Shouldn't have done that, boy (coup #1) (a.)

 

 

The library still looks like something abandoned, something weary and forlorn. Something Uncle Fester and Cousin It would feel right at home in. In keeping with strict accordance with his newly formed Native American vows Patrick has smeared linebacker painted all of over his visage and arms. He is wearing a Head Dress he bought from Dixon Mounds Indian Burial and newly renovated golf course where he saw Coach M. firing up a cigar and telling Marcellus Buck how he never realized that golfing over dead red skins was so much fun. Patrick fires up a peace pipe Crazy Hoof down the street, gave him, last night, as he performed sort of a medicine dance and burned incense and gave to the boys something which Patrick thought at first was Pepto-Bismol but turned out to produce purple and neon lightening slashes everywhere—both Patrick and VonB waking up, strangely, outside of Lums, where VonBehren used some of his paper route money to purchase Patrick a barn burner and a jittery pot of java.

 

“You really think this will work,” VonBehren says, adjusting a bandanna and feathers in his hair with a broken mirror, near the cobwebbed card catalogue.

 

“Dude,” Patrick says, adjusting more brown shoe polish on his forehead to give his skin a burnt look. “My slogan for this coup is, ‘History Repeats itself.’”

 

“But, Patrick,” VonBehren adds. “The Sons of Liberty were over two-hundred years ago. Native American’s weren’t smashed up on Reservations all the time like they are today.

 

“I know, it’s sick.” adds Patrick. “Remember that day when Coach M. told us that his great-grandfather on his wife’s side had a very substantial role in putting those red skins back in their place, henceforth, the golf course on Dixon Mounds and all the casino’s on Reservations.”

 

“ ‘Nother reason for getting this job done right today.” VonBehren adds, picking up the peace pipe, taking a breath and then coughing afterwards.

 

“Don’t worry V.B.” Patrick looks at him, with a wedged corn husk smile splintered between his lips. “Your lungs will attune to it. Pretty soon you’ll be able to actually take the smoke down into your lungs, inhale, wait a minute, loll your head back, say something cool, witty or poetic, and then exhale, just like they do in the old movies.” Patrick says, sounding like an authority on the subject.  Patrick’s face is almost completely daubed in brown shoe polish he stole from Warren’s sock drawer. In his left hand he spins a tomahawk Crazy Hoof down the street gave him like a revolver.

 

“Who else is joining us?” VonBehren inquires.

 

“You know,” Pat says. “I sent out discreet smoke signals last night to all of our associates. They know the time. They know the mission and they know the attire. The only person I wasn’t one hundred percent sure on was Iola. When I spoke with her last night at the orphanage and told her that one of the real reasons that we were throwing down this coup was because of the conspiracy concerning her parents, she just sort of broke into tears.”

 

Patrick pauses, spins his machete old-west showdown style at noon again. Grabs the peace pipe from VonBehren and inhales a long, elongated gulp.

 

“Anyway,” Patrick continues, without exhaling. “I know for a certain Hale’s one hundred percent as well as DeJuan and Lynnford.” Patrick says, smoke slowly billowing out from his throat as he speaks. The entire school is at yet another pep-rally for the Varsity Elite which also includes a wet-tee shirt fundraiser, where Coach M. is sure to generously tip knockout Student Teacher Lillian Wiltz and be chased by the Coaches Widow afterwards.

 

“That makes five,” says VonBehren, adjusting one of his moccasin’s he found left over from the MIRACLE OF THANKSGIVING production where Coach M rather vehemently insisted that the Plymouth Rock Pilgrim’s kicked the crap out of the Tonto City Totem Pole on that very first Thanksgiving day.

 

 

There is a knuckled rapt at the door, followed by the words Justine Bateman almost gnawed it of last night during Night Court, Patrick’s code words to gain entrance. VonBehren answers the door, only to find a Dejuan, dressed in a 1940’s cowboy outfit, a red bib clouding his nostrils and mouth. A brown vest with a Sheriff star placed like a boutonniere on his chest. The words BONANZA BOB glittered on the back on his outfit, like a varsity ball player’s last name.

 

“ Why How-dee thar partner.” DeJuan says, in a mean old gruff run down voice, tip the brim of his hat, walking with his spurs and boots spread out like the Saint Louis Arch when he walks. He struts up to Patrick, tugs at his bib, spits and then nods, before breaking into a John Wayne monologue.

 

“Well I hear we’re a-having a little problem with the law around here chief.”

 

Patrick just looks back at DeJuan stunned in disbelief as DeJuan nods and tells him that he supposes it’s about time to take manners into his own hands.

 

“Around here things-are-a-settled with a gun.” Dejuan removes his six-shooter, twirls it around his forefinger several times before dropping it and picking it back up out of character and firing several rounds of weak caps. 

 

“Damnit DeJuan!” Patrick says.

 

“Alright!! Alright!!!” DeJuan says reverting back to his uppity British patois. “Here Here, I know those supposed smoke signal you sent commanded that we dress up as Indians, it’s just that, growing up over seas, we always envisioned American’s to be cowboys.” He pauses. Patrick is still looking at DeJuan as if to say, we are not amused.

 

“Pat, dude, it’s okay man.” Says VonBehren. “You know if we all look the same Coach M will probably end up setting fire to the Creve Coeur Reservation or something. This still conceals our identity. This is good.”

 

There is another rapt at the door. A voice that obviously belongs to Hale mentions the name Justine Bateman and then performs his little who-whew nasal back flip. VonBehren opens the door to see Hale in a long-Goth trench coat donning a long black beard, a red bandanna, a patch concealing one eye and a Black Hat with the Long John Silvers insignia embroidered on it.

 

“Ar-ye maties.” Hale says, raising a hooked paw that looks like a question mark near his lips. DeJuan acknowledges Hale by tipping the top of his hat and saying ‘sir’, VonBehren lifts his flat palm up like an oath and says the word how. Even though his face is sufficiently smeared in gobs of red polish, Patrick’s face appears to be even more reddish underneath.

 

“Doesn’t anyone know how to read smoke signals around here anymore?” Patrick grouses.

 

“Check this out.” Hale says, padding his shoulders, revealing a green parrot with a very bright yellow beak. Hale reaches up and rubs its beak.

 

 

“Pecker, pecker.” The parrot peeps. All the boys begin to laugh. Patrick steps up and probes his finger at the parrot, slicing his pointer between the parrot’s legs.

 

“Chet’s Nuts roasting on an open fire!”  Patrick laughs. Points to Hale and says that’s a good one before reverting back to his Native American stance.

 

“The parrot is apparently supposed to say something else, too, only I haven’t figured out what it is.” Hale says, running his hooked fist through his fake beard.

“Well my good friend David Hale,” DeJuan says. “You look like what I always imagined Saint Nick might have looked like had he discovered the Harley first, before the Holiday Christmas Sleigh.”  Hale laughs, Patrick looks around the boys and says the words oh and great.

 

“Great,” adds, Patrick, looking at Hale with almost a taste of disgust rolling off his lips. “Now we look like something salvaged from the Village People era.”

 

Almost without a pause the three other lads break into a rendition of YMCA, pointing at Patrick and addressing him as Young Man. By the time they get to the chorus Patrick feels like saying YMCA my Native American black ass, and not worrying too much about how politically incorrect in the slightest his mantra might sound.

 

“SILENCE!” Yells Patrick, waving his arms out like a first base umpire. “We have a very serious Sons of Liberty inspired mission to accomplish here this afternoon and if we continue on with all of these shenanigans like this…” There is another rapt at the door. Patrick does an optical count with his chin. The door rattles again. A feminine voice echoes from the other side talking about Justine Bateman being yummy and gorgeous. Patrick steps to the door.

 

“After seeing you clowns I’m almost afraid to see what comes next.”

 

 

Patrick twists the knob to the library door. All of the boys become stunned. Lynnford enters, wearing a silky-gold outfit, a red dot in the center of his face that looks almost like a pimple. He comes in, performs a little swirl. There is some sort of brown tattoos all up and down his arms. A purple ruby seems placed in his navel. The boys just continue to gaze.

 

“I know, I know I know,’ Lynnford says, his voice, a few octaves higher than it normally always is. “I know the smoke signal specifically said feathers not dots but I couldn’t help myself, this is the only chance I get to wear a sari in public and not offend anyone.”

 

All four of the other boys continue to look at Lynnford with an astonished look sealed to their lips. Hale hoists up his claw as if he is cheering an alcoholic beverage and says are. VonBehren does the salute with his palm again and DeJuan tips his hat in a similar fashion, addressing Lynnford as ma’am.

 

“Don’t worry,” Lynnford says, looking directly at Chief Patrick. “You can still call me Pocahontas. I wanna be your Indian princess big boy.”  Lynford licks his lips while giving Patrick a little swat on his behind.

 

“Shit,” Patrick’s red face falls into his non-tomahawk wielding hand, shaking back and forth. Lynnford struts up to Hale, inquires if that is his parrot or is he just happy to see me.

 

“Pecker! Pecker!” The parrot rants, sounding uncannily like the Little Caesar toga clad spokesperson.

 

“Looks like somebody trained this parrot right.” Lynnford laughs.

 

“The guy at the costume shop told me that apparently the parrot was supposed to be able to say three things but apparently I can only get it chant Pecker twice and the opening line to Merry Christmas to you.” Hale says, padding the parrot on the head, so that echoes out the later. Patrick looks at his tomahawk still twirling around the edges of his finger.

 

“Alright troops.” Patrick says, insisting that the costumed reveler’s line up as if they are going into battle. “As you all know, we’ve been justifiably oppressed long enough. We have to leave our mark here on campus. We have to let the so-called authorities here on campus know that we’re not gonna put up with their shit any longer.”

 

All the troops turn to each other and nod their heads, saying yes, he’s right. I agree, before Patrick silences them.

 

“Okay,” Patrick says. “Here’s the plan.” He stops, takes a deep breath and points at the blueprints of the gym.

 

“At the pep assembly transpiring right now, in addition to the unveiling of Ms. Wiltz’s new cup size, Coach M plans on showcasing a full size vertical facsimile of the newly refurbished gymnasium on the top of the screen. Before he does that Hale…”

 

Patrick points, Hale lifts his claw. “You slice the power in the furnace room and then jet. We have to do this quickly.”

 

“Pecker! Pecker!” The parrot responds.

 

“Hale!” Chides Patrick.

 

“Sorry, I thought it would say that other thing that it is supposed to say this time.”

 

Patrick shakes his head in disbelief and continues. “VonB?”

 

“How,” V.B. responds, stolidly.

 

“The moment the power is out and Coach M is standing above the screen, I’ll say something really disparaging over the loud speaker and you flick the switch to the screen to show our little video which will last all of forty-five seconds but hopefully present enough of the material to the populace so they know how fucked up the ass they are getting.

 

Lynnford bends down and says that he thinks that we are the ones getting it up the ass. Patrick looks at Lynnford, nods his head as if to say, you have a point.

 

 

“I have to nod my chin in agreement with this little lady over here.” DeJuan says. “Showing a little video clip isn’t going to change these people from building anything they’re already dead set on constructing.” DeJuan nods his head, and spits again. Hale raises his clawed fist and says that he for one agrees.

 

“So what do you suggest, troops?” Patrick asks, holding the peace pipe in his hands again.

 

“We keep your demolish plans in tack.” Hale adds.

 

“Full throttle attack.” Comments Von Behren. “The second the lights go dim, we sack coach M, burn down the screen and blow up the area under the stage where coach M keeps his stash of winged Icarus.”

 

Patrick looks back at his costumed troops and nods. DeJuan spits once again. Hale lets out a little nod, looks around and asks his friends what they are waiting for. Lynford said that he was hoping to get a quick enema in before the war but, what the hell, he can go ahead and douche the hell out from the love hole by the time he gets home.

 

“Speaking of home,” VonBehren steps up again. “After we ignite Mount Vesuvius where do you suggest we take cover?”

 

“Hunh?” Patrick looks at VonBehren in Native American garb, scratching the top of his head.

 

“Patrick,” Hale quotes. “There are like four hundred people in the gymnasium right now and I suggest that you have some sort of a Liberty Tree for us to hide out in after we bomb the rims and blow up part of the stage.” Hale says, commenting in addition that he once read Johnny Tremain for accelerated reader points. Patrick still looks back at Hale, scratching the top of his head in a disconcerting manner.

 

“Where are we going to hideout at afterwards?” Lynnford says, very slowly, signing out his letters with his hand, insinuating that Patrick is retarded.

 

“Well…er…I just sort of thought everyone would be so stunned that…” Patrick pauses in mid-idiots zipper unzipped stance only to realize all of his troops have their arms crossed tightly around their chest, tapping their feet, asking Patrick what is this, a costume party? Patrick tries to think of some extremely dumb and somewhat clever and commercial to say to his troops, forcing them to momentarily brush off his foibles. Before he can think of anything, there is another rapt at the door.

 

“Shit.”

 

“Nobody moves.” Patrick wields his tomahawk out in front of him light saber style, tip toeing to the door. A knock thuds once again. He motions to his troops to scatter to opposite sides of the room, counting down from three with his left hand before slightly twisting the knob. He can see a shadow encroaching, his tomahawk raised above his head, ready to descend. 



 

 

 

 

 

“Justine Bateman sawed it off last night and I…oh wait, that’s not it.”

 

“Damn it Allan!”  Patrick pauses mid-air, the tomahawk still stranded above his head. “What the hell are you doing here?” The rest of the troops yell out Allan’s name like the time he inadvertently squatted on the remote control mid-money shot during late night Showtime. Lynford walks up to Allan and tells him that he looks fairly mean in that loincloth.

 

“Allan,” Patrick says. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re trying to instigate a coup here on campus and you’re getting in the way so please…”

 

            “I can help,” Allan interrupts. “I’ve been working on my rain dance all week.”

 

“Rain Dance?” asks Patrick, incredulously.

 

“Yeah,” nods Allan in an anxious swagger. “Old Crazy Hoof down the street has been showing me see.” With a dream catcher in one hand Allan begins to pogo up and down, chanting the words Bow-wow-wow-wow over and over again before Hale swipes him with his claw and says enough already, we get the fuckin’ picture.

 

“Damnit Allan! Did anyone see you come in here?”

 

“Only Reverend Morningwood.” Allan sneers. “But apparently he thought I was someone else. He asked me if my tribe was going to be tithing any of that honey suckle apple brandy next year during Lent.”

 

“Oh,” says Patrick. Hale pretends to feed his parrot a cracker. It responds with its pecker litany. The boys laugh. DeJuan tips his hat and says that if the boys are going to throw a coup, they better start doing it sometime real quick, he doesn’t want to miss a rerun of Alls in the family. You know that shit makes me laugh.

 

“Allan, you can’t stay here. We have a serious mission to accomplish and we…”

 

“Forgot to plan our escape route. Allan, pray tells us, how did your Native American clad ass get down here.” Speaks VonBehren.

 

“Oh,” says Allan. “Mom dropped me off. I told her to pick me up at exactly three o’clock down at the Meat Market where coach M insists she picks us up whenever we have visitors at the school.”

 

DeJuan looks down into his wrist. “Chaps, that settles it. We have fifteen minutes to turn CLS into Boston harbor lads, all for one.” DeJuan sticks his hands in.  All of the boys’ just look at him.

 

“Let’s kick some fucking ass!!!” Hale yells aloud, sounding like he is in the locker room prior to a homecoming football game.  Von Behren leads the way as the team storms the door. Patrick tries to hold out his hands and explain to his friends that wait a minute, he’s not too sure that his mom would appreciate having a trinity of Indian’s, plus a pirate, a cowboy and a whatever the fuck Lynford is supposed to be piled up in the back of the Honda. DeJuan fires up one of his caps in the air, letting out a yee-haw telling Patrick that all of this was his idea, so, if they happen to get caught, it’s also his white ass, pip-pip.

 

“Guys, wait a minute, we still have to…” The troops are nearly all down the hall. Hale turns around, shoves his hook up near his lips and blows across it, hinting at Pat to pipe down and get in the gym, he’s about ready to pull the power.

 

“Shit Dave, wait, if we could just get back in the library and congregate real quick so that everybody knows exactly what the fuck they are doing.”

 

“Everybody does know exactly what the fuck they are doing. Now move people.” Hale points with his hook towards the gym. Patrick can hear loud music and uproarious laughter as he approaches. Taking a deep breath, he thinks, okay, I only have to fire up the screen. That’s it. Then I can run. Then I can prove my point to the world without having to get a tattoo on my forehead that reads taxation without representation. Patrick has no clue where Allan is stationing himself. Both VonBehren and Shelby are planting themselves near the far entrance of the stage, placing packages of kerosene saoked fireworks laced in cherry bombs and black cats. Once they get the wick ignited, it will be all of two minutes before the stage erupts, hopefully ruining Coach M.’s supply of Nike Icarus X.  Lynford steps into the gymnasium first, his direction is simply to scream the loudest when the lights go off, hopefully diverting attention from the center of the gymnasium where Patrick is supposed to traipse off into, set the vertical facsimile screen ablaze and, if he can accumulate the gall, scalp Coach M, before jetting out the side gym door and booking ass to the Starr Street Meat market, hoping his car will be like the Garcia’s clan and fit half-of the West Bluff in the back seat.

“Alright,” Thinks Patrick. Remember who you’re doing this for.” Patrick inhales, thinks of Iola Clitty crying at the orphanage two nights ago when he broke into her unit disguised as an orderly and was then chased out by some guy in a straight jacket and purple sunglasses claiming to be the anti-Christ. He remembers promising Iola that he would find out the truth that he would find out what truly happened to her parents, even though he was pretty sure that Paul and Merriam were murdered nonetheless. When Iola started to cry Patrick reached into his military knapsack and brought out the Raggedy Anne doll he found in the abandoned library, where he first heard Iola crying when his parents took him on their first school visit and all Coach M was concerned about was whether or not Patrick could shoot the ball from the charity stripe without making something he called a brick. When Coach M insisted that a second grade Allan hoist the ball and shoot, Patrick wandered out of the fifties gym, took two turns and saw the library, near the water fountain shaped like a baptismal font. As he pried the door to the library open he saw a tattered girl with very thick knots in her hair squatting down on top of a rancid smelling Crisco can, crying to herself and holding very close to her the same doll wondering where she was.

Patrick remembers wanting to go up to her and give her the old McReynolds shoulder to wail on, telling her that every little thing was going to be alright, telling her not to worry, telling her that it will be ok girl and the next thing he knew he was being firmly yanked out of the abandoned cobweb riddled library by his ear, looking up he could see the extremely bony forearms and shoulders of Doctor Kennedy Marshal reeling him out of the library instituting  what would turn out to be Patrick A. McReynolds  premier tete-a-tete conference center Doc Marshal would later add that instead of wanting to peruse the annals of knowledge Patrick was surely more interested in perusing the anals of knowledge and that there is certain matters of both this school and this life that are meant to be kept out of his reach for a purposes that transcend his modicum intellectual comprehension of the planet.

            Patrick feels his fingers slowly embrace around the wooden spine of the tomahawk as vision trances into the colorful array of costumes his friends have clad themselves with in an effort to quell the tyranny that is Christian Logos seminary. He clenches the tomahawk. He can not move. He can feel two dice dropping dictating his acumen, his position, his strength. From the other side of the GM fence it fells like someone is saying the word hello and that you shouldn't have done that, boy.