Hale's annual autumnal streak

The goal of Hale’s streak is to haul some serious David Hale ass in the buff, nude and natural, the way God intended, through various of the vectors of the Christian Logos Seminary, holding Misses Looney’s jaundice sallow flavored Styrofoam coffee mug she has used since her Student teaching days in the 70's in paw as he marshals his way across an obstructed Varsity Elite addled obstacle course into the Faculty Lounge-N-Good Times Saloon and Tiki bar, where he is to refill it with tepid flavored brew, before blasting through the course again, hot coffee in hand.

 This year Meredith-Elise’s CaféHemlock is selling day-glow tee-shirts announcing “I survived David Hale’s 4^th  annual autumn streak.”  The t-shirt contains a rather Buddhist-chin variation of David Hale hauling some serious ass with little dashes and comma’s behinds his sneakers. Two commentators by the name of Dick and Gene appear to be covering the event. Coach M sat Hale down to tell him that he had quite a lot of sheckles riding on this in the slot machine if he knows what he means, so don’t get cute big boy. A green visor Rudolph Theske commences the race by firing up in the air a pistol with a red flag with the words BLAM! printed on the flag in dynamite comic book font. Hale can hear the commentators speculating out loud about how Hale is off, starting off in the fifties gymnasium slash International mini-golf course, jutting past the Pope Cap windmill and Acropolis hole seven, into the Central hallway where already he sees a top hatted Coach M yelling splits out into a amplified megaphone. Hale, booking ass so fast that he nearly toppled Jebediah Noelle who just exited the Losers' restroom and was trying to get a gulp of water in the old Baptismal font that Reverend Morningwood uses to relieve himself several times a day. The first two hundred meters Hale’s breath can be heard emanating through his lips in round, solid huffs. The majority of the Losers cheer Hale on in the Café Hemlock, VonBehren slicking his hair back and talking about haikus and Allen Ginsberg in order to impress an almost always staid lip Meredith-Elise Willow. In all the commotion and natural coverage Patrick discreetly fires up a Bensons and Hedges as he holds up a sign that reads Run like a Bat out of HALE!!! Asking Judith more times than is surely necessary if she gleans the pun in the analogy. Right after Hale zips past the Café Hemlock he is nearly blinded by the trophy case in narthex central. Hale trained with Von Behren during Sgt Kocchout’s endless work out session. Hale takes a sharp left and a deep breath as he picks up his gait into what Patrick has begun referring to as the Finance “This motherfucker” for eternity gymnasium where part of his obstacle is to do one quick loop around the circumference of the gym floor while the Varsity Elite violently fleck basketballs at Hale in the manner of bombardment.  Every year Aron and Mario seem to obtain a sling shot and hurt transparent basketballs filled with excrement and snot in the direction of Hale as he cunningly streaks past, a windex pawed Shithead ready to clean up the mess regardless of whether it splatters a fleeing Hale or not. Last year Javon Worthington got carried away inadvertently fired several rounds of real amo, claiming that he could have sworn that Hale gesticulated the hand signals for Latin Kings while pumping his limbs north and south as fast as is humanly possible.

Hale is halfway though the gymnasium when he hears a solid splat before he reaches the logo of SPERMY the Comet mascot on the far end of the gym, Shithead and Kadeem not far behind him, ready to sanitize the mess. Hale hears a gun shot and thinks to himself fuck. Tod Nelson has already hammered Hale with a basketball and yelled touch down from behind. There is a scream as a blurred body seems to fall in front of him and all Hale can briefly cogitate is that Marcellus Buck must have thrown one of his bitches at him as Hale pulls a hard right into the blinding morning light of the Narthex, juggling his limbs past caricatures of fallen mascots mounted on both sides of him, near the top of cross where Reverend Morningwood accused Judith of writing King of the Jews with her eyeliners on a trophy case. Hale continues to book ass. He can hear both Gene and Dick comment in the PA that Hale is on record pace. Von Behren has doffed his beret and is waiting near the Faculty Lounge and Good Times salon to call out splits, telling Hale that he is halfway there, only four hundred more meters to go.

 

            Hale enters the Faculty Lounge, tossing the Coaches Widow’s coffee cup into the air and doing a solitary leap over the devotional faculty table that Gene and Dick call aerodynamic before catching the coffee cup in his left hand with all the finesse of a baton twirler and her baton.

 

            Without a moments hesitation Hale pours the steaming black fluid into the fingernail-colored Styrofoam chalice, twisting his body a full 180 to avoid a Black Label brandishing bar keep Pinky who almost always accuses Hale of theft. With Coffee cup in paw Hale’s sprint has turned into a rapid heel toe run-walk as he brisks into the blinding light of Narthex Central once again, a fleeing sway attached to his gait. He can hear the cheers behind him gradually stir and escalate as his entire anatomy takes a sharp left still keeping the cup of jamoke perfectly balanced. He hears another splat and figures that Coach M must have granted Mario and Aron permission to hurl excrement fraught basketball balloons outside of the gymnasium. For as go get ‘em as Coach M seemingly becomes to Hale he sure makes the obstacle course hard as fuck to get through. Last year Hale was at the finish line when out of nowhere Coach M himself “inadvertently” tripped him up using one of Rudolph Theske’s putters. The hot coffee spraying the Coaches Widow’s cleavage causing her to take off her shirt in public which of course, some how resulted in a wet tee-shirt contest with Karen Pinesol revealing a lot more skin to win then seemed necessary at the time.

            Dr. Kennedy’s Marshal’s office is located at the far end of the last plank, Hale’s still stepping cautiously. Another body is hurled in front of him with a slight feminine screech attached to it. Hale hears a Blam and notices two gun shells seemingly plummet out of nowhere. He continues to haul ass, trying to keep his back straight, hoping to curb even the slightest tear sized splashes of liquid from drooling over the Styrofoam brim indented with teeth marks and lips stick smudges that somehow remind all who look at it of an upside down dirty gasoline rainbow puddle. 

 

There is another quick jab and blur. Apparently Marcellus Buck is tossing what some might consider as his bitches with the rapidity of javelins. Above Doc Kennedy Marshals rainbow office there is a diminutive head of a small parrot apparently titled “Happy,” next to the Parrots head there is giant plaque purportedly reserved for the stuffed head of Patrick A. McReynolds himself. Hale continues to scoot, dodge, kicks as fast as he can without breaking into a full-fledged sprint for fear of losing the contents of the caffeinated beverage from the clutches of his fist. Hale can hear someone yelling the words hut and hut sandwiched between digits before offering a mandating hike.  As Hale’s heel-to-toe stampede continues he sees what appears to be a football helmeted Bev Pinesol charging in his direction wearing the number 69 on her jersey looking like she is out for the kill at the line of scrimmage.

 

            “Oh Shit.” Hale notes. Dick and Gene’s amplified microphone commentary pervades throughout the school informing Hale that he is 10 seconds ahead of the record. Hale circles the orange dunce cap cone directly in front of Dr, Kennedy’s Marshal door a tenth of a second before Bev Pinesol dives head first, missing Hale by a fraction of an inch, shattering the end-of-the-rainbow-in-lieu-of-a-pot-of-two- are-smiley-face-folk-singers-hand in hand vignette on the front of her office into scattered prisms and loose flecks of glass inn every whichway direction but.

 

            “Hee-hee.” Hale thinks to himself, wobbling a tad, swearing he hears what sounds like a familiar voice from the past utter out the words Pecker! Pecker! In high-pitched tandem before he feels a swift clunk on the back of his head trips and bobbles the liquid stowed inside the aged Styrofoam vessel. Hale reaches out his palm as he can hear the all-too-obsequiously friendly monotone of either Dick or Gene pinch their lips in a nasal fashion and say ewwwwww, that looks like a close one. Hale’s ears register an awed inhalation of what sounds like two hundred people taking a deep breath all at once as he plops his right hand out and catches the cup of joe, spilling only what appears to be a few chocolate tears. There is a rush of applause and Hale feels like he has just made the game winning catch at short before he feels another clunk into the back of his head, and watches what appears to be a softball curl and plop near the caps of his knee.

 

            “Look what you did to my door!” Dr. Kennedy Marshal, hurling another softball in Hale’s direction. Another body, presumably one of Cellus’ Bitches shrieks past. As he looks back he can see Bev Pinesol rising up from the wooden and glass nest of Dr. Kennedy’s Marshal former door like a very plump phoenix on the prowl for revenge. There is the smell of shit and another softball and Hale swears the PA announces that he is now a full five seconds behind the scheduled pace.

 

            “Fuck!”

 

            As Hale dodges another softball he can hear Bev Pinesol’s huffing like a second trimester sow. Without thinking Hale scoops up a pelted softball and stuffs it over the top of Misses Looney’s coffee cup. Pumping his arms up and down he hears the friendly that’s-just-the-type-of-guy-I-am monotone of either Dick or Gene Comment look at him go, folks.

 

Employing the softball as a makeshift lid Hale is capable of resuming his streak back to sprint caliber. He escalates both his knees, kicks out his feet and pumps his elbows while skidding to a sharp right skiing back into the blinding flash of central narthex. There is a crash and the smell of shit. Coach M yelling out in his Megaphone, telling Aron and Mario to can it with the catapult that shit costs money. The blinding light gives birth to a hallway full of mascots that appearing to be scowling with Hale’s every stride. Gene and Dick have formally announced over the PA that Hale is now a whopping thirty seconds ahead of record schedule. More clatter is heard and Coach M continues to berate Aron and Mario, telling them to quit throwing human excrement in the narthex. By the time Hale passes Café Hemlock he sees Patrick passing out victory cigars, making a rhinoceros horn with his thumb and cigarette in the direction of coach M. Von Behren yells out that’s how we do that shit as Hale stampedes out from the lighted sheen in to the last 100 meters, near the finish line in the 70’s gym when Hale freezes, bites his lip, holds out the softball-covered Styrofoam cup of coffee in a fashion of Lady Liberty.

 

“Fuck!!” Patrick yells out, his voice in disbelief.

 

“Bullseye!” Yells Doctor, strutting as is she has a varicocele in front of the café Hemlock.

 

“Is it…”  Patrick inquires, looking around at Baker and Iola Clitty.

 

“Talk about shoving it up you ass.” Von Behren says.

 

            Meredith and the rest of the Losers look stun. Patrick briefly warbles something outside his breath which sounds to VonBehren about how much his dad has riding on this streak.

 

            “Suck it up Hale.” Von Behren yells.

 

            “Blow it out your ass Hale.” Notes Dejuan.

 

            “Just fart.” Hollers Buster, biting into a drumstick.  “Take a deep breath and fart.”

 

            Hale’s eyes roll up into his socket, air fills the inside of his dual cheeks. Either Dick or Gene are announcing that Hale is only thirty seconds ahead of shattering his record. With his right hand still lanced straight up in the air like he knows the answer to the eternal diner query of regular or decaf, Hale takes one step before a giant splat is heard dousing his back covered with actual human excrement.

 

            “Fuck this shit.” Says Patrick

            “Baby don’t worry I came prepared.” Holding one of his high heels in his hand like a gavel Lynford runs up to Hale, his right hand completely covered with laytex, a glove ribbed condom that stretches past the lotioned cap of his elbow. Another blurred shriek passes Hale. Marcellus Buck saying the words damn bitches in the background. Another softball pelts Hale in his occiput. Hale still continues to hold both his breath and the Styrofoam cup above his head, without moving.

            “Hang in there Hale!” Von Behren yells out from Café Hemlock. From out of the blinding white of the narthex huffs are heard. Bev Pine slowly continues to trundle down the hallway in her football armor, licking her lips at the direction of Hale.

            “For fuck’s sake Hale, run!” Patrick blares out. “Hale twists back at Patrick, his legs very close together, his arm still stunned into abeyance in the air. Still trying to hold his breath Hale tries telling Patrick by wriggling his eyes brows that, fuck you try ferrying a cup of java in a fifteen year old coffee cup in the nude with a softball wedged up your ass and fuck knows whose excrement smeared on your chest. The moment he is done with his last wriggle another softball pelts him right in the forehead. The PA announces that he is now in jeopardy of throwing the entire race. Hale’s looks at Patrick, sees Lynnford stretching something that looks like an opaque sock puppet up past his elbow, telling Hale to bend down big boy, this won’t hurt a bit.

             Hale takes the fuck off running, albeit in the manner of a penguin with a popsicle lodged up his ass, but he takes off running nonetheless. His legs glued together almost wobbling towards the finish line. He dodges a shit-full basketball that ends up hitting Fraud Brakenhardt. He skips over another pelting softball. Lynnford is overheard trying to reinforce Hale to lie still big boy, this isn’t going to hurt a bit.

 

            The friendly voices resonating over the PA announce that Hale has a shot at this and it is going to be close, folks.

 

            “Shit.”     

 

The whole school is yelling out Hale’s name in two locomotive syllables, as if they are expecting him to chug something extremely alcoholic and foamy. Still naked, holding his breath and bobbing up and down Von Behren tries to make the analogy that Hale looks like he is on a pogo stick in front of Meredith-Elise, which yields no response except for two disdainful blinks from her no-none shit lips.

 

“Go Hale.’ Dejuan yells out. Jouncing towards the finish line Hale watches as one of Cellus’s bitches wipes out Lynnford. He continues to hop, still naked, still holding the Styrofoam cup of java above his head, still slathered in someone else’s shit, still, unfortunately for him, with softball wedged so far up his ass Hale fears the remote possibility that perhaps it turned into.

 

Hale is three potato-sack hobbles away from the finish line. He takes a giant hobble, air still concealed in the hummel-domes of his cheeks. He takes another leap. Coach M has stationed his wife behind the checkered finish line waiting for the cup of coffee. The varsity cheerleaders, all twelve of them appear to be cheering Hale on behind her by waving their sperm-shaped poms in the air and quoting out his last name like a mantra. Another softball swooshes past inches from Hale’s hand. He can feel he is close. At the exact moment Hale bends his knees, hoping for one final lob across the finish line Coach M raises the megaphone to his lips and says the words now.

 

 

 

 

Without hesitation all twelve cheerleaders abandon their poms, peel their hands near their navels and yank up the top of their shirts. Hale, less than nine inches from where Mrs. Mooney sits with a copy of MiddleMarch behind the finish, becomes paralyzed, his torso twisting, tittering uncontrollable, like something periscopic and huge is about ready to sprout from the soil of his loins.

 

“Hale,” Patrick yells, his hands cupped around his mouth, “Stay focused. Keep your hands on the coffee cup.” As the words coffee and cup erupt from Patrick’s mouth, an additional softball hurtled from the grip of Doc Kennedy Marshal, who then tells no one near him that the old knuckle ball gets ‘em every time while cracking her fingers in a rather overt fashion. Hale can see that chocolate flavored mole the Varsity Elite players are always swearing by. The Cheerleaders continue to wiggle their cleavage back and forth, with the exception of the tiniest blonde headed cheerleader on the left. Coach M immediately barks into his megaphone asking Holly in a demonstrative and sarcastic tone if, what, you feel you are too good be exempt from flashing your rack in public.

 

Dick and Gene are counting down from five to one. Hale lets go of both his breath and the coffee cup. There is a collective gasp. Either Dick or Gene lets go of a high-pitched girlish squeak. At the precise moment Hale let’s go of his body, his unit stretches across the finish line, unrolling like a red carpet unfurling from the side door of a celebrity’s limousine, settling itself inches in front of Mrs. Mooney’s angular chin.

The coffee cup, tossed up in the air mere seconds before, lands on the tip of Hale’s rather elongated pecker.

 

Meredith-Elise turns to Cabbages, looks down at Von Behren's crotch, turns to Cabbages again and says God damn girl and then asks her how. The coffee appears to still be steaming perfectly balanced on the edge of Hale’s unit, the wispy heat forming ephemeral Treble and Bass clef signs that hiss up and immediately disappear.

 

            “He gets it,” Either Dick or Gene announce through the PA. “Hale wins it by a…head!”

 

            The coaches Widow has passed out with an overturned palm on her forehead as if taking her temperature sans medicinal appurtenances. Peruvian Victor tugs a shit-slathered Mrs. Brakenhardt and asks her if that is a fleshing-fole. Patrick makes a sound as if he just swallowed his cigarette. Coach M. erupts, calling the cheerleaders trollops. Karen bends over, asking Hale if he could perhaps scoot and inch or two to the left and watch what happens seconds prior to her matriarch and second-in-command chef  Bev Pinesol running into scrum  huffing headfirst ready for the tackle. Hale’s hardon still intact. Patrick still has his eyes  welded open, unblinking, For some reason  he is thinking about humidor-shaped interior of the restaurant up the hill on Western avenue where Warren sometimes goes and sits in the smoking section with blueprints that look like they were usurped from something classified and stowed at Roswell under Military surveillance, somehow it feels like Patrick can hear the voice of spring from across the table groping his fingers asking him if he is okay.