Out of Whack (6 page)

       “I’m gonna kick your ass!”

       “Yeah? Come on!”

       “I am! I’m gonna kick your ass!”

       “Let’s go!”

       [
One participant shoves the other.
]

       “That’s it, I’m gonna kick your ass!”

       “Bring it on, then!”

       Of course, what they’re really thinking is “Oh jeez, if I actually get hit it’s gonna hurt and I’m gonna look stupid in front of this huge crowd that has gathered! If I can just keep the dialogue going long enough for a teacher to show up, I won’t have to actually fight, and I can tell everyone how I would have kicked his ass if we hadn’t been stopped.”

       I found it very unfair that Kirk punched me in the gut without giving me a chance to talk until a teacher arrived.

        Because of my policy of honesty in reporting, I’m not even going to pretend I did anything but drop straight to the floor, moaning and clutching my stomach. I thought of several things to say to him, but they were all variations of “Ow!”

       “I don’t like people talking about me when I’m not around!” Kirk informed me, apparently to make sure I hadn’t mistaken his punch for one of encouragement.

       Then he kicked me in the face, leaving a huge red mark and traces of the gum that was stuck to the bottom of his shoe. I heard a girl gasp. Somebody else laughed.

       Since I was long out of my Really Stupid Phase, this wasn’t the kind of laughter I wanted to hear. Now, I could have just lay there on the floor, maybe gotten kicked a couple more times, and let the whole ugly situation run its course. But I’ve never been a coward (except, of course, where women are concerned—then it’s bock, bock, bock city), and I didn’t want people seeing me go out with no dignity. I struggled to my feet, and returned my attention to my locker.

       Kirk stood there, watching me. So did the other thirty people in the hall, none of whom were adults in positions of fight-ceasing authority.

       Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kirk clenching his fist again. It looked like the bottom was going to drop out of my dignity bucket in about two seconds.

       And then, without even thinking about it, I turned and took a swing at his face.

       I’ve never won the lottery. I’ve never been the eighth caller when a radio DJ asks a question about a crappy song that I can answer. My McDonald’s game pieces always say “Sorry...try again.”

       But I’ll be damned if the one serious punch I had ever thrown in my life didn’t connect perfectly. Kirk’s head rocketed back, he made a noise that sounded like “Unnnghhh,” then he dropped to the floor with all the grace of an intoxicated cripple. And didn’t move.

       A collective gasp ran through the hallway. My own contribution to this gasp was substantial.

       What I really wanted to do at this point was glare at all the spectators and snarl “Okay, anybody else want some?” But I’d used up the last of my machismo with the punch, and my hand was hurting bad enough that my voice would have carried an unintimidating squeak.

       Then somebody began to applaud. Somebody else joined in, then everyone in the hallway was applauding and whistling and cheering. Irony being such a good friend of mine, this noise attracted a teacher, and I was sent to the principal’s office and suspended from school for three days.

       And that’s how I became cool.

* * *

       “This isn’t fair,” said Travis, seated on the exercise bicycle in my garage. It was a week later. “I knocked Jerry out with a giant spitball to defend Michelle and nobody thinks
I’m
cool.”

       “It has something to do with weapon choice,” I told him as I sat peeling the cover off a softball. “Bare fists versus toilet paper and water. Besides, you didn’t knock Jerry out, you
almost
knocked him out. There was actual unconsciousness from my punch.”

       “Well whoop-dee-yabba-dabba-doo.”

       “Nobody’s ever going to think you’re as cool as me if you say stuff like whoop-dee-yabba-dabba-doo.”

       The door to the kitchen opened, and my dad poked his head in the garage that we were supposed to be cleaning. “You two making any progress?”

       We both nodded.

       “I’m not paying you by the hour, so I’d advise you to get moving.”

       We both nodded.

       “I want this place cleaned out by dinner.”

       We both nodded. My dad gave us the helpless look of somebody who knew darn well that the garage wasn’t going to be anywhere near clean by dinner, then left.

       “I’d think you’d be happy,” I said to Travis. “At least now you’re cool by proximity.” I got the softball cover completely off, then began to tear off the sticky thread surrounding the cork center. It just seemed like an important thing to do.

       “How many women have thrown themselves at you?” Travis asked, his voice oozing sarcasm like a slug oozes slug ooze.

       “A couple dozen. I had to spray three of them with mace or they would’ve taken me right there in the hallway. Mrs. Taylor said she’d trade me an ‘A’ in history for a naked spanking.”

       Actually, while numerous guys had congratulated me on my first day back at school, the only female attention I received was from a sensationally attractive blonde, who said “Hi” to me in the cafeteria and made a quick exit after I started choking on my Jell-O.

       “It’s not that big of a deal anyway,” Travis remarked, getting off the bicycle. “I hear Kirk’s a total wimp. If I could afford a strong enough gas mask, I would’ve knocked him out a long time ago.”

       “Wanna try now?” asked the total wimp standing in my driveway.

       My first thought was “Whoopsie!” but fortunately I didn’t verbalize it. Kirk walked toward us, and my mind ran through some available options: Sprint to safety inside the house, try to pull down the garage door before he reached us, or let out a long piercing shriek not unlike that of a woman.

       However, none of those seemed manly enough to fit with my newly gained coolness, so I cocked back my arm and prepared to throw the violated softball at him. “Get off my property,” I demanded.

       “It’s okay,” said Kirk. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

       “You couldn’t anyway,” Travis pointed out, an act that nearly got him a violated softball in the mouth.

       “What do you want?” I asked.

       Kirk reached into his pocket and took out a crumpled piece of paper. “I saw this at school, and thought it sounded like something you might be interested in,” he said, looking at the ground. “You may have already seen it, but I wasn’t sure.”

       I went over and took the paper from him. I unfolded it and strained to read the terrible handwriting. It took me a couple of moments to figure out what it said, but suddenly the message became clear:

      
Dear Seth, I’m going to break your face.

       Kirk punched me in the nose. I went down like a boneless elderly woman with motion sickness. The sweet crimson fluid of life trickled from my nostrils as I lay on the concrete and felt searing bolts of pain do-si-do around my head.

       “Mess with me again,” said Kirk, “and I’ll—”

       Kirk’s threat was cut short as an old bicycle tire (an unwieldy weapon, but the most readily available thing for Travis to grab) struck him in the side of the head. He went down like a woodpecker-savaged stilt walker with an inner ear infection.

       After a moment to savor the agony, Kirk got back up and raised his fists. Travis held the tire in front of him for protection. Kirk hesitated then took off running out of our garage and off into the afternoon sunlight.

       And that’s how Travis became cool, too.

“Vague But Important Life Decisions”

       Ah, high school graduation, that glorious time of year when you get to hear the question “So what are you going to do with your life?” over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

       We sat in the gymnasium, listening to the keynote speaker as we silently cursed the teachers who’d made us remove the silly adornments from our caps (though Travis snuck through with a contraband pom-pom). The keynote speaker, a simple farmer who’d become a millionaire through the dairy business, spoke. Slowly. In. A. Monotone. So. Each. Word. Seemed. To. Be. Its. Own. Sentence. His speech consisted of an extended metaphor relating our lives to milking a cow, something about squeezing all the opportunities out of the udder of society. It was really gross, but before I could get too deeply involved in his message I was visited by an angel.

       “Yo,” said the angel, floating in front of me and draped in white sheets that were blowing in a non-existent breeze. He was lugging around a golden harp with “Property of God” engraved on the side.

       “Who are you?” I asked.

       “I’m a non-denominational religious figure, here to talk to you about what you’re going to do with your life.”

       “Cool.”

       The angel straightened his halo. “So, here you are, graduating from high school. What’s next on your agenda? College, I assume.”

       “Yeah. Travis and I are both going to TPU.”

       “Trade Point University, a fine choice. I understand their cafeteria food has won some local awards. And what exactly are you planning to study there?”

       I shrugged. “I haven’t decided on a major yet.”

       “Well, that sucks silicone implants. We’re going to fix that little problem right now. What’s something you’re interested in?” The angel began humming the theme from
Jeopardy
as he waited for my response.

       “I don’t know...I like to write...”

       “Exactly! So major in English. And start
writing,
for gosh sake!”

       “I am! Travis and I have been working on that book. Maybe we’ve slowed down a bit...a lot...but we’re still—”

       “Listen, your gargantuan pile of pages is impressive, but honestly, who is ever going to read it but you and Travis?”

       “Nobody,” I admitted. “If anybody ever did, we’d be unemployable for the rest of our lives.”

       “Right. Now, there’s nothing wrong with writing just for yourself, but you’re the type of person who loves to get reactions! So start writing things that other people can read! Maybe that’s the career you’re looking for!”

       “Maybe.”

       “Okay, that’s settled. Now, Mr. Trexler, you wanna tell me why you’re eighteen and haven’t kissed a girl yet? What are you, some kind of homo?”

       I blinked in surprise. “Shouldn’t an angel be more politically correct?”

       “Ah, I can say whatever I want. After all, I’m not really here—I’m just an external representation of an internal conversation. Whoa-mama, look at the hooters on that bimbo in the fourth row! See?”

       “I see.”

       “Anyway, it’s time to quit being such a wuss. Your buddy Travis has done a few rounds of tongue wrestling, and it’s time for you to start practicing liposuction, too. Women don’t bite. At least not as long as you keep the muzzle on.”

       “Yeah, well, I’ll try.”

       “See that you do.” The angel glanced up at the keynote speaker. “Man, this guy has no intention of ever shutting up, does he? They’re gonna have to jab everyone in the butt with a cattle prod to get this place livened up again.”

       I nodded my agreement. “So, do you have any more sage advice?”

       The angel looked me directly in the eye. “You are meant for great things, Seth. Don’t waste your potential. Together you and that Travis guy are going to make something of yourselves—something big. And it’s going to happen soon.”

       “How soon?”

       “If I knew that, I’d be making big bucks with a psychic telephone hotline.” The angel pulled up his sleeve and checked his Rolex. “Look, I’ve got to go. If these metaphorical internal conversations go on too long you’ll start to develop Alzheimer’s.”

       “Thanks for stopping by,” I told him.

       “No problem. Your brain wasn’t being used for anything else important. Now, here’s one last piece of advice before I leave.”

       “Yes?”

       “If you ever write a book, don’t include a cheap gag where an angel says ‘Look at the hooters on that bimbo in the fourth row.’ It’s really tacky.” And with a twitch of his nose, the angel disappeared.

* * *

       “I’m thirsty for a glass of milk,” said Travis after the ceremony was over. “Or maybe I’m in the mood for a hamburger.”

       We’d managed to sneak away after posing for what felt like eight hundred pictures, twenty-four of which would contain my Uncle Jeremy’s thumb over the lens, and exactly one of which would feature Travis with his eyes open. I think deep inside he feared that photographs would steal his soul.