SCENES FROM AN IMAGINARY MOVIE: HELLO, UGLY 11-13

 

TRIGGER WARNING: AUTHENTIC DIALOGUE

1. INT. THE GYMNASIUM, BROOKDALE HIGH SCHOOL. A SECTION OF THE BLEACHERS IS PULLED OUT AND THE BOYS’ GYM CLASS ARE SEATED ON THEM. MOST OF THE CLASS ARE DRESSED FOR GYM; TEESHIRTS, SHORTS, SWEATS AND SNEAKERS---WITH THE EXCEPTION OF A SMALL CONTINGENCY OF STONERS, WHO ESCHEW GYM WEAR AND GIVE OFF AN AIR OF PRACTICED DISINTEREST. DOWN TOWARD THE FRONT, BRYAN HARRIS AND A NUMBER OF HIS FRIENDS, ALL POPULAR JOCKS, HANG TOGETHER AND LAUGH AND JOKE. SEVERAL ROWS BACK, THE CAMERA PANS ACROSS JACK AND A MOTLEY ASSORTMENT OF CAST-OFFS: BLINKY EPSTEIN, A SMALL, INTENSE, BESPECTACLED BOY, MARC HODGE. A LANKY, AWKWARD, EFFEMINATE BOY WITH AN UNEVEN HAIRCUT, AND HANNIBAL, A SKINNY, MEAN-LOOKING KID WITH RATLIKE FEATURES.

THE CLASS IS BEING LECTURED AND BERATED BY COACH BELLOW, A CRAGGY, 50ish GYM COACH. ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GYM, THE GIRLS’ GYM CLASS IS SITTING ON ANOTHER SET OF BLEACHERS AND THEY ARE BEING LECTURED BY THEIR GYM COACH.

BELLOW:

I know a lot of you ladies have been habitually turning up out of uniform (BRIEF CUT TO THE STONER KIDS, LOOKING BORED) and not participating, and we’ve been going real easy on you….that is OVER as of this semester. You don’t show up in uniform, you don’t participate, you get a failing grade for the day!

\

JACK (V.O.):

There’s this long-running myth that we youngsters go to P.E. to get some much-needed circulation and to help build our young bodies. It’s a crock of shit, of course. This class has, since the puberty heyday of Junior High, revolved around our dicks, and not much else. It’s a big, staged battleground, where we get our manhood tested, and not everyone wins.

DURING DIALOGUE AND NARRATION, A SILENT SCENARIO PLAYS OUT:

JACK GAZES OVER AT THE GIRLS ON THE BLEACHERS ACROSS THE GYM. CHERYL KINGSLEY IS ONE OF THE GIRLS IN THAT CLASS. HE STARES WISTFULLY ACROSS THE GYM AT HER. SHE APPEARS TO BE LOOKING BACK. SEVERAL ROWS BELOW, BRYAN HARRIS GAZES AT HER AND SMILES. CUT TO CHERYL, LOOKING BORED BUT ALSO SMILING.

BELLOW:

Anyway, ladies. As the weather’s bad and we can’t put your sorry butts through too much wear and tear, I’ve got paperwork to do, so you get to play Bombardment.

(AN ASSISTANT COACH DRAGS OUT A LARGE SACK OF PINKISH-PURPLE KICKBALLS AND DUMPS THEM ON THE FLOOR.)

GENERAL RELIEF AND EXCITEMENT FROM THE BOYS. THE ASSISTANT COACH PUSHES A SLIDING PARTITION CLOSED, SEPARATING THE GIRLS’ END OF THE GYM FROM THE BOYS. JACK WATCHES CHERYL DISAPPEAR BEHIND THE PARTITION.

BELLOW:

Harris and Redmond! You guys are captains. Now, behave yourselves, girls…(HEADS OUT BACK, LEAVING THE BOYS MORE OR LESS UNSUPERVISED).

BRYAN HARRIS AND PHIL REDMOND, ANOTHER OF THE JOCKS, CHOOSE

PLAYERS. EVENTUALLY IT WHITTLES DOWN TO THE STRAGGLERS.

REDMOND:

Hannibal.

HANNIBAL JOINS REDMOND’S TEAM.

BRYAN (pointing out Jack):

Shit-for-brains. (JACK REFUSES TO MOVE) What are you, deaf? (JACK STANDS, DEFIANT) Pettet! Come on! (JACK CONCEDES TO STEP IN WITH THE TEAM, FOLLOWED BY SNICKERS. ONE BOY SAYS, “DUUHHHH”.)

BRYAN:

Fuckin’ space cowboy…

REDMOND:

I’ll take Hodge.

MARC HODGE JOINS REDMOND’S TEAM. ONE OF THE OTHER KIDS CALLS HIM, “FAGGOT”. SEVERAL OTHERS LAUGH AND MAKE FART SOUNDS.

BLINKY, ODD MAN OUT, JOINS HARRIS’S TEAM.

BRYAN:

Hey, trade.

REDMOND (LAUGHING):

Yeah, right?

BRYAN:

Come on! Blinky for Levine---whaddya say?

REDMOND:

Sure, guy….

BRYAN:

Okay….check it out. The Jew and the mouthbreather, here, for Levine. You outnumber us.

REDMOND:

Throw in Quinn.

BRYAN:

Cut me some slack, man, you outnumber us!

REDMOND:

Yeah, with cannon fodder! (Bryan looks upset) Alright---tell you what---I’ll take your trade and you’ll STILL be cryin’ for your Mommy at the end of this game.

BRYAN:

That’s what I’m talking about….now we’re cookin’ with gas.

REDMOND:

Jack, Blinky, come on. (JACK AND BLINKY CROSS OVER AND LEVINE, A BIGGER, STRONGER KID, GOES TO HARRIS’S SIDE. SEVERAL OF THE KIDS START CHANTING, “JEWBOY” AT BLINKY.)

BLINKY:

HEY! (STOPS HALFWAY. GETTING IN LEVINE’S FACE.)

You’re Jewish too, you fuck. Why don’t you say something? (LEVINE SMILES AND SHRUGS. ONE BOY YELLS, “COME ON. YOU PUSSIES!”)

LEVINE:

I might be half Jewish, but I’m not a whiney kike like you, Lipschitz.

BLINKY LETS IT DROP AND ANGRILY CROSSES TO THE OTHER TEAM AMIDST CATCALLS.

HODGE (to Blinky):

They’re bigger than you---they’re stronger than you. Too. Do you wanna be a hero? Do you wanna die a virgin?

BLINKY:

Fuck you, man---grow some balls, or at least some dignity!

HANNIBAL:

Okay. Girls---you can have your family spat later---let’s put the hurt on!

THE TWO TEAMS CONVERGE IN BATTLE. BOMBARDMENT IS A VARIATION OF DODGEBALL, WHERE TWO TEAMS ARE ARMED WITH A DOZEN OR SO BALLS. RATHER THAN BEING “OUT” WHEN HIT, PLAYERS IN BOMBARDMENT ARE SIMPLY ABSORBED INTO THE OTHER TEAM. THIS GOES ON UNTIL ONE TEAM REMAINS.

BALLS FLY AND SEVERAL BOYS ARE HIT. BLINKY TAKES A BALL DIRECTLY TO THE FACE. HODGE IS HIT IN THE LEG AS HE TRIES TO FLINCH AWAY FROM THE BALL. JACK MAKES IT PAST THE FIRST ROUND. HE SEIZES A BALL FOR HIMSELF, THROWS IT AT BRYAN BUT MISSES. HANNIBAL HITS A LARGER BOY POINT BLANK IN THE STOMACH. AS THE KID FALLS OVER, HANNIBAL SEIZES THE REBOUNDING BALL AND HITS HIS FALLEN VICTIM IN THE FACE WITH IT.

HANNIBAL:

Suck on that, Biff!

MORE BALLS FLY BACK AND FORTH. KIDS ARE HIT AND THEY TRADE BACK AND FORTH ON TEAMS. AT ONE POINT, JACK ENDS UP ON BRYAN’S TEAM. DODGING A BALL, JACK STUMBLES PAST BRYAN, WHO “ACCIDENTALLY” ELBOWS HIM IN THE FACE.

CUT TO: THE GYM LOCKER ROOM. CLOSE-UP ON BRYAN HARRIS, IN THE SHOWER.

BRYAN (Booming like a foghorn):

CUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNT!!!!!!!

ANOTHER BOY (Picking up the yell):

Clit-TORIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THE CAMERA PANS DOWN THE ROWS OF LOCKERS WHERE THE BOYS ARE CHANGING. DOWN ONE ROW WE SEE A VERY LARGE BOY GRAB BLINKY BY THE SHOULDERS AND SLAM HIM, HARD AND REPEATEDLY, INTO THE LOCKERS. HANNIBAL IS PULLING OFF HIS SHIRT AND OBSERVING THE SCENE DISPASSIONATELY.

LARGE BOY:

WHAT?! WHAT?! You little kike faggot----don’t you EVER! TALK! BACK! To ME! AGAIN!

THE CAMERA MOVES TO THE NEXT ROW. JACK IS CHANGING UP. ONE BOY, BILL COURTNEY, ADDRESSES JACK.

COURTNEY:

Hey, Jackie----whaddya think of Debbie Lord?

JACK (V.O.):

Bill Courtney is not my friend and he doesn’t care what I think. He’s trying to fuck with me.

COURTNEY:

Well, I think she’s fuckin’ hot, man---I can just see her spreading her legs in front of me, that hot monkey of hers open wide, and that clit of hers shooting out six inches for me to taste….

JACK:

“Hot Monkey”?

BEHIND JACK, A TUBBIER BOY NAMED BILLY ARSENAULT SITS DOWN.

BILLY:

Don’t waste yer time, Courtney---Jackie’s not interested in girls, are ya, Jackie-Wackie?

JACK GLARES AT ARSENAULT.

COURTNEY:

Woah-ho-ho, careful, Billy, I see his nostrils flaring.

BILLY:

Aw, it’s cool. Me and Jack have an understanding. Why doncha come on over and suck my left nut just once, Jackie?

JACK:

Why don’t you come suck my ass forever, Arsenault?

BILLY:

Gee, Jack, I didn’t know you were that kind of girl!

COURTNEY, AT THIS POINT, IS TEASING MARC HODGE WITH PHIL LEVINE. HE HAS FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT JACK.

COURTNEY:

Hey, Hodge. ever fart?

HODGE:

What?

LEVINE (stupid & slurring):

“Whuuuuut?”

COURTNEY:

Do you ever fart?

HODGE(after a long, nervous pause):

Yeah. Yeah, I fart….

COURTNEY:

I don’t!

HODGE(dumbfounded):

What? Y-yes, you do…..I….

COURTNEY AND LEVINE:

\

ONLY DWEEBS CUT THE CHEESE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (LEVINE SNAPS HODGE’S ASS WITH HIS TOWEL. HODGE FLINCHES AND TRIES TO GET AWAY.)

LEVINE (laughing):

Faggot! (FARTS LOUDLY)

CUT TO: JACK WATCHING THIS SCENARIO WITH DISGUST. BEHIND HIM, BILLY ARSENAULT GRINS.

BILLY:

Whatsamatter Jackie-poo----you saving it for Marc? You wanting to give him the high, hard one in the butt? (JACK GLARES AT BILLY ARSENAULT AND WALKS OUT OF THE AREA) Oh, Jackie, don’t walk out on me now!!!!!!!

12. OUTSIDE IN THE HALLWAY. THE BOYS ARE LINED UP IN THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE THE GYM, WAITING FOR THE BELL TO RING. JACK,

LOOKING SICK TO HIS STOMACH, IS TOWARD THE FRONT OF THE LINE.

SNIPPETS OF CONVERSATION POP OUT OF THE CROWD---“MY DICK, YOUR SISTER.” “FAGGOT.” “POONTANG”.

JACK (V.O.):

We’re not civilized. It’s a fucking Barbarian testing ground, and people love and support the shit, top to bottom. It’s a joke. Making the Grade. Proving you’re Man enough. Maybe, deep down, people have this stupid-ass need to be powerful and strong and moronic and bigoted and ass-kicking. Maybe it’s all just nature. Maybe that makes me the unnatural one. They’d agree to that, I’m sure. I think I’d rather be dead than have to live by their Nazi Jockstrap code of ethics.

DISSOLVE TO A FLASHBACK OF THE MANDATORY PEP ASSEMBLY FOR THE HOMECOMING GAME IN NOVEMBER.

JACK (V.O.)

It was an assembly for the Homecoming Game. Brookdale Nuremburg. Why the hell are these things Mandatory? I mean, why do we all have to go? All more Master Race Mania. People can hype up all the bovines into a bloodthirsty frenzy---we must be fiercely loyal to our alma mater and rally behind those real men, The Brookdale Lions.

THROUGHOUT THE NARRATION THE CAMERA PANS ACROSS THE GYM AND WE SEE FACULTY MAKING EXCITED SPEECHES, CHEERLEADERS DOING THEIR ROUTINES, THE LIONS (Brookdale’s football team) CHARGING INTO THE GYM AND EVERYONE CHEERING AND GOING BERSERK. THE CAMERA FINALLY SETTLES IN ON A MALCONTENTED, APATHETIC LITTLE SECTION OF THE BLEACHERS. JACK AND A NUMBER OF OTHER OUTCASTS SEEM TO BE STOICALLY TOLERATING ALL THE GOINGS ON.

JACK (V.O.):

Everyone was having the usual conniption fit, making the wave, stomping and yelling. It’s been a black mark regularity since Junior High that there’s always one Deviant little section at these things who don’t act up, never make noise….that’s cool by me, ‘cause I guess that’s where I belong in the scheme of things. We are a sad lot….so unpatriotic. So lacking in pep.

VOICE:

Jack!!!!!

JACK LOOKS DOWN TOWARD THE FLOOR. CAROL GATES AND HER BEST FRIEND, ZOE MILLER, ARE STRAGGLING IN. ZOE, DWARFED BY CAROL, LOOKS LIKE A BOHEMIAN NIGHTMARE.

JACK:

Zoe! How’s your attitude?!

ZOE (yelling):

My attitude sucks!!!!! (THE TWO GIRLS SHUFFLE OFF IN AN ATTEMPT TO FIND SEATS)

SEVERAL MORE SHOTS OF CHEERLEADERS FORMING PYRAMIDS, PEOPLE CHEERING AND JACK’S LITTLE SECTION OF BLEACHER LOOKING APATHETIC.

CUT TO: SCHOOL LETTING OUT---JACK MAKES A QUICK EXIT INTO THE STUDENT PARKING LOT. CHERYL KINGSLEY AND A GAGGLE OF HER FRIENDS CROSS JACK’S PATH. THE GIRLS ARE IN MID-CONVERSATION.

CHERYL:

…Heard she’s going with Steve…

JO ANN :

OH-MY-GOD!

AMY:

He is SOOOO hot….

JILL:

But SHE’S so….

JO ANN BREAKS FREE OF THE GROUP AND GETS UP IN JACK’S FACE.

JO ANN:

Oh, HI, honey, you’re so CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTE….

THE GIRLS EXPLODE INTO LAUGHTER. JACK CONTINUES ON, HEAD DOWN. BRIEF SHOT OF CHERYL, LOOKING BACK, NOT LAUGHING. JACK DOES NOT SEE THIS.

A FEW ROWS OVER, A MOB OF KIDS BURSTS OUT OF THE GYMNASIUM . IT IS MADE UP OF MEMBERS OF THE FOOTBALL TEAM AND OTHER KIDS. THEY ARE CARRYING A LARGE, PAPIER MACHE CAGE CONSTRUCT WITH A LARGE POSTERBOARD SIGN ON IT, READING, “STOMP THE EAGLES”.

JACK WATCHES AS THE MOB STORMS ACROSS THE STREET AND OFF SCHOOL PROPERTY. THE KIDS FORM A CIRCLE AND THERE IS MUCH COMMOTION, JUMPING AROUND AND CHEERING. JACK DRAWS CLOSER, STILL MAINTAINING A COMFORTABLE DISTANCE. IN THE CENTER OF THE MOB, TWO BOYS HAVE TAKEN THEIR SHIRTS OFF. THEY BEAT EACH OTHER BLOODY AS THE OTHER KIDS CHEER THEM ON. THE FIGHT EVENTUALLY GRINDS TO A HALT, AND EVERYONE BRINGS THE TWO TIRED, BLOODY COMBATANTS TOGETHER TO SHAKE HANDS AND MAKE UP. AS THE TWO ATTEMPT TO DO THIS, SOME OF THE CROWD VIOLENTLY SHOVES ONE BOY INTO THE OTHER AND THE BRAWL STARTS UP AGAIN. IT DOESN’T LAST LONG, THOUGH, AND EVENTUALLY, THE BOISTEROUS MOB BREAKS UP AND RETURN TO SCHOOL GROUNDS TO PACK IT IN, CATCH THEIR BUSES, DRIVE HOME OR WHATEVER.

JACK PASSIVELY WALKS ACROSS THE STREET TO GET A LOOK AT THE TABLEAU. THE GROUND IS ALL TORN UP, TORN BITS OF CLOTHING, RIBBON AND THE PAPIER MACHE CAGE, WHICH LIES IN RUIN, ARE STREWN EVERYWHERE. THE “STOMP THE EAGLES” SIGN BLOWS BY LIKE A TUMBLEWEED.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MESS, JACK FINDS A DEAD BIRD, OBVIOUSLY A SACRIFICIAL “MASCOT” FOR THE OPPOSING TEAM, THE EAGLES, THE BIRD HAS LITERALLY BEEN STOMPED TO DEATH. JACK GLARES AT THE DEAD BIRD, DOUBLES OVER, VOMITS AND BEGINS CRYING UNCONTROLLABLY. EVENTUALLY, HE REGAINS SOME COMPOSURE, SUMMONS HIS STRENGTH AND DIGS A SMALL HOLE IN THE DIRT. HE PUSHES THE BIRD INTO THE HOLE WITH HIS FOOT AND PUSHES THE DIRT BACK OVER IT. HE PULLS HIMSELF TOGETHER AND LIMPS BACK TO THE EDGE OF THE ROAD.

BEFORE HE CAN CROSS, A SMALL, BLUE CAR ZOOMS BY. IT IS FILLED WITH KIDS. “STOMP THE EAGLES” IS SCRAWLED ACROSS THE CAR IN SHAVING CREAM. ONE BOY HANGS HALFWAY OUT THE WINDOW AND LEERS AT JACK.

KID (tongue hanging out):

MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

THE CAR SPEEDS AWAY. JACK STARES AFTER IT, LOOKING WOUNDED.

JACK(V.O.):

It was the face of everything people stand up and cheer for. (AS JACK’S NARRATION CONTINUES, THE SCENE DISSOLVES BACK TO HIM, STANDING IN LINE IN THE HALLWAY.) This world is a meat factory. It’s a slaughterhouse jockeyed by goons who wear the hallowed school colors. I can dream up plenty of nice images and memories to make me say, oh, it’s not that bad---then the dead bird pops up again and proves me wrong. Hell, it was patriotic! It was good, clean fun! It was for pride, for the fucking Lions! It was apple pie and “be true to your school”.

THE BELL RINGS, JERKING JACK OUT OF HIS FUNK. HE BEGINS MOVING FORWARD, BUT IS OBVIOUSLY STILL DISTURBED.

BILLY (moving up behind him):

Move yer big, fat smelly ass, you faggot retard! Some of us have to get to…

JACK WHIRLS AROUND AND THROWS A RIGHT CROSS TO BILLY ARSENAULT’S JAW. BILLY FALLS BACKWARD INTO THE CROWD. STILL HOT, JACK TURNS AND CONTINUES WALKING, VERY QUICKLY. BILLY STAGGERS BACK UP THROUGH THE CROWD AND SLAMS HIS LOOSELEAF NOTEBOOK DOWN SQUARELY ON JACK’S HEAD. HE STUMBLES OFF TO THE SIDE AND JACK CONTINUES WALKING.

JACK:

What was that----a piece of paper??? (CONTINUES WALKING, VERY QUICKLY) (V.O.): I figure I save about as much face as he did. I pretend I’m walking away with dignity…just a little, just a tiny bit….

13. INT. SENIOR COMMONS ROOM, BROOKDALE HIGH SCHOOL. CLOSEUP SHOT OF ZOE MILLER. P.O.V. JACK. SHE IS SCANNING JACK’S HEAD FOR ANY POSSIBLE INJURIES. ZOE IS A PETITE, BOHEMIAN BRUNETTE WHO WEARS GLASSES.

JACK:

Any blood?

ZOE:

Nope…sorry, Jack---no big, brave battle scars today. Only thing wounded is your pride.

JACK:

Figures. (TWO JOCKS LOOM INTO THE SCENE)

JOCK #1:

Hey, Zook---isn’t this OUR usual seat?

JOCK #2:

Yep. Hey, Misery Chick! We’re evicting you.

ZOE:

Suck me until I bleed.

JOCK #2:

LISTEN, bitch…

JOCK #1:

Hey! Buddy! You need to try and control your woman---keep her mouth shut!

JACK:

She’s not “My Woman”. And please---suck her until she bleeds. (THE TWO SEEM TO SILENTLY DECIDE IT’S NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE AND THEY WANDER ON. JACK AND ZOE SETTLE DOWN.)

ZOE:

Smell the genius in THIS room!

JACK:

So, Zoe, how’s your attitude?

ZOE:

My attitude sucks.

JACK:

Atta girl. How’s your day been?

ZOE:

Well, I was up ‘til two in the morning, working on some new sketches, and that wasn’t real good for me, but inspiration is sometimes a cruel mistress---so I’m fairly exhausted, still.

JACK:

I’ll bet.

ZOE:

Then there’s Home Ec, and I can’t stand LeBeau, she’s such a cow---I think she picks on me, personally---takes out all her rage against feminism and 21^st century thought on poor little Miss Miller. Sexual Revolution? All my fault. Watergate? All my fault. The stupid economy? Guess who? I’m her own private nightmare, you know…

JACK:

That’s what I keep hearing. So, other than the heartbreak of Cow Economics, how’s life with the Zoster?

ZOE:

Oh…..alright, I guess….I was talking to Carol last night…..

JACK:

Yeah?

ZOE:

Oh, God, she was going on about this weekend camping trip she’s going on with her brother and a few of his friends…she kept giggling and laughing and cutting out of the conversation and saying, “stop it! Stop it!” And I asked her who she was talking to and she said, “oh, it’s my boyfriend, he keeps tickling me!”

JACK:

Who’s her boyfriend?

ZOE:

She doesn’t have one…she’s been doing this for a couple of weeks, now---she makes them up.

JACK:

Jesus Christ!

ZOE:

I know, right? God, Jackie, I just don’t know what to do with her!!!! (THERE IS A LOUD RUCKUS OUTSIDE THE COMMONS ROOM) What the fuck?!

KIDS BEGIN FILING OUT TO SEE WHAT’S GOING ON.

JACK:

Oboy! Go, lemmings, go!

ZOE:

Don’t be so cynical, young man---the entire foundation of our culture is built on the desire to rubberneck at car accidents, and you know that you want to! Future generations depend on it!

JACK:

Yay, future!!! Before too long we’ll be making toast with shoehorns and riding around the skies in flying cars---we’ll be just like the fucking Jetsons!

ZOE:

I know, right? Come on---before the carnage is over---let’s be good Americans!

(THE TWO GATHER UP THEIR BOOKS AND BAGS AND HEAD OUT INTO THE HALL)

JACK AND ZOE BLUNDER INTO A LARGE BOTTLENECK IN THE HALLWAY. IN THE MIDDLE OF IT, BRYAN HARRIS AND A STONER ARE SQUARED OFF IN A FIST FIGHT. KIDS ARE SURROUNDING THEM, THROWING THEIR FISTS AND CHANTING, “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

JACK SEES CHERYL, LOOKING DISTRESSED, ON THE OTHER END OF THE HALLWAY.

KIDS:

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

JACK LOOKS OVER HIS SHOULDER AND SEES SEVERAL KIDS HOLDING UP THEIR CELL PHONES. HE LOOKS MOMENTARILY PERPLEXED AND ANNOYED BY THIS AND TURNS BACK TO THE ACTION. PEOPLE ARE CHEERING ON EITHER ONE OF THE TWO BOYS. BEFORE EITHER OF THEM CAN MAKE ANY HEADWAY, THREE TEACHERS INTRUDE AND BREAK UP THE FIGHT.

TEACHER:

Okay! Break it up! Everybody get to your classes! (BRYAN AND THE STONER KID ARE HAULED OFF BY THE TEACHERS. THE CROWD DISPERSES.)

ZOE:

Gladiatorial contest’s over---let’s go, Jack--- (GRABS JACK’S ARM. JACK LOOKS BACK OVER HIS SHOULDER AND SEES CHERYL WANDER OFF LOOKING DISGUSTED)

HANNIBAL (Turning up behind Jack & Zoe):

Looks like Biff got a chance to show off his dick size again….Cheryl has to be on the bottom tonight.

JACK (looking annoyed):

Biff…what, Hannibal? You mean Bryan?

HANNIBAL:

Bryan. Biff. They’re ALL fuckin’ Biff!

ZOE PULLS JACK BACK INTO THE COMMONS ROOM.

ZOE:

OKAY, back to reality. Wednesday we do the library, right?

JACK:

Huh?

ZOE:

The library. We agreed on that, right? Hello? Report for Bannister’s Class? Sacco/Vanzetti trial?

JACK:

Oh. Oh. Oh. Shit---that’s due next week, huh?

ZOE:

You are correct, sir! You win the Prize. Wednesday is still good for you, right?

JACK:

Yeah! Sure…

ZOE:

Cool! Am I driving?

JACK:

Could you?

ZOE:

I suppose…hey---hanging out with Blinky tonight---he’s wanting to play Magic: The Gathering. You wanna come?

JACK:

Huh? Oh---no, I’ve gotta work tonight, and then I gotta read a couple chapters….

ZOE:

You sure? It’s gonna be me and half a dozen virgins----I’m going to need SOME protection….

JACK (laughing):

Naw---wish I could----I’d prefer it. (THE BELL RINGS)

ZOE:

Damn!!! Okay---gotta go---seeya!

JACK:

Yeah. Seeya. (THE TWO GO THEIR SEPARATE WAYS. AS JACK WALKS DOWN THE HALL A WAYS HE IS STOPPED BY MRS. ROSEN, AN ENGLISH LIT TEACHER)

MRS. ROSEN:

Jack!

JACK:

Hey, Mrs. Rosen….

MRS. ROSEN:

Jack, you’re one of my best students---how would you feel about doing me a favor?

JACK:

Will if I can…what’s up?

MRS. ROSEN:

I have a student in one of my classes…this student is finishing up the same unit you are….she’s sort of floundering on Thomas Hardy. How do you feel about tutoring?

JACK:

Tutoring?

MRS. ROSEN:

Just help her get through JUDE THE OBSCURE, Jack. I think she’s sincere in her desire to do well----just see if you can prevent her from flunking the unit.

JACK:

Yeah, I guess it’s mot much of a problem!

MRS. ROSEN:

GOOD! That’s my boy. (SHE HANDS HIM A PIECE OF PAPER) So, how did you feel about Mr. Hardy?

JACK:

I liked it---had a really profound effect on me. (SECOND BELL RINGS) Hey, Mrs. Rosen…? Could you do me up an admit slip?

MRS. ROSEN:

Oh, absolutely! (SHE SCRAWLS A NOTE OUT ON A NOTEPAD) Thank you, Jack! (SHE HANDS HIM THE ADMIT SLIP AND HE HEADS OFF. HE GLANCES DOWN AT THE NAME OF THE STUDENT HE WILL BE TUTORING)

CUT TO: A CLOSE-UP OF THE NAME AND PHONE NUMBER. IT IS CHERYL KINGSLEY’S.

JACK (V.O.):

Oh my god.

Copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts, 2011 C.F. Roberts, 2021 C.F. Roberts/Molotov Editions

This little curio is from roughly a decade ago, when I took my novel, HELLO, UGLY, and over a couple of different drafts, adapted it into a screenplay. Special thanks in these efforts went to my eternal support system, Heather Drain, and to some other faraway friends whose screenplay work provided me with a template to work from. I'm aware of some basic theories on screenplays----the later draft was more an According-to-Hoyle workable screenplay, the stripped down sort of which I might hand to a film studio, where a lot of blank spaces are left for the director to work with and fill out as he or she might please.

     This one...? Is from the first draft, which you might call my "Director's Cut". If I were the filmmaker, this is the version I'D make!

      The new edition allowed me a good opportunity to update things---after all, in the late '80s, when I wrote the original book, everyone didn't have a cell phone. Things like YouTube and TikTok and Social Media were just a zygote in some media mogul's eye at that stage in the game.

       Much of the dialogue stays pretty much the same and maybe some of my younger, more politically gentle readers might be taken aback by some of it----or maybe not. This is what locker rooms sounded like when I was a kid, and despite the hype I can't imagine they're any different or any more enlightened now.

     Decided over the weekend that my first book-length project for 2021 is to do a final rewrite/update of the book, and I'm changing the working title from HELLO, UGLY to THE BIG UGLY. Be ready. 

OLD MAN DELPRETE

Another chunk of the “Brookdale Mythos” or “Brookdale Cycle”, here....this one is more or less a kind of “Prequel” to my novel, HELLO, UGLY, taking place in the '60's. Old Man Delprete is kind of a peripheral “character” in the book in that the teenagers who are the main characters bust into what, according to urban legend, is an old, abandoned “murder house”, wherein they find sheets over a lot of the old furniture and they party, socialize, wear the sheets and run around acting like ghosts....they drink a toast to Old Man Delprete, the historic murderer the urban legends are all based around.

This is Old Man Delprete's story.

In the act of compiling short stories for two collections I've decided to drop this one from the list (so I'm putting it here). Reason one is that whenever I revise HELLO I'm probably dropping the section in the Delprete House...it's excessive and heavy-handed and I don't think it adds anything of substance to the story. So “OMD” ends up with less of a context. I also have my doubts as to how well the story, as a whole, “works”...kind of overwritten, and I'm not too sure the multipart, multivoice structure functions well, particularly the kind of dark folk ballad sections---you could tell I was listening to a lot of Nick Cave at the time. Does it work? You tell me....

Nothing earth-shattering went into the guts of this---a little Faulkner here, a little Bloch there, some Selby frosted over the top----the “cake” of it all is my interest in the case of John List, and if you don't know who he is, you should look him up. It's an interesting case and I'm not gonna say anything else.

Oh---yeah---because you can't take such things for granted these days, the “N” word gets used in this story. Sorry, I'm not taking it out. This character's entire motivation is his fear of all the change and social upheaval around him....that's the way he thinks and that's the word he uses. I'm not in the habit of self-censoring for the Politically Dainty, so rather than engage in mealy-mouthed apologetics

I'm doubling down. The word stays. I don't think I should have to lecture you lot like a goddamned grade school teacher but evidently these days you need to preface everything because everyone's like a goddamn child.

And get offa my lawn.

Anyway, enough ranting. Here's “Old Man Delprete”.

OLD MAN DELPRETE

I

Old Man Delprete sits with his wife and two sons in the basement sitting room he has constructed for them. He leans forward in his easy chair and scowls at the television set. His boy Liston once again failed to beat that uppity, loudmouthed commie nigger who'd claimed he was a Muslim rather than fight for his country. Disgrace, yes, a disgrace. And funny business, as far as he could see. That wasn't any kind of a punch. Dirty Italian Mafia Fixers, no doubt---anyone could see the Mafia were in cahoots with the Commies. They ran everything now----ran the U.S. Mail, ran all the shows in Atlantic City, for sure. Just as well, he figures. If this were the old days he'd have most likely gone down to Sully's and shot his mouth off. Old Man Delprete isn't much for going out these days---more content to stay home with the family and watch it all go to hell from the basement.

Still, it's a disgrace about Clay, or whatever it is he's going to call himself now, and he tells his wife so. No reply. No reply needed. She's smiling and she understands. He loves her so much. And the boys. Perfect young men.

Old Man Delprete sits back and reflects upon the ominous state of the world. Portent, he believes the word is. It's different from the old days. Can't tell who your neighbors are. Crime. Immorality. Widespread acceptance of Communism.

Where are our values going? Old Man Delprete asks himself this a lot.

But a man shouldn't dwell on the negatives, he supposes, but instead look on his fortune and thank the Lord for simple things. Home. Family. The things that have real meaning.

Old Man Delprete thinks this and smiles at his wife. He looks at her, closely. Something's wrong.

II

The obsidian cloud settle over the small town of Brookdale. Visitation of the evil and the madness O woe O day O woe to little Brookdale. The shadows clutch n drown poor little Brookdale.

The grass grow long an a monster keeps his little hell in Brookdale. The secret cloaked in a decayin paint on a quiet little street in Brookdale.

III

Old Man Delprete takes a walk over to his workbench and looks for the needed instruments---oh, he must heal his wife---the larger ones----no, he needs the finer ones.

A few minutes later he returns to the sitting room and heals his wife. Magic. The magic of love. He touches up her face, the perfect shade of red, replenishes her winning smile...

Much better.

IV

Mabel Watson put down her teacup. She thought about the friends she'd known all her life, those she'd grown up and gone to school with, how it seemed that all moved away a long time ago. No jobs in Brookdale. No life in Brookdale. Honey, thjis town just isn't going anywhere. It'll die where it is right now.

Even young Agnes had stopped coming over to play Rummy, like she used to.

Mabel's son and daughter said they wanted to move her into a rest home. They said they'd been worried about her.

Terrible. Locking her in a rest home.

She thought about looking for Irv out in the back yard and calling him in for lunch. Then she remembered that, of course, there was no point to that. Irv had been dead for at least five years.

Maybe ten.

Could you blame a girl for getting lonely? And now all this business with the rest home. Just look at the way all her old friends had moved away, as had her children---so long ago.

Even young Agnes had stopped coming over to play Rummy, like she used to.

V

Enter the Electric Man.

Christ, thinks the Electric Man stalking through tall grass headed round back the house to read the meter, don't these people ever mow the lawn?

Finally he finds the meter next to the window and takes the reading

Job done the Electric Man turns to go one stray bored eye peering casually in the basement window

Storefront display

What the----?

VI

Horror, freezing cold, digs deep into Old Man Delprete. It was there. He's sure, this time. Again. The phantom. The pervert. Peeping.

The face. The face in the window.

God almighty, a man and his family aren't safe in their own home anymore.

Old Man Delprete frowns, grimaces with iron resolve.

--I will not, he screams, will not lie down to the decay the immorality swallowing America---they can't do this to me!

Gun

VII

The Electric Man doubles over and weeps.

VIII

The children in the schoolyard loiter and talk.

--Yeah we went downa the cranberry bog yesterday tryin to catch some frogs. Didn't find any.

--Aw, man, the cranberry bog? Down by Delpretes?

--Yeah, An' what about it? Ain't nobody lives down there.

--I hear Old Man Delprete still lives down there.

--Oh he died years ago.

--You mean 'e's a ghost?

--Naw, I don't mean 'e's a ghost. Grow up, will ya? All I'm sayin' is there ain't no Old Man Delprete an' he's just dead, he ain't no boogeyman in his cave, stewin' kids, is all.

---That house is empty an' has been for years. Ain't no Old Man Delprete, he was just this old fart moved away a long time ago.

---Scary house, though.

--Pshaw!

IX

Old Man Delprete finds the pervert cowering by the side of the house. Grovelling. Drooling.

Aims, fires. Justice is dispensed.

X

The boys gather 'round Sully's after work for a few rounds of beer.

--Well, sighs Levesque, godda go back to the missus before she starts suspectin' . Round of laughter from the boys.

--Ah, Levesque, chuckles Thibodeau, ya Missus is in good hands. Another round of laughter. I gotcher Missus right here.

---Seeya. Hi to the wife. Etc.

More drinking. Talking. Reminiscing. The boys grow a little older and smile. They are the old boys of Brookdale. Pushin' for that pension. Every night work. Every day Sully's. They are comfortable. Waiting to die.

--Ah, says LaPierre, ain't the same. Alla good people, the ole folks, movin' outta town...

--Ain't what it used to be.

--Nope.

--Know what we could use around here? Asks Old Jean.

--Some life, cracks Thibodeau.

--We could use ole Delprete.

--Ah, go on.

--No, no! Hear me out!

--Get outta here. Delprete was a crazy old cuss.

--He was one of the boys! An' lemme tell you he had some life in him...

--All Delprete ever did was go on an' on about this'n'that'n'the world goin' to hell an' such.

--Here, here.

--Delprete was a bore. An' he only got worse after his taxidermy business went under. Went buggy. Good riddance.

--No, no! Says Old Jean. Ain't nobody could replace Delprete...ya may have disagreed with his grumpy ass on the time of day, but you remember every conversation you ever had with him, yeah?

--Can ya believe this?!

--Ain't nobody could replace Delprete, nobody. Look at alla you, ya deadasses, you go from here to there an' back again. Whaddya do, huh? Whaddya do? Delprete, he was a character....

---Ah, go on....

XI

Old Man Delprete manages to weigh down the Electric Man using cinderblocks from the cellar. The cranberry bog sucks him down.

XII

A hole opened up where a life once was, and a name, a tiny world, is blotted out in Brookdale.

Ravens in heir solemn ritual pace dropping roses down 'round Brookdale's shame....

XIII

Legend.

The children for generations will ring their laughing, dancing plague circles round, chant the grisly legend of Old Man Delprete.

The stories vary. The number of victims shift. The misdeeds grow and distort and intensify in Legend.

XIV

Old Man Delprete sits and beams at his fine family. Agnes smiling, starry-eyed. The boys now perfect young men. Steadfast. Tall.

When things get too much, one must fight. There are very few things in this world that are of lasting importance. A man must defend and protect those that matter. Nothing must come between a man and his home, his family.

Sometimes, one has to make the hard decisions. One must sacrifice. Sometimes harsh measures must be followed in order to teach those who might make wrong turns, so that they might eventually pursue the right course. He has no doubt about that now.

Old Man Delprete frowns thoughtfully. He figures he ought to tend to the lawn.

Maybe later. It seems to be one of those things he always puts off. Maybe later.

Thooming raps on the front door upstairs. Damned IRS. Best to just ignore it.

XV

cranes in the cranberry bog. The yellow line. Brookdale opens its eyes and screams at its face takes up the mask nails it to its face in terror, never to remove it again.

Smash the mirror, little Brookdale.

XVI

In the tiny room Old Man Delprete sits frail in the wooden chair and he smiles a nervous smile. A parade of men walk in and out.

It all frightens him a little bit.

He asks when he might be allowed to go back to his family.

XVII

A tiny, hunched and humble man crosses the threshold on a gray horizon and shuffles into myth.

copyright 1992 C.F. Roberts,

2019 Molotov Editions

“Old Man Delprete” was picked up and run by a zine out of Maine called GOTHICA. Don't know what ever became of it----the editor, who's apparently one more person from back then who just dropped off the face of the earth, ran a couple of things of mine---she respected me as a writer although for some bizarre reason we never got along. A lot of it may have been our different approaches to the word “Gothic”, which to her meant Anne Rice----to me it meant The Sisters of Mercy and the Cure, or on a literary angle, Goethe, the Bronte Sisters, et. al. So we didn't necessarily get off on the right foot...she always perceived us, for some inexplicable reason, as being diametrically opposed on some ethical or philosophical level. Even her glowing mention of me in editorials were undercut by bizarre little “digs”. Hey, my ethics and philosophies amounted to this: I'm just some fucking guy who writes stories.

However, the lady was kind enough to publish me in her mag, and she also supported a good many writers I knew who were worthy of the attention. So wherever she may be, hats off to her.

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

THE KINKS-Arthur (Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire)

FAITH NO MORE-King for a Day, Fool for a Lifetime

FAITH NO MORE-Angel Dust

ENTRY

The story in this entry was "Hannibal Shooting Fish in a Bucket".

         “Hannibal Shooting Fish in a Bucket” is part of what I call “The Brookdale Cycle” or “The Extended Brookdale Mythos”----which is my fancy-ass way of saying it's a handful of short stories that revolve kinda loosely around my first novel, HELLO, UGLY and its setting, the fictional town of Brookdale, New Hampshire. Most of the stories center around two characters, either Old Man Delprete (who's referenced in the book but who's long-since out of the picture and faded into local legend by the time the action of the book takes place) and this story's subject, Mike Hannibal.

Hannibal is really just a peripheral character in HELLO---in a book whose main characters tend to be marginalized misfit kids, Hannibal is the kind of unpleasant worm burner that even those misfits are wary of. For whatever reason I found Hannibal to be an interesting enough character to where I revisited him in a couple of different stories. The other story, which is one of the single ugliest stories I've ever written, is relatively recent and I'm still shopping it around to potential publishers----hence you're not gonna see it in this blog anytime soon. I briefly brought “Hannibal Shooting Fish” back into circulation recently and what you're reading is a slight rewrite of the story I was peddling around in the early '90s, but hell with it---no avail----stick a fork in it----it's done.

This particular story picks up after the action in HELLO, UGLY where Hannibal is an adult. He's hanging with a gang of friends and acquaintances but as per usual, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

I think what I was getting at with the shooting of fish and then Hannibal getting sick on seafood at the end of the story was your basic stock Christ symbology---I played with a lot of religious ideas and imagery at that time and I think what I was shooting for was a picture of Hannibal's actions as a “rejection of Christ”....although “Christ”, such as it is here, is more a supernatural proxy for general morality, human decency or just good things in general. I'm not particularly religious and this is not a religious story, per se. Pretty much just a character sketch---one unsavory individual doing stupid shit. Theater of the Irrational.

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
THE S.E. APOCALYPSE KREW-"RISE" (plug, plug)
STARCRAWLER-S/T
RUSH-"MOVING PICTURES"

HELLO, UGLY---ANOTHER EXCERPT

Once again I'm working the screenplay for a film version of my first novel, HELLO, UGLY. This first pass at a new draft has been fruitful---I've gotten the damn thing's length down to somewhere in the “Star Wars” ballpark. As the drafting continues, I'm sure it'll get tighter, me being the chronic revisionist that I am.

One bit that won't make the cut is this nugget of dialogue between Jack and his Mom. And I love this scene, but for the screenplay, it's going 'bye-bye.

Serving me a tuna melt, my Mother says, “you look awful, Jack.” It's just the two of us for supper tonight. The old man's taking care of his own business. Dad's running away from his dead son. Daddy's little dead boy.

I mumble thanks to my Mother for the sandwich, Mrs. Congeniality who yelled at me from the window of a strange house and I start hating myself. Jesus Christ, I think, it was a dream, a dream, just a dream, but I'm scared and I don't feel too guilty for thinking that because deep down I know it really went down.

“What happened to you?” She asks. It's the tenth time she's asked me. She's asking again because I didn't say anything the other nine times. “How did your clothes get so dirty?”

“Fell,” I mutter. It's a lie, but hopefully it'll shut her up.

“Where did you fall?”

“School.”

“When?”

“On my way out. I was going to the, uh, the student parking lot.” I can't think. What do I want to say? Words are all jammed up in my throat.

“And...?”

“Uh....I don't know. I slipped on the wet grass and I fell down a slope. I landed in the mud.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess lots of people saw me.”

“Well, did they help you?” She asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Shrugging my shoulders and reaching for the Pepsi bottle, “why should they? None of their business.”

“Well, Jack, I find it hard to believe that all those people saw you fall and none of them helped you.”

“Why?”

“I know if I saw anyone fall down the way you did, I'd help them,” she offers and I smile but I think she's lying. I mean, she's told me before that she was a member of the Varsity Club when she was in school and I know none of those people would ever pick me up if I fell. And then there's the whole dream thing where she shouted at me. Anyone who would do that wouldn't help me if I fell in a mud puddle. But I know it was just a dream. No, it wasn't. Yes, it was.

“Not everyone's like you, Mom,” I reassure her.

“Oh, well, Jack, come on! I don't think that everyone's that bad, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Jack.”

“You can ignore it if you want,” I tell her, “but people prove it to me every day.”

“Oh, Jack.”

Oh, Jack, oh, Jack. “Oh, Mom.”

“Pass the chips,” and I fork her over the bag of Ruffles.

“You know what Anne Frank said,” she informs me as she digs into the bag, “in the middle of the Holocaust, hiding from the Nazis, she said that she still believed people were basically good inside.”

“Anne Frank is a lampshade.”

“My God, Jack!”

“S'true!”

She pauses for a minute to rethink her strategy. “Zoe would have helped you,” she finally says.

“Yeah, well,” I deadpan and don't look at her. She's quiet for a minute and I think she's gotten the hint not to go there.

We sit in hair-trigger silence. Eating our sandwiches. Crunching our chips. Drinking our drinks. Thinking our fear.

She breaks the ice with a new subject. “Jack,” she says, “do you know a boy at your school named Billy Arsenault?”

I stop, mid-munch. “Who?”

“Billy Arsenault.”

Punch in the face, notebook over the head, oh, Jackie, Jackie, suck my left nut just once, “yeah, I know him.”

“Do you know his mother's in the hospital?”

Raising my eyebrows, “that right?”

“Yes,” she says with some kind of childlike concern eclipsing her face.

“What happened?”

“I guess she suffered a stroke. She was tending to the flowers in her garden and it started to rain. She was gathering up her gardening tools and then she clutched her head and fell down. She's in the hospital, now, and I hear she's in serious condition. They say she might not live through the night.”

“How did you find this out?"

“I was talking on the phone earlier with Shirley Eagen. You remember Shirley. She lives next door to the Arsenaults.”

“Huh.”

“Isn't that awful? Imagine how Billy must feel.”

I munch on my sandwich and I mull it over for a minute. The first thing I think of is my childhood. Going to the beach with Mom. Collecting seashells and getting a sunburn. Her rubbing ointment on my sore, red arms and back. Mom telling me stories, reading me books. Mom and Grandma taking me to movies. I wonder if Arsenault has a lot of memories like these. I bet he does. I bet this situation's rough on him. I try to imagine what it must be like, going through this kind of shit with his mother. I think and I think and I stare at the neglected bread crust on my plate.

“Good,” I say.

Copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts/2016 Molotov Editions

*****

I was contemplating the irony of this scene today---the story is about at its tipping point and the cheese is really sliding off Jack's cracker. He doesn't trust his mother, mostly due to delusional notions, but he enters into this debate with her about the ethics of helping people who've fallen into mud puddles and the fact is, this did not happen. He's lying through his teeth about the entire story. So who, here, is untrustworthy? Sadly, Jack himself isn't even sure what the truth is.

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:

THE TUBES-Now

THE TUBES-Love Bomb

THE SCORPIONS-Fly to the Rainbow

3 DAYS/3 WALKS PART TWO: HELLO, UGLY (1990)

And so now I walk away from my house. I have to get away from it. I really think it's just that I sort of have to get away from everything. No rest, no peace, my brain is a screeching light and I don't know how to shut it off.

Wandering about this jungle and everything I see bugs me. It's like it's all ashes in an ashtray. I can't ever touch cigarette ashes. They have this awful, alien feeling like they're nothing anyone is ever meant to put their fingers on. Everything around me is like that right now. Repellent. Get it the fuck away from me.

Ungodly suburbs. This shit isn't civilization. It's like a big, split-level Brady Bunch cemetery. It's like the cemetery I went to today, except that had tombstones, this has houses.

The rows of empty, dead houses go on forever, but the time passes fast because my head is like a big locomotive and it won't stop going. I can't continue like this, that's all I know. I need to be forgiven for the terrible thing I did. I know I was wrong but there has to be a way out of this trap.

Suddenly, “rurrurrurr,” a dog pops out of its yard and attacks me. It doesn't bite me, but it runs out of the shadows and it yaps and yaps away like a mad thing. It's probably afraid of my face. I'm scared and I can feel my nervous heart slamming away in my chest, but then the fear goes away and now I'm laughing because the dog looks like Lassie.

On I walk and I keep yukking even though that dog gave me a good scare. My heart keeps pounding away, though, like a piledriver, earth shattering. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

After a while the hill bottoms out into Windham Street. Cars fly by, their lights trailing behind them like wild, glowing vapor trails from jet planes and it's scary and exciting and I think about diving into it for a few seconds. I don't go through with it, though. I'm not real sure that what's beyond the sailing lights is as big a thrill as the lights themselves. The whole thing blows me away, though, just thinking there's at least one person in all those cars. Maybe there are whole families in some of them. That's wild...all those people., catching this quick glimpse of me as they speed down the tubes. Where will they end up? What's their destination? Nothing good in this world. Maybe it'd be more humane if they put up this big detour sign that led them all straight to the bottom of the Merrimack River or something. Whatever. Still, the fleeting sight of me by the side of the road must be fucking with these peoples' worlds in a major league way. I try to imagine the trauma they must all be feeling, taking the image of my shattered, zig-zagged killer's face through the rest of their lives.

I can't begin to figure out how it might affect them, but it makes me laugh, Then I have to stop laughing because it's terrible. Then I have to laugh again.

The 7-11's across the street, beckoning me like a glowing, inviting church. The sight of it makes me sad because I have no money and it would be a waste of time for me to go there. It's not like I could even bum around there and read the magazines on account of the way I look. Some son of a bitch with glaring eyes and sharp wolf teeth would chase me out of the store, beating me over the head with a broom or something.

I don't know what to do or where to go. I walk down the road toward downtown Brookdale. It's just my nature, now, to follow my feet. I walk home from school, I walk the cemetery, I walk home from Juan's house, I walked home from the Hobby Shoppe, back when I still worked there.

Up, up, up the street...everything is shrouded in night-quiet like there's nobody living on this planet but me. I'm not sure I like it, but maybe it's better. Look at me, I'm a walking abomination that kills.

Sometimes I'm walking past trees, sometimes past little pockets of houses. Civilization. Civilization in a Coma, with all the lights out.

In the yard of one house I'm walking past I hear a big dog barking out its warning, “Woowoowoowoowoo! Woo!” It booms. I don't see it. The dog might be chained. Why be stupid and take guesses? I amble back across the street. I keep moving and the dog won't stop barking. I think I travel hundreds of feet and wind around the corner and it's still barking.

Summer is coming. Not that I give a flying shit, it's just that I know Summer's coming. It's hot and muggy out and the sky is clear. The crickets are chirping their lonely song in disunity and I wonder if all these brainless little bugs feel as lost as I do out here. I saw a close-up picture of a cricket once. They're not as cute as Jiminy. They look like little monsters. I wonder if they know it?

The sky is too huige and when I look at it I get dizzy and sad and I have to stop staring at it and keep my eyes on the ground. It's this giant patchwork of winking lights and it goes far past the horizon. It goes on forever and ever and now, walking under it as it threatens to crush me, I understand just how tiny I am, just how big and impersonal the whole universe is. I have to look again and I do and I can't stand it because I feel like I'm falling. Now I know why I can scream and scream and never, ever be answered. It's all too big.

An eighteen-wheeler blasts around the bend and vooms by me like a tornado. When it goes by my heart roars like an avalanche and I get scared and shivers go through me like high voltage. The truck barrels past so big and so rapid that I think for a few seconds I could be swallowed whole by something like that. I'm very small. It's like the way a man can wipe out an anthill without even thinking about it. I could go that fast, without anyone ever knowing.

I wander past some of the bigger, nicer houses in town. I'm coming up on the town center, now, and the library. I go by the library and I can feel my heart freeze up and smash like a piece of glass as I think about how Zoe and I were there and how those girls treated her that night and how we became friends then, very good friends and it was sort of uncomfortable at first, because showing yourself to someone is like stripping for a doctor and sharing isn't easy in the beginning. It was only later when I realized how much that night meant to me and now it all just sticks into me like a long, sharp knife and slices my guts up and now I look up into the endless sky again and I want to scream at it. I want to spit at it, knock all the stars out of it forever.

Windham Street crosses over into Brookdale Center. I walk past all these lifeless edifices I can barely recognize now. The First National Bank. The Post Office. The Brookdale Pharmacy and the Gentry Street Mall, where Mom and Dad do their grocery shopping. Where Zoe held a job for a week or so. Get it away from me. But then it doesn't even look the way I'm used to seeing it. It could be a whole different place, because it's after nine and everything's closed over, dead. Dark windows, dark storefronts, empty parking lots. The shadows are moving in, bigger than ever, to take over. The library is closed, too, blotted out. Everything's extinct. No life. I'm walking through blocks and blocks of darkness.

 

The center opens up and moderate traffic is still whizzing through, people in their transports rushing off to destinations I can't even imagine, not that I want to. They cast the only light on this shrouded town. Professional Buildings. Churches. Town Hall. The Waterworks. The Golden Lion Restaurant. All dark. Blank. They look like they've been abandoned and no one will ever come back to them again. Their doors and windows make gloomy, howling, empty faces that screech their hollow agony into a night that doesn't care. I turn my head away because those faces are too frightening to look at.

I walk past the 24-hour gas station in then intersection. It's the only stable light in the whole intersection other than a few streetlamps. There's a man with an overcoat and a knit hat pacing around. Again, I stress, Summer is coming. He has salt-and-pepper hair, the beginnings of a salt-and-pepper beard and he looks like he's waiting for a war to begin. His face looks like a rock, but it looks like a rock that's ready to open up its concealed mouth and bite a chunk out of someone's arm. As I skulk through his airspace I hear him talking. Spitting out every syllable like he hates them all individually, he snarls, “nine-teen-nine-ty-threeeeee,” and then he fades from earshot. I'm careful not to look at him, because I don't know what he'll do if he sees me looking at him. I cross the street to the right side of the center and I hit the bridge over the brook. Now I can hear the man yelling. He's raving like a monster and I don't understand anything he's saying. He sounds furious, though, and his hollering gives me a chill. I look over my shoulder because I'm afraid he might be yelling at me and I'm getting ready to run, but there he is at the gas station, stomping back and forth, waving his fist at something I can't see. I pick up the pace, though, because the sound of his voice is threatening. It's making me shake. Hoof it, Jack, hoof it. I want to put a lot of distance between myself and a dangerous person like that.

I hit the other side of the bridge and there's this fat old woman sitting on the little wall there. She's all filthy and she looks like she's been wearing those same mismatched clothes for at least ten years or so. She's just sitting there on her perch and she's rocking back and forth like she's in a trance. She's mumbling to herself and I can't hear what she's saying. I wonder if it makes sense? Probably not---anyway, I don't want to know.

She looks up at me with a big smile, but it isn't a happy smile that says she's glad to see me. It's a nervous smile that asks, you aren't going to hurt me, are you? And it makes me laugh at first that someone like her would be scared of a little puke like me, but then I remember that my face is this big, zig-zagging perversity and anyone would be afraid of it. Christ knows I am.

She has this long, greasy, black hair, parted down the middle. Half her teeth are missing and she looks like her nose has been smashed in and broken like ten times over. I walk away. I don't want to look at her. She's horrible. I don't know, though. I may be worse.

On and forward though I have no idea where I'm going or why I came this way to begin with. I walk past the darkened buildings. I don't want to look at them because I know, if I do, I'll see those doors and those windows form those howling, mourning faces again and those faces scare me. I keep my eyes on the ground and I don't look up. Everything around me is a big nightmare. I don't want to see anymore. I know I can't, but I wish I could just keep my eyes on the ground for the rest of my life---not see any of these horrible sights, not see my own face in a mirror, not see anything ever again.

Down Anderson Street and past Brookdale First Congregational Church. I try not to look but everything is magnetic and I'm forced to look. It's a little stretch of hot top on the left side of the church. There's a pair of cops working some guy over. I can only make out silhouettes against rear parking lot lights but I can see that the guy they're beating up is a very old man. He's short and slight and rumpled and the two towering cops are shaking him and taunting him. One knees the old man in the stomach. The old man falls down and pukes. One cop, I think, is looking at me, but it's hard to tell in the dark. I don't want him watching me if he is, so I keep right on walking.

There's a little dirt trail in back of Ebbet's Hardware Store that runs through a stretch of woods and comes out by the Mister Convenience Shopping Square. I take the trail because I don't want to hang around long enough for those two cops to start getting interested in me.

I wander down the little wooded path and I come out at the rear of the square. I see a bunch of people loitering around the back of the building furthest from me. I can almost hear them. The callous scrape of their coarse voices. The shadows make them almost invisible, but I can see them moving around and I can make out the orange pinpoints of their lit cigarettes.

I steer the hell clear of those people and I come out to the front of the square. Mister Convenience is another graveyard. All the light, even the the lamps in the parking lot, gone. Squeezed out. Strangled into darkness.

Across the street I see Callie's Truckstop and Dunkin Donuts, both open because they never close. I cross the street and ten I decide to avoid them both. I can't go into either place because of my face. I'm not fit to dwell with humans. I hit the bike trails in the woods  in back of those places, instead. I pass Kallie's. Then I'm passing Dunkin's and I no longer want to be on the trail. Up ahead I see them, fighting and rolling and yelling and flailing and kicking the shit out of each other. They're a bunch of rough, mean kids, or I think they're kids. I don't know. As I draw closer to them I can hear them, their bodies bashing together, and so are their voices as they tangle.

“UUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHGAWDAMNUUUUUUUUUUUH!!!!!!”

“YUHMUTHUHFUHKKUHUMGONNUHKIKYURASS,UUUUUUUHHHHHH!!!!!!”

“YUHDICK! YUHFUKKINSCREWINME, YUHDICK!!!!!!!!!!”

“UUUUUWWWWALLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUULLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!”

It's scaring me bad, now, because the closer I get to them the less and less human they sound. Are they even people, or are they something lower? Is there anything lower than people? Fuck this. Cut back through the woods, over to the back of Dunkin Donuts. I don't want to get any closer to this shit, I'm sure of it. I head through the stretch of woods and stumble over a rock, almost falling on my face. I bounce back and I keep going, faster, in case those creeps on the trail heard me. I have to step over a brook to get to the Dunkin's parking lot and it's an easy step, but I go off balance and splash my foot down in the muck. I pull up a little and SPLOP! Out comes my dirty, wet foot. Here it is, though, the back parking lot, and I'm limping with disgust into it, but I can't say I have any surprise in me. I hit the front lot and continue onto the street and then some guy with a skull tattooed on his arm staggers at me. “Heyy,” he calls, “hey, manh, yoo!” I keep limping forward. “Hey! You godda dollah faha cuppa cawfee? Hey! I bikedid alla way from fuggin' Vermon'! Hey! Muthuhfuckuh! Hey!”

Up the road on my wet, shitty foot and his shouts recede. I walk five minutes. Ten minutes. It's like the Boston Marathon with a shoe full of shit. Squish, squish, squishing up the road.

A pickup truck, a 4x4, coasts by me. As it passes, some freakoid leans out the window, “hey, faggot!” And douses me in the face with beer. The truck barrels off and I try to readjust my vision. This is what they do to you when you're a leper, a mutant, a killer, like me. This is the Real-ass world they try to teach you to brave in school. Eat or be eaten.

Good evening, Johnny-Jack, welcome to the fruition of the American Fucking Dream. This is it, the big, wide world in all its glory, only it loosened its tie and tore away its pretty Halloween Mask. Now here it is, leering at you, dead honest, maggots and all. Our happy, kickass, go-for-it, party-hardy world, minus the beautiful TV commercial facial job. Minus the glitzy, bouncy aerobics workout soundtrack. Minus the designer clothes. Naked, truthful, this is what we're left with when everyone gives up. This is the world that disassembles itself in the bathroom mirror when nobody's looking.

Hello, Ugly.

Only it hasn't got a sense of humor, it isn't cute and it isn't being friendly with you. Them only time it laughs is after it shows you what it's really about. When it pisses in your face.

The wonderful world revealed its face to me in the dark and it's an awful sight. It's a machine that chews flesh. I saw its teeth and halleluja, chillun, they were ravenous, gnashing, like a giant mouth full of piledrivers. This is the face I see when all Norman Rockwell's descendents go to bed at night with their warm milk and their candy-striped nightcaps. This is what I see when no one's around to keep up appearances.

Off I slog up the darkened street and under the overpass. I know a mile or so up the highway the Mall is closed and everyone at the Hobby Shoppe has gone home. It's abandoned. Barren. The whole damned mall, empty and yawning up at the sky like a cancerous crater.

I hear the “buh-doomp, buh-doomp” of cars on the overpass above me. It's like being in a cavern. It's like everyone and everything has been obliterated and I'm alone here on a giant ball of waste. But I know the truth, now, and if this were an empty world I'd be better off, but it's not and I'm not, it's night, it's unmasking time and this is all bad, sick, terrifying.

There's an unreal light up ahead, wedged in a comfortable nest of pines. It's Jourgenson's, which is open late. It may as well be open forever, because it isn't ten or eleven or even thirteen o'clock. It's far later than that. It's Forever O'Clock, and the Forever-Meter says to me, it's all over, Johnny-Jack, it's all over, because this is the long night, Planet Earth is fed up with maintaining its niceties and that's all, Chief, no more lost weekends. No more Matthews House with the ultra-green grass. No more Franconia Notch, no more echoes. No more comfort. The sun is never going to come up again.

And still I'm walking. Approaching Jourgenson's. But is it going to be stripped of all its garish, fast-food, quick-ratburger-after-the-game friendliness and homeyness? I see the red-and-white neon glare, but it's stil obscured by that wall of pine trees. I'm heading towards it and I know now that it's the last place in the whole fetid world that I want to go near. But can feel the place screaming for me. I can't stop, oh, Christ, I would if I could. I want to turn around and run, but it's like a magnet. I can tell there's something at this horrible place I'm supposed to see, but I have no idea what it could be. I don't want to go. I can't help it, though, and I can't stop myself. It's sucking me in against my will. I need to stop, to leave, because whatever's drawing me to that filthy neon pit will be too much, too terrible, like one of Zoe's paintings come to life, oh, God, now I understand everything she ever did, how did she ever cope with what she saw, oh, God, get me out of here, I can't handle it. Too ugly. Too ugly. Take this cup from my lips, O Lord, because I can tell that whatever I see here will end my world. I'm scared, so scared, oh, God, don't bring me here, take me anywhere else. I can't take what you're about to show me, take it away, I know I will be destroyed by this.

And the gentle, goading voice of The Lord touched Johnny-Jack and said, go, son, go. It's your destiny.

No, no, no, I can't, my feet still moving forward.

Yes, yes, says The Lord, whispering comfort into the heater of my head and so I move on, I move on, and yea, children, the hands of the angels lay on Jackie's shoulders and they pushed him along, and they bestowed upon him heaven's comfort in this dark, evil world, and yes, bear witness to the miracle of miracles, for te Heavenly Host played bucket brigade and they pushed little Johnny-Jack Pettet into the woods beside the Burger Brothel and they carried him to the light, bretheren and sisteren, to the edge of the forest.

No, I cry, no, I can't take it, I can't take it, please, no, pleeeeeaaaaaassse.................

And the hands of the Heavenly Host encircled little Jackie in kindness and they showed him the awful sight beyond the trees and Jackie's eyes would not close and he opened his mouth to scream but only silence came out. And all the time the hands caressed little Jackie and reassured him in soft whispers, no, no, little Jackie, you don't have to scream and run, nothing here will hurt you, we're showing you a picture, we're just letting you see something and it won't hurt you at all.

AND JACKIE WAS WITNESS TO THE AWFUL VISION OF BROOKDALE'S PRIDE LAYING WASTE TO THE WAILING NEON SHRINE OF PUKE. THEY WERE OUTSIDE IN THEIR BROOKDALE HIGH CEREMONIAL COLORS, RAMPAGING AROUND THE ROWS OF PICKUP TRUCKS AND TRANS AMS THAT WERE THEIR MANIFEST DESTINY.

AND THE VOICES OF THE HEAVENLY HOST SAID, SEE, JACKIE, SEE, THERE ARE YOUR ENEMIES. NOW, PAY ATTENTION, THEY SAID. THERE IS BRYAN AND BILL, THERE IS MARK AND ERIC, THERE IS CHARLIE, AMY, OH, LOOK! THERE IS CHERYL AND JACKIE SAID no, no, don't make me look, BUT THE LORD IN HIS WISDOM AND POWER SHOWED JACKIE EVERYTHING.

AND THE FLESHEATERS MADE MUCH NOISE, DANGLING OFF THE RESTAURANT DOORS AND JACKIE FELT THE POWER OF THEIR CRUELTY--”clit-TORIS!!!!” SCREAMED CHARLIE GOSSLING AND ALL HIS FRIENDS LAUGHED AND AMY SMITH CRIED OUT, “OH, YOU'RE BOGUS” BUT SHE WAS LAUGHING TOO.

No, no, don't show me, WHIMPERED JACKIE AS HE SHRUNK BACK, BUT THE LORD IN HIS WISDOM HELD JACKIE FAST AND MADE HIM SEE. JACKIE PITIED THE PEOPLE WHO WORKED AT JOURGENSON'S, THINKING ABOUT HOW THESE ANIMALS WOULD TREAT THOSE OF THEM WHO WEREN'T YOUNG TURKS----THE THINGS THEY MIGHT SAY TO THEM, THE NAMES THEY MIGHT CALL THEM. THESE BROOKDALE HEROES AND HEROINES WITH THEIR FAITH IN THE MARCHING BOOT. JACKIE ENVISIONED MESSY TABLES, UNSCREWED PEPPER SHAKERS. Noooooo, HE CRIED, no more, no more, BUT YES, SAID THE ANGELS OF GOD AND THEY HELD JACKIE FAST.

AND THEN THE WORLD FELL IN ON ITSELF BECAUSE JACKIE SAW BRYAN AND CHERYL, THE TWO WHO GLOWED TOGETHER BENEATH THAT NEON RATBURGER ROOF. JACKIE LOOKED FOR THE LORD WOULD NOT LET HIM TURN AWAY AND JACKIE SAW THAT THE TWO WERE NOT GLOWING, THEY WERE NOT AS HE HAD SEEN THEM BEFORE, NOT TOUCHING, NOT HOLDING HANDS, THEY WERE ANGRY, NOW THEY WERE HAVING WORDS AND THE OTHERS STOPPED FROM THEIR REVELRIES AND WATCHED BRYAN AND CHERYL IN SILENCE WHILE JACKIE KNELT, TRANSFIXED IN THE WOODS AND BORE WITNESS. HE FELT TERROR, WATCHING PIECES OF THE WORLD FALL AWAY AND NOW HE COULD HEAR EVERY WORD THEY SAID. HE TRIED TO SHUT IT OUT. THE LORD IN HIS WISDOM AND POWER DIDN'T LET HIM.

CHERYL WAS WALKING AWAY FROM BRYAN AND BRYAN WAS SHOUTING, SHOUTING “COME BACK HERE, BITCH! COME BACK HERE! GET IN THE CAR!”

CHERYL STANDING AWAY FROM HIM, ARMS STRAIGHT DOWN AT HER SIDES, FISTS LIKE LITTLE BALLS OF CLENCHED, ANGRY BONE, 'NO, BRYAN, WE'RE THROUGH, I'VE HAD IT WITH YOU,” AND SHE DIDN'T GET TO FINISH HER SENTENCE BECAUSE THEN BRYAN WAS YELLING AT HER.

POINTING AT THE PASSENGER SIDE OF THE TRANS AM, “SIT DOWN IN THE CAR GODDAMN IT! I'M NOT GONNA TELL YOU AGAIN, BITCH!”

“NO! NO!” CHERYL SCREAMED AND HER FACE WAS LIKE AN ANGRY FROG'S, PULLED TIGHT ACROSS, POP-EYED, WIDE-MOUTHED, AND THEN JACKIE SAW THAT HER FACE WAS SUNBURN RED AND SHE WAS CRYING. “I'm not getting in the fucking CAR with you, Bryan! I'm sick of the way you treat people, I'm sick of the way you TALK to people! Nobody's your furniture and I'm--”

AND AGAIN JACKIE SAW THAT BRYAN WOULD NOT LET CHERYL TALK AND INSIDE JACKIE SHOOK AND BURNED FOR HE KNEW WHAT HAVING SOMEONE BIGGER AND STRONGER THAN YOU FORCE YOUR MOUTH SHUT WAS LIKE. “YOU WHORE!” BRYAN YELLED. “I'M GETTING IN THIS FUCKING CAR RIGHT NOW, YOU FUCKIN' BITCH, DON'T YOU EVER CALL ME AGAIN, DON'T YOU EVER SHOW UP AT MY DOOR, THERE'S PLENTY MORE WHERE YOU COME FROM,” AND CHERYL WHIMPERED, CHILDREN, AND SHE RAN TO HER BRYAN. JACKIE SAW AND HE WAS SORE AFRAID AND CHERYL CLUNG TO HER BRYAN LIKE HE WAS THE HOLINESS OF LIFE MADE HUMAN AND LO, JACKIE HEARD HER CRYING TO HIM IN A MEEK LITTLE VOICE, “i love you, Bryan, i'm sorry, don't leave me, I love you.” AND SHE PRESSED HERSELF TIGHT TO HIM AND HIS ROUGH HAND CAME DOWN AND SQUEEZED HER BUNS GENTLY, LIKE A TENDER, COMPASSIONATE LOVER. LIKE A MASTER WHO KNOWS THE VALUE OF HIS PROPERTY.

LIKE AN OWNER.

THE BROOKDALE FLESHEATERS SAW THE REUNION, CHERYL'S RECAPTURE AND IT WAS GOOD, CHILDREN. THEY HOWLED THEIR OBSCENE APPROVAL INTO THE NIGHT.

LITTLE JACKIE COWERED IN THE PINES AND WEPT IN HORROR AND PITY AND THE HANDS OF THE HEAVENLY HOST STROKED HIS SAD LITTLE PUPPY DOG HEAD. THE SOUND WENT OUT WITH THOSE ANIMAL HOWLS AND THE NEON RATBURGER TRANS AM HELL IMPLODED INTO DARKNESS AND SILENCE AND THE CHOIRS OF HEAVEN WHISPERED INTO JACK'S EAR, NOW YOU SEE, THE TOLD HIM, NOW YOU UNDERSTAND.

I know, wept Jackie, I know, thank you.

THE HEAVENLY HOST WHISPERED AND CARESSED LITTLE JACKIE'S HEAVING BONES. SOME GET LOST, THEY TOLD HIM. ENSLAVED.

AND JACKIE HEARD THE VOICE OF THE MAD ANGEL HANNIBAL SNEER IN HIS LEFT EAR, THEY'RE ALL NAMED BIFF.

JACKIE, EXALTING THE GLORY OF THE LORD, I KNOW. Thank you.

SOMETIMES, WHISPERED THE ANGELS, THERE ARE THOSE WHO ARE GOOD AND SWEET, BUT THEY GET LOST.

Damaged, HELPED JACKIE.

YES, WHISPERED THE ANGELS, YES, JACKIE. AND SOMETIMES WE MUST STAND UP AND HELP THESE POOR, LOST PEOPLE, NO MATTER HOW HARD IT MAY BE. AND WE HAVE TO HELP THEM SEE BEYOND THEIR BONDAGE.

I'm afraid, JACKIE TOLD THE ANGELS.

WE KNOW, THE SAID, AND KEPT STROKING HIS SAD, SCARED HEAD. BUT YOU UNDERSTAND. YOU UNDERSTAND.

Yes, CRIED JACKIE IN HIS GRATITUDE, I understand. Thank you.

EVERYTHING WILL BE GOOD AND FINE, JACKIE, THEY SAID.

I know, CRIED JACKIE. Thank you. Thank you.

*******************************

I've been scoping the Hobby Shoppe for three days. Finally, a day for me rolls around. No Barry. No Greg. Time to go shopping.

Mel is there, presiding by proxy over Barry's conquered Hobby Nation. “Jack! Jesus Christ! It's been a while!”

“Yeah,” being friendly because I have to, “hi.”

“You don't look very well, Jack. You look very gaunt. Have you been sick?”

'Yeah, I've been sick. I've been very gaunt.”

“No, seriously, Jack,” putting on is concerned face. Sweet, congenial, good on appearance, Such a Mel.

“No, seriously, I have been sick. Sick with the Flu.”

“Sorry to hear that, Jack,” looking sympathetic to fit the situation.

“Yeah, it was hell,” I tell him, “I was puking like a mad thing.”

“Well,” he changes tone and I get the idea he doesn't want to follow that line of conversation, “what can I do you for?”

“Nothing, really, I was just popping in to say, 'hi'.”

“Well, it's good to see you, Jack.”

“Yeah, uh, actually, as long as I'm here, let me grab a couple things.” And off I wander through the store. I scan the paint section and I grab a couple of Testor's paints up, just for the sake of appearance. Olive drab and brick red. Good choices. Then I hit another aisle and pick up the X-Acto Knife and the drafting compass. I double back and grab a cheapo pack of manilla folders, just in case he starts asking questions.

I drop the whole mess of it beside the cash register. Mel rings it all up. “Talk to Greg lately?” He asks. What, and Mel DOESN'T?

“No, he and I don't get along too well these days.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Fourteen-fifty, Jack.”

“Wait a sec. You deducted something.”

“Ssshhhh.” winking like a sly compatriot. “I'm using your employee discount.”

I laugh at the proper, acceptable level in accordance with the situation. “Thanks, Mel,” but I mean it. I only have seventeen bucks on me.

He rings me in and hands me my change. “Like a bag, sir?”

“Sure,” and he pulls out a paper bag and opens it up.

“So,” loading the folders in first, “graduating next week, eh, Jack?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. Mel's little world is so fragile. Why fuck it up with the truth?

“That's great! I loved my graduation. My brother threw this huge kegger and....”

“Yeah, Mel? I can't really afford to hang around. I've got a lot of business to take care of.”

“Oh! Sorry!” Ever amiable. “Here you go,” handing me the bag.

“Thanks, Mel,” throwing him a playful salute. “Gotta boogie! See you in the funny papers.”

“Jack!”

Trying to exit, “yeah?”

“What's wrong with your face?”

“Huh?”

“Are those bruises on your face?”

“Bruises? No...”

“They look like bruises, Jack.”

“No, Mel,” leaving. Smiling, “that's just gaunt. Y'know....from the Flu.”

Copyright 1990 C.F. Roberts/2015 Molotov Editions