after five good minutes.....

Halloween festivities are set to convene later on that night, in lieu of a Disco ball Coach M has hoisted a twenty-foot diamond studded basketball over Ghetto Jesus in center court. Patrick has been assaying the situation from the gold-sheen of the gymnasium door, located amidst a blinding swirl of trophy cases and heavily caricatured guillotined headed mascots. 

On basketball court Marcellus Buck is once again draining jumpers, followed by five elite players. Patrick looks up at the Diamond studded basketball in the fashion in of a piñata, thinking to himself how easy it would be to use his old McReynold pocket-knife, sever the pulley holding it up and watch as shard of confetti rain down on the Varsity Elite, thinking to himself that he can easily haul ass down to Rudolph Theske's geography and mini-gold seminar and feign innocence.

There is a sudden ol-drinking-buddy slap on Patrick's back. He steps back.

It is his brother, Allan.

“Dude. Allan, what the hell are you doing? And what’s that shit on your head? You look like you’re going scuba diving in quick sand or something.”

“Bro, relax. It’s like I over heard you telling the Dave’s last night, something truly fishy is going on within the confines of our beloved academy and either we find out for ourselves just what it is that is going on below our very olfactory satellites or we blow the whole thing back up from here to Kingdom come and hide out in Argentina for the remainder of our formative years.”

“You heard me say all that to the Dave’s” Patrick refutes, probably a little louder than he should knowing that Faculty lounge is so near and that Doctor Kennedy Marshal has her door open, apparently playing a mentally ‘healing’game of duck-duck goose with Crazy Peruvian Victor, whose specialty is coloring Xeroxes of rainbows flanked with Melissa Etheridge Lyrics in the fashion of feel good Psalms. Allan tops the left side of his hard hat, as if he is trying to hear directions from someone else other than his brother.

 

“Yeah, well, ok, I thought I did last night, but then I realized that you and VonBehren were just playing that one game where you actually score with all the chicks.

 

“But what the fuck are you doing out of class? Frau Brackenbitch will have you composing Veda-length colloquies to the tune of Luther’s small catechism for the remainder of Advent. Dude, trust me, Dad will ask you simply to pass him the remote control one night after Meatloaf and the only thing you’ll be able to say back to him will be, ‘I will pass you the remote control Dearest Father in Heaven because I was made and I abide here simply to thank, prayer, serve and obey. This is most certainly true.’”

Allan looks back at his brother performing a cuckoo swirl with his right hand near his temple.

 “Bro, don’t worry about it. Everything’s taken care of. After mom dropped us off, I pretended to enter the school behind you and Sair, while, in all actuality, I sprinted down to the Starr Street Meat market and used the old, crummy phone booths that Mr. Mooney always insist we use if Mom’s going to be late so that we don’t mar the school grounds with our germs as the limousines wait outside to pick up the basketball elite.”

Patrick looks back into his brother eyes. Peruvian Victor is out of class, combing the hallways on all fours, making cow noises. He stops next to Allan and Patrick and moos.

 “I’m a cow,” he says, before letting out a long heavy groaning moo and entering the gymnasium, headed in the direction of the kitchen where Bev Pinesol will give him any lactose free dairy product of her choice, specifically once endorsed by Jenny Craig. Patrick continues to look at his brother as if he wishes his younger sibling to further explain why the fuck he is out of class.

“So, I simply just dialed the school and pretended to be mom, informing the secretary in my finest falsetto that my sweet and innocent middle child would miss approximately one day of class due to a yeast infection caused by too much play-dough poured in an inappropriate opening.”

 “You told them that?”

 “Yeah. Bro you gotta here me sometime-I play a woman pretty well over the phone.”

 

Patrick continues to look into his younger siblings brow in disbelief.

 

“And how did the secretary respond to your assertion that your eight year old male child has suddenly come down with an ominous virus?”

 

“Oh- dirty ol' Gayle seemed generally apathetic towards my health. She did, however, inform me that we had another overdue tuition bill waiting for us somewhere in our mailbox and if this sort of financial truancy continues to happen, she’ll have to send that lawyer over to our house again. She also reminded me that it’s not too late to take another mortgage out on our house to pay for your child’s eternally timeless Christian education.”

 

Patrick pauses, looks at his brother as if he in not surprised by the school’s secretary comments in the least.  Patrick shoves Allan further beneath the shadows of the trophy case. He hears the door open from the Faculty lounge, accompanied with large tiffs of cigar smoke, loud music and assorted strobe lights. He sees Coach M, hobble out, looking as if he had just had a few, stumbles to catch his breath before placing something long and slightly phallic between his lips.

 

“Allan, listen! It’s coach M. If he sees that we’re casually strutting through the hallways like this-he’ll shove our toes so far up our own ass that we’ll literally be able to lick the fungus off of our own athlete’s foot.”

 

“Relax, I’ve been snooping around all morning, and I gotta tell you bro, I think you have it all wrong about Coach M. and Stertorous Taurus Sentarious. By the way, something happened this morning and I had to use my light, which just so happens to be connected to dad’s camcorder, which just so happens to be super-duper glued to Dad’s old Caterpillar Diesel inspection hardhat, which I just so happen to be wearing right now as we speak. If we find a VCR I can show you-“

 

“Allan!”  Patrick places his hand over his brothers mouth just as Coach M. tugs both lapels of what appears to be a tuxedo jacket as he struts down the central corridor nursing a kazoo between his lips, as Hale does a damn fine Cohiba, humming ‘We’re in the Money’ into the plastic popsicle stick.  Allan’s own variation of Jebehiah ‘The Bulldog’s’ Noelle’s Headgear makes him look like he is on a professional splunkering expedition. Patrick pushes his pointer finger up to his lips, shoves his shadow over his younger sibling, informing him to immediately shut he fuck up, less older-sibling be coerced into spelling and defining the word ‘discreet’ at the top of his lungs. It is ten minutes until the next ring, coercing the classroom doors to erupt open on both sides, morphing the stillness of the hallways into a scattered confetti of pubescent squeals altering classes, fingering at locker combination, storming into the Ladies to apply massive amounts of Ozone reducing Aqua Net on top of teased skulls or line globs of half-melted goo around silk lips. During the five minutes purgatory that sits between one level of Hades and the next, Meredith likes to sneak back into the corner of the Ladies, in the stall that for some reason always has a broken handle and fire up a clove, sniggering aloud at Corrine and Karen’s training-bra witticisms and petty boy banter. A CLS Comet condom dispenser, shaped like a Marcellus Buck ventriloquist puppet has been affixed between the sink and the Tampax dispenser. Latoya Tiff’s show Gia Walker that, for the low price of a Kennedy half, easily inserted in the dollar sign blinking in Cello Buck’s left eye- a family pack of assorted flavors will be ejected from the painted wooden slit located in the middle of M. Buck’s shorts. When no one was looking, Meredith calligraphied the name HOWDY DUTY, around the upper contours of Cello’s mouth granting an aura of legitimate fiber to his already feeble eighth-grade moustache. Often Iola will sit in the stall next to Meredith and pretend to pee. Iola has confided in Meredith on more than one occasion that she has a hard time urinating when the popular girls are in the bathroom, or when she thinks of boys in general. While flicking ashes from her clove and encouraging Iola just to relax and think about the trickling of Baptismal water gently massaging the nape of a recent pagan convert, Meredith tries not to look at Hyacinth Lionowski for too long for fear, lest a possible teenage envy-ridden friendship pursue. Last year Meredith’s grandmother ushered her Daughter to the cheerleading tryouts where Meredith devised her own cheer, a sonnet in nature, about the vapidity of typical teenage angst fraught with adolescent longing juxtaposed to the beat of Ozzy Osborne’s Road to Nowhere, with a verse, chanted backward, in the satanic fashion of her heavy metal favorites, about how her current boyfriend has extreme technical difficulties making even a cocker spaniel come. Patrick thinks of this as he looks into the pink yawn that seemingly emanates from beneath the cracks of the ladies. Five minutes till jangling of bells and juvenile hoi poloi hodgepodge into the hallway. Coach M appears to be in a hurry and Patrick could have sworn that he saw coach M. poke his head into the Ladies for just as second, assaying the inside, as if he was looking for some one in particular before scooting down the hallway and turning into the recently constructed wine cellar where the wine for teacher communion is purportedly stowed and called and ordained priests are invited to taste the wine, first, in an effort to exploit even the tiniest hint of secularism from entering the faculty’s palate’s.

From inside the newly refurbished gymnasium, Patrick can hear the pet squeak of Marcellus Buck’s Nike Dedalus scoff the gym floor as third string shooting guard Kadeem squats behind him on all fours, a bottle of Windex cupped in hand, scrubbing out the scratch marks, heeding coach M’s advice on how all of us have to start somewhere and hopefully, by next year, your father’s hard earned tuition payments will help you to ascend up the biblical rungs of the Varsity ladder and, maybe next year, graduate to the status of Water boy, bringing tears to your old man’s eyes. Patrick motions to Allan and the two of them slowly leave the inner city like penumbras of the trophy case and slowly peak inside the gym. Peruvian Victor is now eating Yogurt with a fat women’s face on the cover hopping up and down like a kangaroo.

 

“Hop-Hop. I’m a Kangaroo. Hop. Hop.”

 

Marcellus continues to burry the three’s like it’s nobodies business. Patrick’s been on Marcellus Buck’s grade-A shit list ever since he convinced Buck that the best method for the removal of genital warts concerned generous amounts of wrapped duck tape  followed by a quick rip. Much to the chagrin of both the varsity elite and their cheerleaders Buck was sidelined for two weeks and missed the opening round of the Mt. Sinai Sectional last year. Coaches progeny Marty Jr (who hasn’t been in class for three years) rebounds for Marcellus who has just hit thirty-five three’s in a row. For being both fairly indifferent towards the achievement of any sport outing, in particularly basketball, Allan and Patrick seem in awe how Cello can swiftly burry the ball in the net, facilely shooting the ball like he is waving goodbye to a little kid who wishes to stay longer than his parents dictate. Marcellus is now pushing forty. After every shot Eric the Red, who’s bricking free throws at the opposite rim, reaffirms Bucks’ own verbal assertion that he is, in fact, Da’ Shit. Allan turns to Patrick and whispers why The Red always sounds like he is just plain retarded, saying the word duh after every question.

 

 “Forty-one, mother fucker. Yeah. Lick that shit up, bitch.”

“Kadeem continues to swipe off scoff marks as Cello burries his forty-second. Nothing but net. Forty-third flies up in the air with a slighter higher arch, plummets through the hoop like a gush of wind billowing up a movie star’s unsuspecting skirt. The Red continues to spoon-fed Buck accolades about how great he is. Kadeem has his hand to the floor, swiping off little scuff Marks that look like Mountain ranges. Buck turns around, places his left arm over his field of vision, prancing the ball upon the ends of his fingertips, heaves the ball up one handed. It’s good.

 

“Sheeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiit,” sways Bushman. “Mother fucker-forty-four, G!”

 

Buck shuffles his lips into what Coach M has instructed is his soon to be eighty-million dollar-a-season smile telling Marcello to please remember that certain poor, disheveled Lutheran coach and principal who helped foster his NBA career by paying his bond and getting him off the streets at such a young and formative age so that he can serve the Lord through God’s good game of basketball. Buck jitters his legs and steps back, fires the forty-fifth consecutive nothing but net three from near the half court. Marty Jr. is standing directly below the net, which hushes like silk every time Cello shoots. He throws the ball back to Buck immediately, due to there being less than thirty seconds remaining until first lunch period. Eric is yelling at the top of his freckled forehead who the shit is. Buck fires up, like he is waving to an old friend. The ball hoola-hoops through the circumference of the orange rim just as Cello shouts, “See YA!” at the top of his lungs. There is less than fifteen seconds until the first Lunch bell rings and Marty Jr. uses all his might to shove the ball to half court as Buck immediately fires up again. Peruvian Victor has halted pantomiming zoo animals in is now saying a warbled, “Buck is the shit, man!”  “Buck is thee shit.”

 

Less than ten seconds and Eric the red has creepered Marty Jr. and tosses two  balls to half court. Buck carefully sculpts his palms and, in each hand slowly releases. First the right, then the left. Both balls look as if they have just been slapped out of the ballpark and both balls swoosh consecutively. From just outside the gym Patrick and Allan swear that they can hear Eric the Red's thoughts, saying that that was the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

 

“Fuck” say Patrick and Allan simultaneously and then look at each other like they have never heard each other say that word before.

 

“Count it!!!” Yells Buck, who quickly adjusts his headband and licks his palm. Eric Bushman fires a cross court runner stealing second bullet to Cello, whose feet are now firmly planted seven feet behind the half-court line. By the time Buck gets the ball in his palms there are four seconds left. He can hear both Peruvian Victor and Eric Bushman say the words three and two, in that order. Everything is transpiring in slow motion. By one Marcello has already resumed form and leaps, three feet into the air, in his mind, firing the only shot that has ever mattered. The ball releases at exactly the same time the lunch bell shrills. Marcello’s torso suddenly twists and he falls to the side. The gymnasium floor feels like concrete as Marcellus face crashed into it. With thoughts composed only of his stomach and menial labor, Kadeem headed for the lunch line, inadvertently ramming Marcellus Buck in the process of his shot. Both Marcellus and Kadeem hear the sound of nerdy, intelligent non-jocks screaming, jumping up and down.

 

“Dammit Kadeem, you fucking Klutz!!!” The Red yells out.

 

“Fucking Klutzzzz. Fucking Ka-luths!” Parrots Victor, falling down like Marcellus, onto the cold gym floor. Both Patrick and his sibling stand stunned in the open gymnasium door. Their mouth open so wide that there chins practically scratch the surface of the newly refurbished gymnasium floor where Kadeem has been wrist mopping for the past half-hour. Marcellus looks at a twisted limbed Kadeem as if he has just committed some unethically, immoral crime.

 

“Man Kadeem, why the fuck don’t you watch where you’re going, you fucked my shit up-you little Jerry Lewis looking bitch!!!” Buck admonishes. The Red and Marty Jr. laugh. Victor begins to sniff his nose near the Windex bottle, saying out loud that he is a pig. Oink. Oink.

 

 Slowly students begin to filter into the cafeteria. Buster seems always to be first in line and he almost always, ironically, lumbers into the cafeteria with one empty tray already in tow. Alicia Wycoff and Alice Dunhill are next flirting with Mike Dewitt, who is wearing a rayon tie and souvenir sunglasses twice the size of his entire face. Shithead runs in followed closely by Iola, who hobbles up and down, asking a disgruntled and overweight Bev Pinesol if she can once again have the keys to the old faculty restroom-it’s a real emergency. Bev just looks at Iola, her long denim skirt and hair twisted into a door knob on the top of her bad auburn perm, asking her if can’t she try to be more popular.  Javon Worthington juts in and cuts Buster in line. The legs of his sweat pants are unevenly matched. His eyes are bloodshot. He holds something in a brown paper bag next to his waist.

 Kadeem remains apologetic, saying that he’s sorry. He was looking for Dedalus scoff marks and didn’t notice that Marcellus moved behind the three pointer as far as he did. Cello quickly slaps the bottle of Windex from Kadeems hand, coating a good portion of the floor with what looks like windshield fluid.

 

“Allan,” Patrick whispers, lifting his brothers face from the floor. “You need to hide. Pretty soon this gymnasium will be brimming with our peers and people will realize that you don’t really have a yeast infection.”

 

Allan looks back at Patrick as if to pull a Hale and say no shit, Sherlock.

 

“Patrick, I’m like you. Nobody ever notices me even when I’m here. Nobody ever notices me when I’m not. It’s no big deal. Trust me.”

 

Patrick opens his mouth, pauses, changes his expression, looks at his brother as if to say you have a point, before shoving him into the VISITOR’s bleachers.

 

“Here, don’t ask questions. I’ll fetch you in ten minutes. Just be fucking quiet!”

 

“But Patrick-“ Allan is swallowed into the bleachers as his Brother’s vision averts back again to the center court fray. Both Kadeem and Marcellus stare at each other. Neither one are moving.

“Man Kadeem your ass best jet outta of my sight before I get up.”

 

“What’s that,” Kadeem responds, his eyes looking as if they had been kenneled for peeing on the carpet.

 

“I SAID, YO’ ASS BETTER MOVE, BITCH BEFORE I DONE GO AHEAD AND PEEL MY BLACK ASS OFF THE GROUND!!!” Cello barks, sparks of spit zip form his teeth as his head rattles in the direction of a grounded Kadeem. As Kadeem gets up Terrence Jr. picks up the half-empties bottle of Windex and hurtles it straight into Kadeems face. Eric Bushman charges straight towards Kadeem’s torso and Peruvian Victor even begins to toss empty low fat dairy milk cartons in Kadeems direction telling him to die, Kal-utz. Pig. Oink. Kadeem tries futilely again to rise, but is only greeted with Tod Nelson’s special edition steel toe Nike Dedalus that Mr. Mooney ordered customed crafted made last summer so when Tod sees an opponent floored he can inadvertently kick ‘em where it counts and take a well called foul for the team. There is blood splattering in all direction like a fruit juice bar squeezed too hard and Mario and Aron have joined the brawl. Mario is pounded Kadeem’s head into the floor while Aron has unscrewed the bottle of Windex and is assiduously trying to pour it down the victim’s throat while simultaneously informing him that his breath is so salty he scared the pepper shaker away. 

“You best get your black faggot ass up Kadeem. I ain’t fuckin’ playing G. On the gee I ain’t fuckin playing.”

 

The first day of his so called Christian education Patrick learned that when black basketball players get pissed off, the like to configure there hands in a certain way and say on the gee.”  Patrick thought this was cool and, in an endeavor to make love not war, so to say.

"Here," Patrick says, handing Allan his pocket knife. "I'm gonna run out and distract them and I need to you to slice the pulley that holds up the Crystal ball they'll be using later on tonight. It'll crash in the corner and then duck and hall ass behind the bleachers. Go to the far right corner. I Promise I will come for you. I promise I will find you."

Allan offers several butts before Patrick hands him his NO one-shity ou can learn-alot from the ingenuity of a McReynold's shut-the-fuck up Pocket knife.  As he sprints out to center court he can spot Allan sawing into the side of the pulley.

Patrick takes a deep breath. He steps forward headed towards a plank he knows he can never return.