It’s easy for me to stay entertained when I have class with Samantha. Like for instance, I can imagine that she is sitting on my face with her vagina around my nose. And I can talk to her from below in that operator-voice and say things like, “I’m sorry you have the wrong number,” and then she’d laugh and pee all over my face.
“Kyle, are you listening?” Samantha whispers, half turned around in her desk.
“You’re not even listening. You fuck.”
She turns back around and faces forward at our teacher, who is explaining why we should like John Donne’s poetry. I return to my drawing, which has evolved from a picture of a squirrel smoking a cigarette to a squirrel smoking a cigarette while arm wrestling one of the California Raisins. It’s some of my best work, I think. Definitely. The squirrel looks all mean and shit. It’s good.
Samantha was trying to explain a dream she had, I think. I must have forgotten to insert the necessary nod at the right point. Now she’s mad. But it’s gotta be hard for her to be mad wearing those pants—the ones with the words on the ass portion. Sayings like, “Play Hard” or “Bitch” or “Behind These Pants Is My Butthole.”
I wouldn’t be able to stay mad with those on. I’m thinking about getting a custom pair, with the words “Scabby Elephant Penis” on the back. I’ll have to look into that.
Class ends and Samantha and I walk together in silence to my next class. She has lunch, but I have journalism.
“See ya,” she says as I walk in.
I take my seat. Not five minutes into class I remember I forgot the flash drive with my article on it at home. The teacher, Mr. Clark lets me leave and go back home to retrieve it.
At home, I grab the flash drive and plug it into my computer and wait for it to print. While I’m waiting, I grab some Jim Beam from the cupboard and pour a huge glass. I’m not sure why I’m doing this but it seems like it will make gym next period more interesting, or more—what am I looking for here—”easier to throw up while running” maybe?
Anyway, I finish the glass and almost fall off the chair by the printer. Then I grab my homework and a cigarette that’s been on my desk for three weeks and go back to the garage. I grab two beers from the garage fridge. For some reason it seems better to smell like beer and old cigarettes than whiskey.
I pull out of the garage and light the cigarette, drive around the unpopulated roads back to the high school and kill the beers. The cigarette tastes like my grandma’s mouth (I made out with my grandma while she was sleeping one night in order to be able to compare the taste of her mouth to other things should that ever be necessary, so yes, I do know what it tastes like).
In the school parking lot, I finish the cigarette and realize the empty beer cans are in my pockets still. I roll down the window and toss them out. “Crocodile Rock” is on the radio. I let the song finish and think about killing a crocodile with a rock as it ends (I’m pretty sure that’s the message of the song).
Back inside the school, I wave to one of the hall monitors, an overweight middle-aged woman with a walkie-talkie in her hand.
“He went thatta way,” I say and then throw up a little in my mouth. I quickly round the corner and spit the vomit into the water fountain. Then I straighten out my Tupac shirt and go to the bathroom. The middle stall is open and I go in, taking a seat on the cold toilet.
It’s then that I realize I don’t have the homework with me, probably left it in the garage fridge, and the flash drive slips out of my pocket into the toilet. It sinks to the bottom and I say, “Crocodile Rock” out loud.
Then I laugh and see a message written on the bathroom stall. It says, “smoke weed every day.” I write “and also try to balance your omega 3s and 6s.” The guy next to me shits loudly and I laugh and know I don’t want to get up for at least an hour or two.