely limited Between the heavy hitting
shafts of light that continuously stream through the stain glass Hallway
windows, filling into the hallway like some mixed punch alcoholic libation
spiked at Junior Prom. The stain glass situated a variegated rendition of
Michelangelo’s God creating Adam, usurped from the what Patrick believes is the
Sistine chapel that depicts God as a clean shaving and mischievously Coach M
who is offering his fingers as if to pull it, into a very yin-yang depiction of
planet earth where half of the swerved bracket is the North-American slice of
the planet with a NIKE checkmark denoting Peoria, the Yang portion of the globe
configured in the husk of a basketball. The light seems to coast through the
top of the stain glass, optically ricocheting off the choir loft of trophies
that line both sides of Interior Central Hallway, creating a blazon
kaleidoscopic array of shattering, starry-night constellation of flecked
prismatic color and blinding the Ostriches, who usually are all alone in the
hallway by themselves between blinding hours of nine and ten forty-five,
exchanging morning classes while the rest of the student body and Varsity elite
usually monopolize the morning exercising their inalienable right to truancy,
shoot hoops and bear arms. Patrick, working on a rather lengthy essay about
Javon Worthington’s limp having to do with the fact that he has a fucking cap
literally up his ass which inadvertently fired the once during an exhibition
game versus Hollowburrough Holy Rollers.
Even though
the light caused permanent retina damage and even blinded fellow Female Ostrich
Trisha Whirly, who, after being caught giving Jebediah Noelle what appeared to
be a hand job the Visitor’s closet before P.E., coach M assigned Ms. Loll to a
three-hundred page thesis about the historical accuracy of the Comet’s
consecutive victory dates correlating with the Islamic calendar. Trish was
escorted into the hallway during Lilian Witlz Math overheads daily for over a
month. Trish now wears very think glasses and walks with a long elongated cane
stretched out before her, Aron Browman joining in on the chorus of Three Blind
mites, and jolting her sides while she is trying to balance her lunch tray and
walk with her cane at the same time. Last year for the Christmas pageant, Coach
M assigned Trish to the role of Miracle worker Helen Keller who stumbled on
stage who apparently went Blind from doing too-much of you-know-what which
segued perfectly into another COMET Condom endorsement, Marcellus Buck
performing a stunning Showtime dunk contest afterwards.
Even though
the light is blinding and shattering and can cause irreparable damage to the
retina, Patrick, on the rare once a month occasion when Helen deposits her
progeny in front of their designated drop off locale in front of the abandoned
Starr Street Fish Market, likes to sit and muse by himself, in the hallway,
staring at the flecks of optical venom slowly beginning to sprout everywhere
like sharp multicolored laser acne, in the trophy hall portion of the hallway.
He likes to stand and muse by himself, trying not to think about the incessant
brush of the net in the gym, which at moments can sound like a harp. Sometimes
Patrick thinks that the little flecks of stinging light are reminiscent to the
holes in the firing range Patrick stumbled on two autumns ago with Flanagan,
Hale and VonBehren while the four boys were gaming in the woods and Hale just
so happened to whip out yet another pair of Holly’s Trurner’s knickers by
mistake (purportedly) when he reached in his pocket to find a pair of ten sided
dice. Tim, as he is wont to do, went bally-hoo apeshit and took off, screaming,
caterwauling, off the thoroughly chewed orange mulch and gravel path, in the
direction of the Nuclear creek. Patrick, telling Hale to put Holly’s panties
away after smelling them, decided that the boys should track Tim down and find
him whether it was in their best interest or not. Patrick thinks that was the
day when VonBehren swore he saw something hovering near them in the woods; an
eerie presence so to speak. Patrick heard helicopters that night and the next
day, on the front cover of the Urinal Jar, left safely on the sidewalk, a
report about local authorities having to comb the nuclear woods and eventually
finding the suicide of an alleged child murderer and molester who took his own
life when cornered by US Marshals, performing a swan dive from the lip of the
abandoned reactor. The assailants name was ‘Sweat,’ and he was dressed like
something that might escort Gilligan to a Beach Party. He had a vial of pills
choked in one hand and was claiming that what made him molest and sever the
child’s fingers in the kitchen sink disposer, ‘Sweat’ as the papers labeled
him, shouted perpetually at the authorities that the reason he was so fucked up
and demented was because of the monument he was currently on top of, had, over
the years, polluted and sullied the drinking water in this god forsaken genital
wart of a town and eventually over time, through human evolution and genetic
bartering and the life, everyone in this town will be selfish and demented and
actuate their fetishes and eventually evolve to the point of decimation.
Everyone. Sweat spoke through his bullhorn and said that this town had been
using it’s dick as a life preserver for too long and that sooner or later it’s
moral turpitude, as the Urinal Jar defined it with quotation mark, would go
impotent and every single townie that is now here today would be a has been
tomorrow. He said all this while precipitously trying to balance both of his
heels on the upper lip of the nuclear reactor juggling with one hand the
megaphone and the vial of pills before showing great animated actions of falling
by swaying his arms in a back stroke and shouting out the standard ‘ahhhhhh’s’
before remarkably composing himself, pinching his nose high-dive plunge fashion
with his left hand, with his right arm jutting ahead of him like a sword fish,
plunging to his death. James Beam, suicide critic for the Urinal Jar called it
a superhero suicide for the manner in which Sweat position his body and the
plummeted a la Christopher Reeve into the planet, giving it, on his own devised
scale, three out of four blue razor blades as far as innovative and aesthetic
suicides go (the only four blue razor blade front page suicide rating being
bestowed on Peoria’s beloved Mayor Mortimer LaRue, who, after a night out on
the town and discovering that he had what looked like a good old fashion
incurably case of stick-to-it syphilis, hired a Croatian fire pilot to aerially
inscribe his resignation and suicide missive in thick tufts of smoke over city
hall at high noon. By the time the pilot was halfway completed exhausting out
the word of LaRue’s infection, Mayor LaRue kindly stepped out on to the lid of
the copper dome wearing his three-piece finest and white gloves and a tophat,
and, removing his monocle and opening up an umbrella, took one step and,
allowed gravity to do it’s work. Unfortunately, the mayor’s umbrella somehow
ended up getting caught in the gusts of wind and aerial vortex spawned by the
plane overhead, causing the distinguished Mayor to float out with his umbrella
out stretched, into his own suicide letters, granting him the indubitable title
as the Mary Poppins Mayor. An autopsy later showed that Mayor Larue was
suffocated and then plummeted to his demise across the river, where he
ironically ended up falling into the outdoor whirlpool of East Peoria Mayor and
Republican Donald Kelts, who was, at the moment, entertaining LaRue’s own wife
with his hot bubbling Cobra trick. Further reports from the autopsy showed that
what mayor LaRue might have taken to be Syphilis was none other than fungus
from a yeast infection. Beam’s essay really but Peoria on the old map and soon
Beam was coerced into forming a law suit against Bic, who he claimed usurped
and patented his idea for multipurpose blue razor slogan shave withing an inch
of your life ).
Patrick
finds it rather amusing that he is thinking about death while surrounded by
little white baubles that remind his of how Tinkerbell was portrayed in his
sister Amy’s High School production of Peter Pan, with Amy being a pirate and
Tinkerbell being nothing more than a pixie portrayed by a flashlight with a
rose silk strapped across the top. The lights shattering around Patrick and he
likes the feeling of being in someplace where everything is broken and
shattered and glowing luminously at the same time. It feels like he is inside
of a chandelier or Disco ball and the sun keeps beating into the stain glass
and siphoning on to Patrick’s face, giving him the semblance of target
practice.
What
Patrick found extremely odd about Sweat’s suicide was the fact that, after
Sweat drove his body into the ground from over two-hundred feet, no blood
exuded his body. His bones cracked and his face smashed into his ass, but no
blood was splattered around the area. Sweat’s body just sort of folded itself
into a wallet of flesh.
Patrick
also finds eerie was how Sweat was able to surmount to the pinnacle of the reactors.
Patrick’s been trying to scale for years.
pgs#123-128 text....
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