Jr High Drop Out

He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.

"Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within." - Tennyson

[Tom] was aspiring
To set himself in glory above his peers,
He trusted to have equalled the Most High,
If he opposed, and with ambitious aim
Against the throne and monarchy of God,
Raised impious war in Heaven and battle proud,
With vain attempt.

Tom is plugged in. Online. Jacked up. Fucked up. T1 line in. Media upchuck. Mankind. MetalSoul. Info blackhole. Lord Almighty, flood this rathole. Byte-sized. ArkSafe. Hi-Tech Street Waif. Who cares anyway? Why should I pray? Lead in. Lead out. Have faith. Have doubt. Talk loud. Don't shout.

Unlike the schoolyard squirrel, I was not the worst thing that had ever happened to that snake. You see, the snake was already dead when I found it. I think it must've been a peaceful death. The body, roughly 3 feet in length, was intact and unmangled. This was a primo find for a boy that age! A whole snake to do with as I pleased? This day was off to a great start.

We all sat around looking at the snake. Such an opportunity could not be wasted. It's not everyday the Lord hands a person such a high quality, snake carcass. It was like manna from heaven, and we would not waste the gift. We talked about all the various great things we could do with this snake, but in the end we were stuck. There was Frozen Snake Jousting and Frozen Snake Sword Fighting. There was Wearing It As A Belt and Wearing It As A Headband. There were girls to be frightened and parents to be disgusted, teachers to be upset and strangers to be startled. We had plans. Many of them. And that was the problem. How does a young boy choose between so many equally good paths?

For a while we played with the snake---smacking each other with it, acting like it was alive and attacking us, poking at it, staring at it. All this to delay the inevitable. We needed to do something grand with it. In the end, it was poor impulse control that made our decision for us.

I had the snake by the tail, standing in front of the rusty white 21st street side of the Circa Del Mar at the Oceanfront. I watched the cars going by, some speeding past, hurrying to get to the beach, some slowly down to make a right hand turn. The other boys sat on the sidewalk equally despondent---our ophiophilia quickly souring as the weight of our decision bore on us, as our sacred duty led us to preemptively regret each future path before we took it and a vague malaise set over us. Even poking a dead snake with sticks seemed a hollow fun eventually. Something had to be done.

The couple were probably just in town for a little RnR---some mellow fun-in-the-sun---and maybe just to get away from the hectic agitation of the daily grind. Their car was modest, a small four door older model, not so old as to scream "welfare" but no so new as to whisper "worship my car" either. It began slowing down to make the same right hand turn that others had been making unmolested all day. Theirs was not to be the same fate as the Lincoln before them or even the Buick after them. Their's was a different lot entirely.

WHAM! The snake came down hard across the hood and windshield of the car as it moved past me. I wish I could say I had a look of excitement and joy, but in truth, all I felt was relief. The decision had been made. The Gift had been spent. I watched, detached and emotionless, as the car screeched and turned and wagged and bobbled. After a few seconds---which seems like a minute and a half to me, but probably a great deal longer to those riding in the vehicle---the car came to a stop, turned the opposite direction on the far side of the road. I watched with disinterest as the man and his wife (or girlfriend or mistress or whatever) stepped shakily out of the car and looked around to see what had been hit. Surely, they thought, the child must be dead. Look at the blood all over the car! Tragedy and mayhem!

Now as I recall, it was then that the angels spake unto me, saying "Your work here is finished, my child, RUN!!!!" As I've said before, I do not make it a habit of being disobedient to the Voices, so I did indeed make ample use of my sneakers. This was my 'hood, and I knew these tourists had no chance to catch me. I was fast, smart, and preternaturally patient...like a snake. The local fire station has a great little area nestled in the middle of it's nearly O-shaped building. This would serve as my hideout until the tourists had gone back to Beauty, Kentucky or Sod, West Virginia or Sweet Lips, Tennessee or whereever it is that our mayor busses these people in from. I was silent, like the ninja. I could not be caught.

It had to be two hours later (in child-hours, at least!) when I crawled from my snake hole to rejoin my friends who were surely setting up a party in my honor as I waited in hiding. Clowns and balloons and 72 ponies (OMG PONIES!!1!!1!) awaited me, and all I had to do was make my way back to get my kudos. The Angels told me to go home and collect my reward another day, but against all reason, I ignored the Voices and trod onward toward my ponies and clowns and backslaps and high fives. It was as I crossed an alley about half a block from the snake incident when I heard it. "Hey, did you see a kid around here playing with a snake?" Innocent, but shocked, denial. "Bullshit! It's you! I know it was!" Deny Deny Deny. "Don't give me that! I know it was you, kid! We could've been seriously hurt, blah blah blah! Caused an accident, yappity slappity! Dangerous to be in traffic, wibbildy bibbildy stuff and junk!" Pretend to Cry. Act scared of the strangers and their bizarre accusations. "Well, maybe it wasn't you." Walk away smiling.

In the end, there were no ponies or clowns or balloon animals. No clouds parted. The Angels were strangely silent. All that was left was a duty discharged and a story worth retelling. As I've grown older, I have come to realize that's really enough.

It wasn't like the squirrel had it coming. He was long since tamed by human contact. Living in the middle of the schoolyard will do that for an animal. Some of the students would feed him; heck even the mean kids were pretty nice to him. Well, everyone but me, I guess.

I had no history of being mean to animals. When it came down to it, I had a soft spot for them. I guess that makes the squirrel incident all the more peculiar.

I don't know what stray neuron misfired in my skull, but when I saw the squirrel, I just knew that its destiny lie elsewhere that day. I decided that I would be its agent of fate. Borrowing April's bookbag and taking care to remove each item from it one-by-one---I often wonder what those gathered to watch the Tommy Show were thinking as they circled around for this week's episode---I stalked the friendly squirrel. He probably thought I was going to feed him: Did I mention how bad I felt about the squirrel's role in all this? Once close enough, I launched upon the squirrel with the opened and empty bookbag, capturing him underneath in one swift, cruel, and comical motion. For a few seconds he scurried, or so the frantic bookbag canvas suggested, but eventually he accepted his swallowed fate. Nature is good about such things.

Gathering the sides slowly, so as to avoid his accidental freedom, I managed to get the mouth of the bag closed and the bag turned rightside up again, squirrel still inside. Half way to my goal, I was still not entirely clear on what it is the voices wanted me to do, but I obeyed, a dutiful soldier to my Id. The Voices of Id were rarely wrong. How could I doubt them this far into the mission?

Excusing myself from the culpable crowd of peers, I made my way into the school administrative office, squirrely bookbag tightly pressed to my chest. "Can I speak with principal Clootie?" No questions were asked. The office staff probably thought I'd been sent down in trouble again.

Now, I should pause here to tell you that for all the guilt I have over the squirrel's unwitting involvement, I had none over Clootie's role. What he got, he deserved. I reserve for him the sort of blind hatred that I can really only muster when talking about the people that tormented me as a child. He and one wild-haired aunt share that space together for eternity, though neither knows the other. Really, they should get married and have impish little malformed children together. The world is overdue to a good anti-Christ and I've little doubt that their offspring would fill the role nicely.

Anyway, the principal was at his desk---most likely planning this week's plots against me---when I entered. He was mad. Not because I hadn't knocked, but because it was me. I was greeted with a snarled "What?" I should have thanked him, for I was just starting to feel guilty about the squirrel and might've left without fullfilling my duty to the Voices of Id, but his opening volley push concerns for personal and squirrelish safety aside and left nothing between he and I but crackling hatred.

"I need to show you something, Clootie." I called him Clootie instead of principal Clootie, mostly because it irked him that I talked to him as would his gym teacher. He often told me it betrayed a lack of respect. To this day, I'm confused by his use of the word "betrayed".

"Hurry up, then. What is it?" I leaned forward, bookbag slowly extending out toward his face. If my life had a sound track, it would've been playing something from Mozart's Requiem at that moment...or maybe Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall.

When I was close enough to his face that he could smell dust and canvas---the smell of a well made, little used Junior High bookbag: I pulled the bag open with a pop, taking care to thrust it forward at the same time. As if sprung from some MacGyver'd trampoline, the Squirrel flew out of the bookbag with a screech and a sort of gargling hiss towards the face and chest of Clootie. Clootie screamed. The squirrel screeched. I cackled. Fun was had by everyone except Clootie...and the squirrel. Coming to a momentary stop on top of the papers on Clootie's desk, the squirrel took a moment to appreciate that he'd been given a second chance at life. He saw me, a flash of "imgonnagetyousucka" in his eyes. He saw Clootie, by now pressed against the back wall sputtering word fragments. Assessing his situation, the squirrel did the smart thing---I'm just glad someone in this story did a smart thing---and darted behind a cabinet, the papers on which he stood flung every which way as he scurried frantically to dark safety.

Over the next 10 seconds, as Clootie tried to regain composure and pretended to regain dignity and as the kudos of the Voices of Id dimmed, all the rest of the world faded away and eventually all that existed was me, Clootie, and a silence pregnant with a palpable feeling of "whatthefuck?!?".

I'm not going to say I'm proud of that moment, but neither will I feign shame. The squirrel was taken away by animal control. Clootie took the next day off. Another suspension loomed in my immediate future. Overall, it was a good day.