The day of the election there are what looks like
shower stalls set up against the trophy case in the foyer of Manual High
school. Old people with cotton-boll
perms and stale coffee-cake color jug
handle earlobes verify your registration via driver’s license. The shower curtain to the stalls seem to
screech when it is closed. In a way it looks like people are heading into a
secluded booth in the back section of an
adult bookstore to view porn. When they come up the denture-lipped dotard hands
them a sticker saying I VOTED. Approximately one third of the teachers at
manual are wearing the same sticker. All of my teachers are wearing on with
the exception of Mrs. Peabody and cool joe Thomas. Something tell me that if Cool Joe Thomas had
the chance he would buy the White House and flip it to a communist Government
in order to make a menial profit.
At lunch that day Patrick asks me if I’ve physically boned Renae
Holiday yet.
“We just had our first date last Friday and we went to
the Rivermen game.”
Patrick says so, you could have porked her in a
restroom or something. I say Patrick’s name as if in shock. Patrick starts
laughing out of control.
“It looks like Clinton is going to win the election.
All the networks have him ahead in the polls.”
Patrick says fuck the goddamn networks.
“Bush will win. Trust me. People will come to their fucking goddam
senses. No one wants a fucking draft dodger in office. Plus if he is elected..."
Patrick looks both ways as if he is carrying a dossier
fraught with classified government documents.
“What?”
“Dude, all I’m saying is JFK back in ’63.”
“Young. Charming. Democratic. Couldn’t keep his dick
in his goddam pants. Didn’t know shit about being a real leader”
I shoot Patrick a look with several question marks
attached to my lips.
“Dude, that’s all I’m saying. Dallas. JFK. 63.”
Patrick pauses for exactly three seconds before he
tells me to think about it. He sounds like he is given lecture on the detriment
of crack-cocaine by showing slides of what a crack head baby looks like.
I shoot Patrick another lo-ok insinuating that he is
fucking inane.
“There are powers behind the powers dude. You don’t
believe me, but there are.”
I ignore Patrick. Tim sits down and joins us even
though he is wearing his neon purple sunglasses in doors, even though it is the
first week of November and it is cloudy and overcast outside. I ask Tom what he has been up too. Tim says
alotta nothing. Alotta nuthin is Tim’s answer for pretty much everything when
he is not gaming.
“So, Dave, dude, when you gonna pork Renae. You still
haven’t told us about the date.”
For being a staunch Irish God laying republican and
publically vitiating the infidelity of the democratic candidate Patrick turns into a self-confessed
hornball with the swig a swig of chocolate milk.
“I told you. It was our first date. Plus Hale was
there and she didn’t get along.”
Tim adds a hmmf what a surprise under his breath. When I ask
him what he is alluding to he saying nuthin sans the alotta.
“Dude, why did you invite Hale?”
“Because Renae had all her friends with her and alotta
of her friends are hot and I was hoping the big guy could get lucky since they
all pretty much go to the same school.”
Tim makes the similar huffing hmff comment under his breath stating no wonder you didn’t get
laid. When I ask him what he said he again says nuthin.
“No, it was a really good time, though hale was my
ride and we thought we had to leave
before we did so everything was cofused.”
Patrick tells me that I’m lame. Tim stammers under his
breath that I couldn’t hit that shit if I was playing T-ball.
We did kiss though. It was rather perfect. I didn’t
think we would kiss and the when I was saying goodbye I went to kiss her
forehead goodnight and somehow we found ourselves momentarily perched on the
others lips.
Patrick says that that sounds like a lifetime special
no one gives a fuck about except for women with surgically removed uteri.
“Oh, and then she gave me this.”
I have been carrying the picture around with me
nonstop. I keep it next to my bed on the desk with the giant Z slashed in the
center.
“Here,” I say, slapping down the picture as if flapping
open a passport on foreign soil awaiting to be stamped.
Both Patrick and Tim Pause. Tim removes his sunglasses.
“Dude, that’s her?”
“Yeah, she’s in the center, on the stool. They had
this sort of fashion show in French class and she was the MC, that’s why
everyone has costumes and she’s sitting on the batr stol because she was the
MC.
Patrick is going crazy. As if on cue he lift himself
off his seat while still keeping his torso and legs in a seated position and
makes a Wayne’s World schwing sound. Tim Grabs the picture from Patrick and
looks at it.
“You are dating that?”
“She’s a beautiful person. We can talk forever. She’s
an angel.”
Patrick grabs the picture back from Tim. He makes the
brazen inquiry if he can borrow the picture after school and make color
photocopies of it in his dad’s office.
I tell him no.
Patrick hold the picture up as if trying to view the
sun on a solar eclipse.
“Dude, you can totally see through that white shirt
she’s wearing.”
“You cannot!”
Tim looks at the picture with head turned and his
tongue lolling through his upper lip, as if he is trying to asses a thatch of
drywall during a plumbing leak.”
“I think Pat’s right about that one. I you look at it
close enough you can definitely see what looks like an areole.”
Tim and his goddam areoles.
I snatch the photo back.
Place it in my pocket.
B lunch is beginning to end. It is time to head back
to Mr. Reents classroom.
“Dude, that’s like the fucking hottest chick I have
ever seen. I would totally hit that shit bro.”
Totally.
In ten hours the historic race for the president of
these United States will be no more.
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