Originally typed on April 2011.
With this post, I'll end the preceding warning for inappropriate content. I'm beginning to think that whatever I post here won't compare to the insanity the rest of the internet provides. This was written right after math class in 12th grade, on a particular day when almost everyone in the class acted obnoxiously to our teacher(and if I remember correctly, during a test, of all things). It was unfair, but nothing I could've said would've put the class at ease. This story is an alternate scenario, with other characters, of that terrible day. It's also very experimental with a mixture of 4 line dialogue and a short description that carries the story. I have a natural tendency to write blocks and blocks of dialogue, and although people have praised my dialogue in other stories for being rich and snappy, every bit of dialogue I've ever written has been an imaginary conversation I've had with myself, and the characters. In these idealized conversations, the characters never have awkward pauses(unless indicated in the text) or any moments of doubt; they speak their minds, even if what they're talking about can be interpreted as crap. This kind of writing does impair my real-life conversations with people, almost unfairly, and I'm still working on keeping those worlds separate or there might be a such colossal catastrophe that any amount of energy won't be able to electrify me back into coherence*. Technically, this was the first short story I worked on in 12th grade, and the only one until summer. It was very unexpected and a vicious attack on everything I hated that year. Although the pacing can be compared with Short Story and the amount of profanity to Accident on Freeman Ave, this story combines both elements well, but enough to introduce its own ideas. Like I said, it's rather angsty but like it or not, there it is.
What did it all mean, he wondered?
Why was it that every single time he thought, they were the words of a child who hadn’t been corrupted by society? By contrast, his mouth was filthy. Disgusting. And just as innocent as the child.
“What did you just say?”
“I said shut up.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“Well, it was part of it.”
He was the latest trend, the man who reached his limit and spoke against the class, the glass bottle that broke all of a sudden in the cafeteria and gained more attention than the dead fetus in some hospital. For the next few minutes or so, he would be the center of their attention.
“They were asking stupid questions.”
“No, they were asking productive questions.”
“Fine, sorry. The people in the back weren’t even talking about the assignment. Just some other crap.”
“Well, they weren’t disrupting the class as you have and continue to be.”
Each face made him sick. The assurance of a job well done. Morons. Usually, when he’s upset, he hates anybody who is in his proximity, even though he knows that some are innocent. But if you just ate lasagna and was next to somebody who enjoyed it more, won’t you still envy the dripping, calorie-filled lump on his plate?
“I’d like you to leave, if you continue further.”
“Fine. So long, everyone.”
“Bye-bye.” Said asshole while waving his hand. His delicate hands. He stepped outside and was walking toward the exit, just as it started to rain. Forgot his jacket, his gloves, pretty much any kind of covertures that would have prevented him from getting sicker.
“How can they talk to you like that?”
“It’ll suck even more when I have to go back to get my backpack.”
“Wait, arentcha only supposed to stay outside for five minutes?”
“Well, this is the first time this has ever happened to me. I guess I wasn’t aware of the procedure.”
He was good friends with Michel except recently, none of their encounters evolved into a sophisticated conversation; they always needed the support of others to do that. Nothing terrible was happening, and yet it made him question their friendship. What was it based on? Michel never wondered, he only claimed that such a thing was happening. He wanted to look for a trigger to get their conversations back on track.
“Did you ask her out?”
“I thought that you didn’t give a shit about what was going on in my private life.”
“I don’t, but it’s the only question in my head right now. And by due process of thought, it should lead to other questions.”
“I was rejected. No more questions. Back to class, man.”
The ground was stained with raindrops. For a moment, he wanted to imagine how many raindrops were needed to create a one inch puddle. He loves puddles. Probably the most exciting thing about a rainy day, besides the extra dangers of driving, walking, chance of sickness, pneumonia, among other things.
“Class is over. Get your backpack and get out of here.”
“Why do you take it?”
“Take what?”
“The abuse from those idiots. I can’t understand how oblivious a person can become to such abuse.”
The teacher adjusted his glasses. Then his face. And then his collar. He wasn’t the kind of person who adjusted himself in front of anyone. It embarrassed him. How some people had a sixth sense when it came to comfort and his teacher still needed a mother’s assistance.
“Do you have everything?”
“I think someone took my calculator.”
“I’ll try to be stricter tomorrow with them. Just try not to curse next time, okay?”
“We don’t have class tomorrow, Mr. Feldman. It’s an X period.”
Even with only a few folders and a pink, plaid pencil case, he couldn’t carry a backpack or even a tissue box out of that room. Suddenly, he felt as dense as a neutron star, and could easily penetrate the ground under him. His odyssey would be painful with the bits of earth scraping his skin, but at least it would end when his body would mix with the molten core.
“Detention isn’t as terrible as it seems. An hour alone in a silent room,” said Michel.
“Nothing is as terrible as it seems. Even a rejection is only a split-second feeling.”
“Right. Do you want to borrow my jacket? I only live about 5 minutes away.”
“Thanks, but it’s my problem. Sides, this could mean a day away from school.”
He shivered, and kept kicking his desk. 4’ o clock and apparently a long day for the aged faculty member who was snoring at her seat. The room was notorious for having the worst possible temperature conditions compared to the actual weather. What he need was a warm breeze, not a freezing chill that might’ve been congealing his blood veins.
“Gg-gg-g-odddammmit.”
“Zzzzzzzzzzzz…”
“Agh! Uh! I have to use the bathroom! Hey! Wake up!”
“Zzzz. Huh? Oh, go ahead. No screaming, please.”
He rushed to the nearest sink and ripped away many paper towels. The sticker hastily posted on the bathroom mirror reminded him of all the trees he had just killed. But if all he did was accidentally lean on the 300 year old tree which was bound to break at any minute, could it still be murder?
“Mom, I’m out of detention.”
“Why the fuck did you get detention today? Now you don’t even have a clean slate. That’s gone, son.”
“The kids in my class were acting like assholes. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”
“They weren’t acting like the dicks like in that other class? Or like the fuckheads in English? Seriously, does anyone in your school behave?”
His mom’s car was a recent model, had comfortable seating, and even a sun roof. Anytime, except on a rainy day, he could pop his head out of the sun roof opening just like a mole. There wasn’t a large enough hammer that could smack him back in his seat. His mom dyed her hair again. Wanted to try a tertiary color this week.
“Go to your room.”
“I know, I know.”
“Damn it; if you know, then why do you keep coming back? Why haven’t you learned anything?”
“I have. It might not seem that way right now but I have.”
His backpack fumbled slowly on the corner. His socks were on the floor. His pants hung on to the poorly made hook he made. Another failed project his mom knew he would fail at. He wondered how he learned everything from his mother but never learned anything by himself. His decisions have been consistently terrible but at least they were morally correct. He no longer wondered how people made so many friends. He wanted nothing to do with any of them. He placed his head on his pillow and shut his eyes.
*Thank you, George Costanza
No comments:
Post a Comment