antidiestablishmentclintonterrorism

The next day I am limping throughout the day inside the corridors of the school. I am almost always seen lugging my Algebra book and cool Joe Thomas bio book. I am exhausted. Coach has hinted several times that he wants to pick me up for the race Saturday morning early, about a half hour before the runners arrive so that we can just talk.  It feels like I am having a heart to heart with a surrogate father. It feels like he is going to tell me that even though my season went nowhere how I envisioned it would transpires last summer as I was running three times a day across the hard pavement and hills of Bradley park.

My second date with quotation marks banked around it is seven hours. I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop inwardly contemplating if it will be like the last time we saw each other, if it will seemed awkward at first, if we will find ourselves smiling and not really saying anything at all, if we will somehow find our hands pretzeled around each other in an innocuous tub of popcorn only to have someone David Best it out of control.

I have called Renae only twice this week and spoken very tersely as not to jinx or pending juvenile assignation.

When I call and her mother tells me that she is in the shower I try not to think about her stripping. I try not to think about her tugging at various latitudes of her bodies, releasing fabric, steeping out of her jeans as a corn to a husk.

For some reason every time I think about Renae stripping I picture the bony knobs of her kneecaps and the almost bible-paper white of her untanned inner thighs even though I will never see her in shorts.

For some reason every time I envision her unpinching her bra and stepping into a sauna of steam and bleating fluid as my entire lap petrifies and grows stiffs, as if an NES advantage is planted between my thighs, I try to resists the urge from falling into the porno planetarium of my skull, I try not to think about what would perhaps happen if we would find ourselves alone for a minute. I try not to think about what I would do if she were to invite me over after band practice and, wiggling her butt, inform me that she had to go pee and asking me if I would like to watch as she leads me to the bathroom tickling her fingers near the leather clasp of her waist, and, quickly, as if being coy, reeling her jeans and panties (shock white) around the caps of her knees in one seamless motion, smiling, embarrassed, telling me that she is shy, telling me that she can’t urinate  because I am watching her and, peeling her eyes together into a hyphenated squeeze, a subtle trickle akin to the sound of spring rain begins to carol in the porcelain  baptismal font below.

 I stop myself. I take deep breaths. I remind myself that I am a Christian. That I am pro-life. That I am pro-abstaining from pretty much about everything before marriage. That God is pissed at me for thinking about her in the bathroom. That God hates me when, in the iridescent vision splashing around like an illuminated Simon Says within the carnal contours of my skull. I picture Renae releasing herself in a golden strip-pole of fluid. I picture myself not being able to move. I picture myself forming an arrowesque beak in the center of my anatomy. I picture myself shoveling one hand into my pants and asking Reane if she wants to see  before whipping the fleshy stem of my virility out, offering it to her like a freshly plucked rose the two of us, unfledged, innocent, stranded in the garden of Midwestern cornfield subdivisions watching as she grapples my anatomy of said virility as a baby and a tepid warm bottle the two of us, doffing our wings, our genitals lauding the other with magnetic appeal.

I can’t stop wresting with salivating lust. I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop reminding myself that I am a Christian and that the reason God is punishing me after I have worked so hard running every day is because I am harboring lustful thoughts about this blithe creation. Because I am evil. Because I am sinner.

That God is damning my leg.

 That he has sent Aron’s rod to tap the femur that is my corporeal pillar and to damn me, and to make me lame. That God is punishing me for my pride. That God is tormenting me. That he hs sent dual incubuses in the guise of  Mrs. Peabody and corpulent Cool Joe Thomas to make my life a living fuck. That the Lord is my shepherd and I am not suppose to want. That I am evil because I desire to watch the neon slashes of my cousin’s record disintegrate into an arid Jerusalem dusty paste as I cross the finish line. That he is branding me for employing part of my brain at integers and scientific thought that (naturally) is counter what I believe as being certainly true, without questioning, the beautiful faith my father and mother and grandparents have found a pastel peace residing within.

I slice my hand down the side of my jeans and grope the lime cover of the Gideon bible that is perennially planted in my pocket, always, somehow, to remind me who I am.

To remind me that I was born damned.

 

“You watch the debate last night?” I ask my brother over lunch. Patrick says yeah. He says that it really pisses him off. That fucking Bill Clinton. That and he’s still ahead in the polls.

“Why don’t you like Clinton?. Mr Reents is fucking crazy about him.”

Pat stands up. It is as if he in on a soap box in Hyde park on a Sunday afternoon.

”When my old man was getting shot at in Vietnam Clinton was overseas smoking dope protesting the war. He’s a piece of yak feces. He’s an inbred sunvabitch draft dodger who wouldn’t take a bullet for his country if his wife and daughter were held hostage.”

Patrick cuts into his potato bar lunch using his fork like a scalpel.  I tell Patrick that I guess I’m bro Bush. I tell Patrick that  I find Ross Perot both insightful and endearing and, for being a oil-drilling poker chip swearing Texas Billionaire her sure knows his shit. I tell Patrick last Summer that when I was attending French class at ICC there was this kid whose father worked on Perot’s campaign or something because he was always showing up to class wearing Perot t-shirts and hats and various other Perot garb. Patrick looks at me and says he can give two shits.

“Look, we always get in a war every two or three years. Fuck, look at all the shit that’s going on right now in Bosnia and in Somalia. We need someone in office who’s gonna be a commander in chief. Not some dope-smoking tree-huggin’ green peace fuck who doesn’t know his dick from a number two pencil.”

I tell Patrick common. Patrick takes a bite of his potato bar and lifts his eyelids conveying vulgarities to me while he is chewing.

Clinton was pretty convincing on tv  last night. My parents’ can’t stand him either. My mom more or less has deemed him the anti-Christ but when he was talking about the pangs of the working middle-class working man it was beautiful in a way.

Patrick makes a hand signal indicating that he is ready to vomit. He then asks me what I’m doing tonight, being that its Friday. He asks if I want to come over to Casa Mc Reynolds and watch porn through the fuzz or something.”

I thought I told you I got a date  and then we have the conference meet on Saturday, even though I’m not running. Coach Ricca is picking me up early. He wasn’t to talk with me about something

Patrick says, what, that fucking Dawn bitch again. I say no. I tell him I have a date with Renae.

“Dude, that one hot girl who Mrs. Best had a picture of in her office last year.”

I nod. I say yeah. I say that she broke up with Dave ver the summer and that we have been talking quite a bit.

“Dude, bro, if I were you I would totally hit that shit. If I were you.”