PINTA PARADE

In school I am walking behind myself, arriving early, changing into my pledge of allegiance duds getting ready for PE,  hooping running laps,  pushing myself. , walking naked between the chrome phallic of overhead shower heads that seem to be ejaculating into a cup with  drizzles of water, while all the while thinking about the females next door, unpinning outfits from limbs of their body, a butterfly slapping the diaphanous scent of wings, walking behind myself in high school, lockers reverberating is distinct clang, seated in Home room, embarrassed, feigning to be brushing over conjugating French verbs as the lithe feminine voice crackles the announcement, Coach stating the success of the  Cross country team over the weekend, the bell sounding more like a nasal-mishap  board game of OPERATION as I shuffle between classes, Patrick meeting me, referring to Aron Rothman as Merde-tete, or shithhead, as we slide into the linoleum classroom of Miss Peabody where she does proofs, belittling us, informing us that we are below the state level. I think about how Dawn Michelle conveyed to me over out late night phone calls that she hasn’t taken a math class in two years and fills her afternoon taking AP English, creative writing and poetry classes, as The bell sneezes Patrick and I make a beeline out the door coughing throughout the hallway, Patrick still be unable to refrain from saying dude he wants to hit that shit every time a female saunters by, crinkling the results of our last quiz, always in the lower 70’s., entering Coach Mann’s classroom where he always looks at us like a drill Sgt at cadet graduation, a certain assenting aura of pride sunk in his eye. Other than Coach Ricca Coach Mann is the only other teacher at MHS who addresses us almost solely as gentleman. Even though we are still talking about fertile Mesopotamia in the next Coach Man gives a lecture on Zeno paradox which only half the class and a few yawning junior varsity football players pay attention to.  Between second and third hour we bathe in the current of students feeding books into the ajar hinges of their lockers, spotting Tim who always seems to walk with a seminal skip attached to his hallway gait, Patrick still routinely addressing everyone as Merde-tete or Dude-I need-to-Hit-that-shit, inquiring that I must be elated about slipping into the next classroom which is cool Joe Thomas,  which entails sitting next to hottie Angelina Lighthouse which twice, Patrick’s own unheralded histrionics kept me not only from getting to first base, but kept me from stepping up to the plate so as to sacrifice bunt so to speak, myself telling Patrick that UI am still enamored as about Renae Holiday, that I felt that we really shards something contra-sacred the other night when I groped the smooth tips of her fingers in a tub of popcorn. Pat is looking at me inquiring why I would want to hit that, stating that she was already kicking it with my bro-from-Limestone before making a snarky remark about how he never lets another brother sport fuck something he has already laid some serious pipe on, telling me that Angelina Lighthouse is hot, informing me that she wants you dude, stating all in the same fragmented sentences of thought that she’s so much hotter that that rich cunt from Richwood's I was seeing last summer which I tell Patrick not to call her that which Patrick doesn’t know that I spent three hours the night talking with Dawn Michelle.

 

Like Renae she has a pretty, pretty name.